Page 74 of Keeping the Score

We spend so much time together now, and not just because of Tilly. We have fun together. We watch TV and movies, talk about sports and politics, and laugh a lot. We hang out on his couch and eat popcorn and take Tilly shopping together. And yeah, we have sex together. And spend most nights together.And despite our rules and our understanding of what this is… I’m even more worried about my heart.

I point to Ford as he goes through his routine at the start of the game, skating loops in the crease, crouching down, sliding side to side, then a huge jump. He taps his pads then the goalposts and then knocks his forehead against the crossbar. “See, Daddy does the same thing every game,” I tell her. “He’s a little weird that way, but that’s okay, he’s a good goalie.”

I hear Mabel’s muffled giggle.

I knew about baseball stans but I didn’t expect hockey to be so popular with women. But now that I’m sleeping with a hockey player, and I’ve met a lot of the team, I get it. I get all those thirst trap photos of him tossing his hair back and looking into the camera with his sexy, smoldering green eyes. Doing his stretches. Posing in a skintight compression shirt, muscles bulging.

I focus on the game, tensing whenever the puck is shot at Ford, cheering when he makes an amazing save. He’s not actually being challenged that hard; the other team is not shooting the puck a lot. At one point, he leans on the goalpost casually, as if waiting for the play to come back to his end.

We laugh during a TV time out when he skates over to the boards and poses for selfies that kids are taking through glass with him. And again, when waiting for a faceoff in the other end, he starts dancing to the music. As soon as the puck is dropped and the music ends, he drops into a dramatic stance, ready for action.

“He’s putting on his own show,” I say to Mabel.

She laughs. “He is.”

The Storm are up five-nothing in the third period but then Toronto scores. Ford is clearly pissed off, but when we watch the replay of the goal on the big screen, it was really fluky. The otherteam iced the puck. It bounced off the boards, not even hard, hit the back of Ford’s skate, and ricocheted into the net.

Tilly’s asleep in my arms so she doesn’t see this moment of shame for Ford. She doesn’t see him hang his head, then swing his stick at the goalpost. But he really doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of. I guess he could have been tighter to the goalpost, but the puck wasn’t even moving fast, it looked harmless.

“He’s not going to be happy about that,” I say.

“Oh, well. No shutout. But they’re still going to win.” Mabel shrugs.

“I didn’t say the words. I did not say shutout. I didn’t even think it!” I turn to Mabel. “You have to tell him that.”

She eyes me. “Okay.”

“He’s really superstitious about that.”

“Most hockey players are.”

There are pictures everywhere online of Ford, Tilly, and me—me holding her up to the glass, waving her little hand at her dad, smiling at Ford with such open enjoyment. Oh, boy. I know better than to pay attention to that stuff, but I look at those pictures for longer than I should, smiling at the expressions on our faces. We look so happy.

I am happy.

But I’m also a little afraid to let myself be happy. Like this is a real relationship.

I should follow Ford’s advice: Don’t pay any attention to that shit.

I’m at Ford’s place carrying Tilly from the kitchen after giving her a first taste of a wedge of well-cooked carrot when there’s a knock at his door.

He lifts his eyebrows. “Who the hell is that? You’re the only one who knocks on my door.” He walks over and yanks it open. “Mom. Dad.”

Whaaat?

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Amsterdam.”

“We cut the trip short. Only by a few days.”

“Why? I mean… come in.”

Oh, boy. I straighten.

“There’s that baby!” Ford’s mom holds out her arms and rushes at Tilly and me. “That’s why!”

Ford lets out a low groan and covers his eyes.

My heart kicks against my ribs. My mouth goes dry and my eyes dart from Mrs. Archibald to Mr. Archibald following behind his wife, to Ford, who looks like aliens with weapons just walked into his condo. I attempt to school my features into a pleasant smile as Tilly is scooped up.

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