Page 109 of The Pucking Date
I glance down at her small fingers working the ends. Her touch is light, warm, feathering against my wrist in little bursts that ripple under my skin. The kind of touch only kids have—innocent, focused, all in. It’s gentle. Soft, weightless, but somehow absolute. It pulls me out of myself, silences the mind chatter. For a breath or two, I’m fully present. No ache. No noise. Just the gift of now.
Then her voice flickers in—Jessica’s. That low, mischievous murmur. The smirk when she tied this on. Said she was marking me.
She’s still here. Cinched around my wrist. Around my soul. And I realize, this is what’s left. Not her laugh, not her touch, not the way she said my name. Just a piece of stringand the memory of her fingers putting it on. Like she was claiming me. Like I was hers to keep.
And then it hits harder, full force.
The way she let me catch her. Let me be hers. The way she fought for my contract like it was personal. And the way she kept the pregnancy a secret.
I should take the bracelet off. But the thought shakes me. Feels like tearing off a part I still need.
Damn it. I can’t get free of her.
My throat tightens until I can barely breathe. This is what the rest of my life looks like—wanting someone who wants to live without me. Loving someone who chose fear over us. And now, I don’t know how this plays out. What co-parenting will become.
Civil. Polite. Careful not to say too much or stay too long. Watching her grow round with my child while treating me like a stranger. Sharing ultrasound photos through text. Discussing daycare options like a business transaction. Twenty years of seeing her at school plays, graduations, maybe her wedding to someone else. Always connected, never together.
Because once there’s a child, the break is never clean. Not really.
I’m out. But the tether between us…that’s forever.
Somewhere behind me, Dmitri’s daughter Amneris squeals and flings herself at Kaycee. In six-year-old terms, a month apart might as well be forever. School split them into different zip codes. Dmitri said she begged to come today.
The reunion gets dramatic fast—tiny hugs, high-pitched laughter, a plan for matching Halloween costumes already locked in. Dmitri watches from the bench, arms folded, pretending he’s not a total softie about it.
Liam and Adam trail in next, coffees in hand, doing theirbest to look like they didn’t just come for the bagels. They barely make it past the entrance before three of the moms at the boards start whispering and elbowing each other. One gasps. The other giggles. The third one actually fans herself with a roster sheet.
The guys take up space in the bleachers, smug and decorative, reveling in the attention.
“Not even gonna fake helping?” I call out.
Liam shrugs. “We’re here for morale.”
Adam raises his coffee in salute. “You’re doing great, Coach.”
“Skates, now,” Dmitri barks, already striding toward the benches. “Let’s go. These kids are gonna lose it when they see the squad show up. It’s a special surprise. Get moving.”
Liam groans. “You said this was a drop-in.”
“Change of plans,” I say, smirking. “We’re running drills.”
The boys go wild when they spot the guys. Screaming, falling over themselves with excitement. I should feel something—joy, pride, connection. Instead, I feel hollow. Like I’m watching someone else’s life through glass.
Ten minutes later, the four of us are out there—me herding a chaos line of ten-year-olds through passing drills, Dmitri refereeing a mini scrimmage, Liam getting mobbed by center hopefuls, and Adam pretending he knows how to coach while two kids cling to his legs.
The boys are beaming. Screaming. Firing slapshots that would never clear the blue line but might break a tooth if we’re not careful. Jason’s dragging behind the rest, his pass drifting wide before it even hits the stick. He winces, shoulders curling in like he’s bracing for impact. I skate over, crouch beside him.
“Hey,” I say, tapping his stick with mine. “Messing upmeans you’re trying. And trying? That makes you the best one out here.”
His eyes flick up. “Really?”
I nod once. “Now show me what that wrister can do.”
He squares his stance, teeth clenched in determination, and fires off a shot that hits the cone dead on. The grin he throws me could power the scoreboard. Up in the stands, Melissa’s got her phone out. So do half the other moms. Filming. Laughing. Narrating in hushed, giddy tones while their kids skate circles around us. One even mouths, “He’s so good with them,” to another.
Another mom—blond, wrapped in a Defenders hoodie—leans toward Melissa. “He’s a natural,” she says loudly. I hear it, but don’t react. Just keep skating, keep calling drills, keep my hands steady.
Out here, I look fine. Hell, I look great. But inside, I’m bleeding out.
