Page 28 of Pucking the Single Dad
In fact, it made something warm unfold in my chest that had nothing to do with pain medication.
Chapter 11: Serena
The extended storm had transformed Brad's house into our own private universe, where normal rules seemed increasingly irrelevant. I'd established a makeshift classroom at his dining table—medical supplies pushed aside for science experiments, hockey trophies repurposed as paperweights for Finn's worksheets.
"Okay, meteorologist Finn," I said, pulling up the weather radar on Brad's tablet. "What's trying to attack us today?"
Finn giggled, still in his dinosaur pajamas because who was going to judge? "Miss Serena, you're not supposed to say the weather's trying to attack us."
"Fine. What's trying to aggressively hug us with frozen precipitation?"
"The white parts are the heavy snow," he traced his finger across the screen, leaving small smudges Brad would normally immediately clean. "And those purple parts are... super heavy snow? Like, boss-level snow?"
"Boss-level snow. I love it. Now, what creates those differences?"
Brad limped in from the kitchen, favoring his reinjured knee, carrying coffee that smelled like hazelnuts. "Are you teaching my son actual science or video game meteorology?"
"Both," I said, accepting the mug. Our fingers brushed, and neither of us pulled away quickly. "Multi-disciplinary education."
"The cold air and warm air are fighting," Finn explained seriously to his father. "Like when you try to explain hockey to Miss Serena."
"I don't try to explain," Brad protested, leaning against the doorframe in a way that made his shirt pull across his chest. Not that I was noticing. "I succeed in explaining. It's not my fault someone doesn't understand icing rules."
"They're unnecessarily complicated," I shot back. "It's literally about who crosses a line first. How does that need a twenty-minute explanation?"
"Because there are exceptions—"
"There are always exceptions! Just like your filing system for Finn's medical records."
Finn perked up. "Dad has three different binders and a spreadsheet and a backup spreadsheet and—"
"That's alphabetical by condition, then chronological by date," Brad defended.
"Except for the emergency protocols, which are by severity, and the medication logs which are... what? By moon phase?"
"By prescribing physician, then by—" He stopped, realizing I was grinning at him. "You're mocking me."
"I'm appreciating your complexity."
"You two sound like a married couple," Finn announced cheerfully.
The word hung in the air like a held breath. Brad's face did something complicated before he retreated to the kitchen. I focused on the weather map with unnecessary intensity.
"The barometric pressure," I said, voice only slightly strained, "is what tells us..."
The morning continued with careful normalcy. I taught Finn about cloud formation using hot water and ice, letting him create his own weather in a jar. Brad pretended to work on his laptop while actually watching us, his knee elevated on the coffee table.
During Finn's rest time—mandatory quiet activity after lunch—Brad and I had fallen into a pattern of conversation that had moved beyond polite to something deeper.
"Tell me about the accident," I said quietly, surprising myself with the directness.
His hands stilled on his laptop keyboard. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
"January fifteenth, three years ago," he began slowly. "Sarah was driving home from her environmental law practice. It had just started snowing—nothing serious, everyone said later. Black ice on the overpass."
I waited, not pushing.
"Her car went over the barrier. They said it was instant, that she didn't suffer. But I got there..." His voice roughened. "I was at practice. Ignored my phone twice because we were running plays. By the time I saw the missed calls, she was already gone."
