Page 88 of Dirty Puck

Her smile lit up the whole damn arena. I dropped my gloves on the bench lining the wall and pulled her in with one arm. “So did you.”

She looked up at me, eyes glossy but bright. “We raised over two hundred thousand dollars tonight.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Two. Hundred. Thousand. And we’re not even through Sunday’s events.”

My jaw dropped. “Holy?—”

“Don’t swear in front of our boy,” she teased, thumping my chest and winking.

Our boy.

It hit me hard, that word. Even when she said it lightly, as a joke.

Because it wasn’t one. Not to me.

Shit.I looked down at Benny. He’d wrapped one arm around my leg and leaned into me like he always did now. I bent down and scooped him up. He tucked his head against my shoulder, exhausted.

He trusted me.

God help me, I’d move mountains to never break that.

“Tomorrow,” Bree said quietly, smoothing a hand over Benny’s back, “Guess who donated enough to skate with you tomorrow?”

“Don’t tell me?—”

“Jaycee. Lexi. Grant’s mom.Yourmom.”

I choked. “My mom donated that much? What was that woman thinking?”

“Well, it’s kind of my fault. She heard me talking about accommodations for a wheelchair-using young man. The rink has these sleds. Someone just has to push her.”

My mom. On the ice with me. I literally had no words.

“She said, and I quote, ‘If Baker can take a puck to the face, I can at least make it through two laps in a sled.’”

I laughed, full and hard. “She’s a legend.”

“The one and only Charlotte Reece.”

“I know. I’m fucking lucky.”

“You are,” Bree agreed. “And so is she.”

We didn’t say anything else for a while. Just made our way into the locker room, the three of us, breathing in the magic of it all.

Tomorrow would bring the skating, the laughter, the chaos, the inevitable soreness.

But tonight?

Tonight was already unforgettable.

By noon on Sunday, the arena buzzed with the kind of energy you couldn’t fake. Kids in oversized jerseys clutched Sharpies and pucks, darting between stations while their parents tried to keep up. The rink had been split for the morning skate: one half for public skating with players, the other left untouched for the charity game later that evening.

I hadn’t seen this many smiles in one place since we’d won the Cup.

Bree stood on the bleachers near the bench, holding one of Benny’s sippy cups looking every inch the woman who’d just rallied through an entire weekend of organized chaos. Mom sat next to her in the handicapped-accessible seat, cheeks pink, eyes alight. Benny bounced beside Claudia on the bench as he rolled a small figurine between his fingers in his excitement as he watched LJ try to chase a puck backward in his little skates. The kid was two and Bishop already had him up on skates. Maybe if I held his hands, I could get Benny up with a pair of double-bladed skates. I bet he’d have fun.

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