Page 73 of Pucking the Single Dad
"Even tougher than you?"
"Especially tougher than me."
He pushed back, grinning. "Can we skate more? I'm still green."
We pushed off together, side by side, carving matching lines in the virgin ice while the arena lights watched us like proud stars.
Over the following weeks, our dawn rituals became church. The zamboni's last pass at 4:45 AM, the echo of the heavy doors, the specific creak of bench seventeen where we laced up—sacred liturgy for the congregation of three.
Serena started appearing with hot chocolate that tasted like melted Christmas, her camera catching us in moments I didn't know were precious until I saw them through her lens: Finn's tongue poking out in concentration as he attempted his first crossover. My hands adjusting his helmet for the hundredth time. Both of us collapsed on the ice after a particularly spectacular wipeout, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
She never coached from the sidelines, never suggested we push harder. She just existed in our orbit like gravity—invisible, essential, holding us together.
"Look at him go," she murmured one crystalline morning, tracking Finn through his fifth lap. No yellow signal. No gasping. Just my kid cutting across ice like he was born to it.
"The cold air doesn't affect him as much anymore." I couldn't hide my amazement. "Dr. Lisa thinks the controlled exposure might actually be helping."
"Or maybe he's just happy." She smiled, linking her arm through mine. "Happy kids breathe easier. It's science."
"Is that what they teach in education programs now?"
"That and how to manage stubborn hockey players who think they know everything."
I pulled her closer, her laughter echoing across the ice. Finn waved from across the rink, and we waved back—a family gesture that felt natural as breathing.
The day Finn made the junior team, I cried in Coach Williams' office. Not the dignified single-tear variety—the ugly, shoulders-shaking, can't-catch-your-breath kind that ambushes you when your kid achieves something you'd convinced yourself was impossible.
"He's an alternate," Williams clarified, sliding tissues across his desk without judgment. "Mostly observing. Maybe five minutes ice time when he's breathing well. But he's earned that jersey."
"How?" My voice came out wrecked.
"Kid dissects game footage like he's studying for the SATs. Knows every play before it happens. Players twice his size listen when he talks strategy." Williams shrugged. "Heart matters more than lungs sometimes."
I found Finn in the locker room, holding his jersey—number 31, same as mine—like it was made of spun gold.
"Alternate's still the team," I said, sitting beside him on the bench.
"I know." He traced the numbers reverently. "Coach says if I keep practicing, maybe next year I can play more."
"Maybe. Or maybe not. Either way—"
"Either way, I'm playing hockey." His grin could have powered the arena. "Like you, Dad."
That night, after Finn had fallen asleep clutching his jersey, I stood before Sarah's photo on the mantel. The guilt that usually accompanied these one-sided conversations had faded to something softer—not gone, but transformed.
"He's playing hockey," I whispered. "Carefully, with a million modifications and backup plans, but he's playing. You should see him, Sarah. He's so brave. So much braver than me."
The house breathed around me. Through the ceiling came Serena's voice, low and steady, reading something about dragons to our son because stories helped his airways relax better than any bronchodilator.
"She's good for him." I touched the frame, dust on my fingertips. "Good for me. Sometimes I think you sent her. Like you knew we'd need someone who could see us clearly. Someone who wouldn't try to fix us."
The guilt that usually accompanied these conversations had evolved into something else. Not erasure—never that—but maybe coexistence. Like that thing Serena said about holding grief and joy in the same hand.
"I think you'd be friends," I whispered. "I think you'd love how she loves him. How she—"
Loves me. The words stuck, too big for the room, too soon for the world.
But standing there between my past and future, between the woman who'd given me Finn and the woman helpingme raise him, something fundamental shifted. The photograph didn't feel like an anchor anymore.
