Page 111 of Dirty Puck

“What the hell are we doing?” I asked. “Requesting a song? What? Are we twenty?”

“Just shut up and stand here,” Bishop muttered, grinning.

His lips started moving like he was counting down, even though it was soundless. Then the jumbo screen lit up with a montage—photos and clips ofmy mom. Her volunteering, hugging kids after games, standing next to me with her arms crossed and that proud smile she’d worn like armor.

Then the logo appeared.

The Charlotte Reece Children First Foundation

I blinked. “What…?”

Jones clapped my back. “We expanded the benefit. It started as help for families in the low country, but it grew. Therapy, education, food, support services—you name it. For kids. Across the United States. We’re launching it tonight.”

I couldn’t speak. I barely kept my knees from buckling.

“Your mom didn’t just raise you,” Bishop added quietly. “She made us all better. We figured it was time to return the favor.”

The crowd stood. Heads tilted to take in the montage. Bree was crying again, her mouth covered with her hand. Benny clapped along like he knew this was important.

And it was.

I’d lost a lot over the years. Fought through grief and anger and fear.

But in the end, I got everything that mattered.

I got my family.

And I got to carry my mother’s legacy forward—in the name of the woman who’d raised me, with the woman I was going to marry at my side.

EPILOGUE

BREE

The kitchen smelled like blueberry pancakes and too much coffee. Claudia had Benny clinging to her thigh as she swayed to some old Sam Cooke song humming out of the Bluetooth speaker while she filled his bowl with oatmeal. Reece stood at the stove, shirtless in gray joggers, flipping pancakes like a man with Olympic training.

This was what peace looked like.

What healing sounded like.

What home felt like.

We’d been living in the house as a family for five months now. Reece’s adoption of Benny was nearly finalized—just one more court date to make it official, but that didn’t matter to Benny. Not really. That boy already belonged to Reece in every way that counted.

Therapy had helped, patience had helped, love had helped. But there were still moments—little stutters in his progress, flashes of the fear we thought we’d buried. The doctors said it could take years before he caught up. Maybe longer. Maybe never.

But I didn’t need perfect.

I just needed this.

Claudia walked my boy over to the table, where I lifted him into his booster seat and she set his bowl down in front of him. He wore one of Reece’s oversized hockey jerseys. It draped over him like a dress, and we had to turn the sleeves up a good six turns, but they still dragged in his food every time he wore it. But Reece gave it to him and that was it. It became his comfort object. The polyester soothed him. It was a texture thing. I fit his special headphones gently over his curls while Claudia brought him his juice. He tapped a beat on the tabletop.

“All right, pancakes up,” Reece called, sliding a fresh batch onto Claudia’s plate.

It caught my boy’s attention. He stared at the food, then back at me. Then, clear as a bell, soft and unsure but real?—

“Mumma?”

I froze.

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