Page 72 of Pucking the Single Dad
Finn bounced on his toes beside me, clutching his custom helmet like a holy relic—the one with NASA-grade ventilation panels that cost more than most people's mortgage payments. Worth every penny if it bought us even five extra seconds before his airways betrayed him.
"Signals." I dropped to my knees, gripping his bird-bone shoulders, trying not to let him see my hands shake. "Run them."
"Green means I'm breathing fine." Thumbs up, confident. "Yellow means it's getting tight." Flat palm, hovering. "Red means—" He made a fist. "Stop everything."
"Even if you're having the time of your life. Even if we're winning the Stanley Cup out there."
"Dad, we're not gonna win the Stanley Cup in an empty rink at dawn."
"Promise me, Finn."
He crossed his heart with the gravity of a blood oath. "Promise."
The ice stretched between us and the far boards—might as well have been the Atlantic. Three years of nightmarescrashed through my head: Finn face-down on the ice, lips blue, chest still. Me screaming, too far away, skates slipping as I tried to reach him. The paramedics sayingif only you'd been faster—
"Dad?" His voice pulled me back. "We don't have to. If you're too scared."
Christ. When did my seven-year-old become the adult?
"I'm not—" The lie died on my tongue. Serena's voice echoed in my head: Show him it's okay to be human."Yeah, buddy. I'm scared as hell."
His eyes widened.
"But you know what? Being scared just means our brain is trying to protect us. Doesn't mean we have to listen."
"Like when my chest gets tight but I still finish my math test?"
"Exactly like that."
We stepped onto the ice like entering a cathedral. His first few strides were tentative—muscle memory fighting against weeks away from the rink, his breathing careful and measured. But underneath the rust was solid foundation. Real skating technique, honed during those precious symptom-free days when his lungs cooperated and we could work on his hockey fundamentals together.
"Knees!" I barked, muscle memory taking over. "Bend them like you're sitting on an invisible chair."
His body responded before his brain could overthink it. The wobble smoothed into a glide.
"Feel that? That's your center of gravity talking to the ice."
Twenty minutes evaporated. Push, glide, catch, balance. I taught him to read his body like a play—sprint hard for ten seconds, coast for five, use the natural breaks hockey builds in. When his hand flashed yellow after an overeager charge at the net, we drifted to the boards like it was planned, casual.
"Look at the ice," I pointed to the crosshatch of blade marks. "See how every line tells a story? That curve there? Someone turned too fast. Those parallel lines? Someone was teaching their kid to skate, just like us."
His breathing steadied as his mind latched onto the puzzle. Serena's trick—she'd called it 'cognitive redirect,' but I called it genius. God, that woman had rewired my entire life in two months. The thought of her made something warm bloom beneath my ribs.
"Dad?" Finn's color had returned to pink-cheeked normal. "When do I get to shoot actual pucks?"
"Master the skating first. Hockey's like—"
"Like breathing exercises," he finished, rolling his eyes with seven-year-old exasperation. "Build the foundation before the house. I know."
My throat closed. This kid—this brilliant, brave, broken, perfect kid—had absorbed every coping mechanism, every careful strategy, and somehow transformed them into strength. The asthma that terrorized my dreams had forged him into someone remarkable. Someone I was still learning from.
"Dad, why are you making that face?"
"What face?"
"The one where you look at me and your eyes get all shiny."
I pulled him against me, right there on the ice, his helmet bonking my chest. "Because you're tougher than any player I've ever coached."
