Page 57 of Breakaway Daddies

He blinks, caught off guard. “Uh?—“

“You’re waiting for the puck to find you instead of commanding the space. You need to own the crease,” I advise, my tone firm yet encouraging.

The coach stands nearby, arms crossed, observing the exchange without interruption. I step back, offering a nod of reassurance.

“Again,” I instruct.

The team reassembles into their positions, and I immerse myself in the rhythm of the game, the heartbeat of the ice beneath me. No, I don’t have Jinx by my side right now.

But I do have this moment.

And for now, that’s enough.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

Bruno

My phone vibrateson the seat next to me, the screen lighting up with a familiar name: babicka.

“Ahoj, Bruno. You sound heavy today,” she says, her voice warm and familiar, like a comforting embrace.

I let out a small chuckle despite the weight pressing on my chest. “You always know,” I reply, a hint of awe in my voice.

“Of course. I’m your babicka,” she asserts gently. She doesn’t pry or probe, just offers, “Come eat. I made kapustnica. We’ll talk.”

I almost refuse, my mind racing with excuses about being too tired or promising to visit tomorrow. But the mere thought of her cozy kitchen, filled with the rich aroma of that beloved stew, tugs at my heartstrings.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” I concede, picturing the warmth and comfort waiting for me.

“Drive safe,” she replies. I press the accelerator and head toward the solace of her home.

Babicka’s house greets me with the familiar aroma of garlic and bay leaves, wafting through the air even before I reach the creaky wooden porch steps. I knock gently, a token gesture, before pushing open the worn, squeaky door just as I’ve always done.

In the cozy kitchen, Babicka’s petite frame is hunched over the counter, her hands expertly chopping fresh parsley with a rhythmic precision. She turns, her face lighting up with a smile that deepens the lines around her twinkling eyes, her apron bearing the evidence of years of culinary adventures.

“Sit, honey,” she says, and she gestures toward the kitchen table.

Even here, the absence of Jinx is palpable.

The last time we were here, she sat in that chair, her laughter filling the room as she pointed out the silly magnets and faded photos on the fridge. My gaze lingers on the empty chair, a tightness squeezing my chest.

“Still no word from her?” Babicka asks, her spoon moving in slow circles as she stirs the simmering pot.

I shake my head. “She’s doing her thing. Says she needs space.”

A low hum escapes Babicka’s lips. “She is strong. Independent. Sometimes girls like that build walls so high they don’t even realize they’re alone behind them.”

I nod silently, my teeth gently worrying the inside of my cheek.

“She liked you,” Babicka adds with a soft reassurance. “I could see it. But maybe she hasn’t learned how to let someone love her.”

Her words resonate deeply, striking a chord I didn’t know was there. Together, we move to the stove, and she ladles the hearty stew into two heavy ceramic bowls.

The aroma is intoxicating—a mixture of tender pork, tangy cabbage, and the warmth of paprika. As the steam rises, it fills the kitchen with a comforting warmth, wrapping around us like a familiar embrace.

We sit at the small kitchen table, the wooden surface scarred from years of use. Our hands brush briefly as I help her straighten the embroidered napkins. Each bite is a journey back in time, a taste of Sunday dinners and family gatherings.

“I don’t know what to do,” I confess after a few hesitant spoonfuls. “I want to wait for her, but what if she never comes back?” My eyes linger on the steam curling from my bowl.

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