Page 212 of Well That Happened

It’s Caleb. I hear him scoop her up, her little protest giggle muffled against his shoulder.

“But I wanna show her my fishy shirt,” she says, indignant and sleepy and not quite three.

“You can show her later. Come help me flip pancakes. We’re doing banana ones today.”

Banana pancakes. My favorite.

I hear him kiss her. Then their footsteps fade down the hall.

I smile into the pillow. I’m not getting more sleep—too much noise, too much love bursting through the walls—but I stay in bed anyway, wrapped in warmth and memory.

It’s been ten years.

Five kids, two dogs, and four states.

Hunter played twelve seasons in the NHL. We lived in Colorado, Canada, New York, and now Florida. I worked in labor and delivery in hospitals across all of them.

Caleb’s a stay-at-home dad now. And he’s incredible at it. Our home runs on snacks, playlists, and an alarming number of science experiments on the dining room table. He wrangles, soothes, negotiates peace treaties over who gets the blue cup, and still kisses me like we’re twenty-somethings sneaking around behind closed doors.

Grayson works from home in finance. He’s the calm center in the middle of our storm. The one who shows up to school conferences in button-downs and readsThe Hobbitto the twins at night. The one who can make a spreadsheet and still fix a bike chain with one hand.

And Hunter—Hunter’s home now. Retired. Figuring out what’s next. He’s floated the idea of coaching college hockey or maybe just chilling for a while, building a chicken coop in the backyard and taking the kids to practices and dance recitals.

That’s the beauty of NHL money. We’re privileged, and we know it.

But we’ve never been bougie. It’s boxed mac and cheese, scraped knees, and marker on the walls around here. No private planes, no designer everything. But trust me—we want for nothing.

We have five kids, and it’sa lot.

The twins were first—a boy and a girl, adorable, with Hunter’s dark hair. They love to read, draw, and make elaboratecrafts that take over the entire kitchen. Followed by two more boys who look just like Gray.

Townes is eight. Full of facts. Can recite NHL stats from 1982 like he lived through them.

Leo’s six. Plays backyard hockey like he’s auditioning for the draft.

And then there’s Saylor.

Almost three. Chaos incarnate. The sassy boss of the house with Caleb’s wild smile and my sassiness.

We all worship her.

There’s a soft knock on the door. Then it opens just a crack. Caleb slips in, still shirtless, flour on his cheek.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, crossing to the bed. He kisses me before I can even speak. Long and slow and familiar. “Just wanted to remind you—Grayson’s birthday dinner tonight. Hunter’s going to be home any minute now from that team thing, and my parents fly in around four.”

“Already?” I yawn, stretching again.

“Time flies when you’re being spoiled,” he says, brushing my hair back.

I grin. “Did you actually let me sleep in? Like fully?”

He nods, mock serious. “It was a Herculean effort. There were negotiations. Bribes. I think Saylor now owns part of my soul.”

I laugh, and he kisses me again.

This is it. The life I never could’ve predicted, and the only one I want.

That first year was the hardest. I stayed in San Diego for work. Caleb and Grayson stayed with me. Grayson took an accounting job he hated. Caleb coached boys’ hockey at a private school. Hunter played for Seattle—we saw him whenever we could. The long-distance thing almost broke us more than once. But we made it work.

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