Page 138 of The Pucking Date
“You will,” she says dryly. “We all do.”
He laughs, and so does she, just barely.
We stop in the kitchen, where Sophie is helping Mom plate food while Liam uncorks mineral water and passes a bottle to Adam, who’s just come downstairs in a black tee and joggers, hair still damp.
“Jesus, O’Reilly,” Adam says, eyeing Finn. “You sure you’re not here for a job interview? You brought flowers.”
“Raised right,” Finn replies, accepting the water.
The dining room is already set, soft autumn light slipping through the tall windows, bowls of roasted vegetables, ginger-soy chicken, herb rice, and perfectly cubed sweet potatoes. The table is warm, inviting, and suspiciously macro-balanced.
“Everything’s clean protein, smart carbs, and plenty of greens,” Mom says, setting down the salad. “And I made extra for the pregnant one at the table.”
She gives me a look that’s part maternal warmth, part tactical reinforcement, and I almost tear up over a platter of bok choy.
Sophie slides into a seat next to Liam, their hands laced under the table like they’re still hiding from Dad. Adam drops into the chair across from me and grabs a breadstick like he’s been fasting all day.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“Still in the shower,” Adam replies. “We went for a few sprints earlier. He’s probably stress-shampooing.”
Wai Po takes her seat next to Finn and reaches for a rice ball. She gives him a sideways glance.
“You look less nervous than I expected.”
Finn smiles easily. “First period’s always for reading the ice.”
She hums in approval, a smirk dancing on her face.
And just as her teacup clinks gently back into its saucer, I hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Familiar. Steady. I straighten automatically.
Dad appears in the doorway. Button-down shirt. Clean shave. That expressionless, stone-silent face he wears behind the bench, the one I used to mistake for strength. Now it just looks like armor. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I blew up on him and quit the Defenders. And now I’m here, in his house, with Finn beside me, a baby bump under my dress, and not a single apology in sight.
He steps into the dining room, eyes sweeping the table. He takes us both in—me, Finn, the swell of my belly. No flare of anger. No smile, either. Just a long, slow scan.
“You came,” he says to me. His words aren’t warm. But they are not cold either. Just heavy with everything unspoken.
I nod once. “It’s Sunday.”
His gaze shifts to Finn, reading him like he’s a first-year on the wrong side of morning skate.
Finn doesn’t blink. “Sir.”
Another moment of silence. Then, finally, “You clean up okay, O’Reilly.”
Finn almost grins. “You too, Coach.”
That earns him a snort, maybe even the ghost of approval, before Dad drops his gaze to the table like he’s just remembered food exists.
“Let’s eat,” he says.
And we do, carefully. Everyone moves with that cautious, too-polite energy that makes forks clink a little too precisely against plates. Liam asks about the next road trip. Finn mentions the homestand. Adam complains about morning conditioning being designed by sadists. Mom passes platters and refills water with clinical efficiency.
There’s no wine. No beer. Not with three players deep in season. And not with me…in my current state.
I eye the sparkling water and mutter, “God, I could use a strong shot of something.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. I give him a look. “Relax. I’m pregnant. Not reckless.”
