Page 56 of Pucking the Single Dad
"You've never left him overnight with anyone but family." She crossed to me, hands settling on my chest. "I get it."
"You are family." The words escaped before I could stop them. Her breath caught, eyes widening, and I knew I should take it back, qualify it, make it less than what it was. Instead, I pulled her closer. "Maria will check in. The Hendersons are on standby. Dr. Lisa knows you're—"
She silenced me with a kiss, soft but sure. "Go. Play hockey. Show them the knee's fine. Win games. We'll be here when you get back."
We. Such a small word to carry so much weight.
The drive to the airport was torture. My phone buzzed with texts from Serena before I even reached the highway.
Finn ate all his breakfast. Peak flow normal. He says score a hat trick but "don't hurt your knee again."
Then a photo—Finn in hisAvalanchejersey, grinning gap-toothed at the camera, holding a sign that said "DAD'S FIRST GAME BACK!" Serena visible in the reflection making bunny ears behind him.
"You've got it bad," Theo observed from the driver's seat.
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying, one month ago you wouldn't let anyone but me watch Finn long enough to grab coffee. Now you're leaving him for three days with your 'fake' girlfriend who's living in your house, wearing your clothes, raising your kid like she was designed for it in a lab. All while you're about to test whether that knee can handle NHL-level contact."
"It's not—" I started, then stopped. What was the point of denying it? "Yeah. I've got it bad."
"FINALLY!" Theo pounded the steering wheel. "Do you know how painful it's been watching you two dance around each other? Maria and I have a bet going about when you'll make it official."
"It's complicated."
"It's really not, man. You love her. She loves you. And most importantly, Finn loves both of you. Your knee's healing. Your life's healing. Stop making it complicated."
Love. The word sat heavy in my chest, too big and too true to examine closely.
That first night in Calgary, I called during Finn's bedtime routine. The hotel room felt like a sensory deprivation tank—beige walls, recycled air, the ghost of industrial carpet cleaner. But on my phone screen, home blazed in full color.
Serena had propped the phone against something—the dinosaur lamp, probably—and there they were. Finn's hair stuck up in post-bath chaos, his cheeks pink from the warm water.
"Daddy!" Finn bounced on his knees, nearly knocking the phone over. "Miss Serena knows about SPACE! She showed me Orion and he has a belt and a sword and everything!"
"That's awesome, buddy." I watched Serena help him with his preventive inhaler, her movements sure and practiced. The domestic intimacy of it—her in one of my old t-shirts, Finn automatically lifting his arms so she could check his breathing—hit me like a check into the boards.
"Story?" Finn asked her, not me, and I should have felt replaced but instead felt... complete. Like pieces clicking into place.
She grabbed a book of fairy tales, launching into a story about brave dragons and dancing fairies with theatrical flair. Her dragon roars made Finn dissolve into giggles. Her fairy dance moves, performed one-handed while holding the book, had him copying her from his bed. But then—genius—she gradually softened everything. The dragons became sleepier. The fairy kingdom grew quieter and more peaceful. Her voice dropped to honey-slow words that made my own eyes heavy from eight hundred miles away.
Finn's breathing evened out. She kept reading, softer still, her free hand playing with his hair in the same absent pattern I'd used since he was a baby. Like muscle memory she'd never actually developed but somehow knew.
"Love you, Daddy," Finn mumbled sleepily. "Love you, Miss Serena."
She froze, eyes flying to the phone, seeking permission or reassurance or something. I nodded, trying to convey everything I couldn't say with Finn listening.
"Love you too, sweetheart," she whispered, and Finn smiled, already mostly asleep.
After she'd settled him, she took the phone to the living room. "Brad, he said—"
"He meant it." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Seven-year-olds don't lie about love. He doesn't say things he doesn't mean."
"Neither do I," she said, quiet as a held breath.
We stared at each other through screens, thousand miles apart but somehow closer than we'd ever been.
The second day brought crisis.
