Page 85 of Pucking the Single Dad
The silence that followed felt deafening.
"Six weeks," I whispered.
"And Brad doesn't know?"
Maria had always been able to read me like a billboard.
"How can I tell him?" The words tumbled out in a rush. "I almost killed Finn today. Grabbed Pulmicort instead of Albuterol. Purple cap instead of blue. That's not a mistake, Maria, that's negligence. That's—"
"That's parenthood." She cut me off. "My sister gave her kid Benadryl instead of Tylenol once. Kid slept for fourteen hours. She cried for three days. Kid's fine, runs marathons now."
"That's different—"
"How? Because Finn's more fragile? Because the stakes are higher? Newsflash—the stakes are always life and death with kids. You just have better documentation."
I pulled my knees up, trying to make myself smaller. "Sarah knew by instinct. I was standing right there and grabbed the wrong—"
"Sarah had seven years of practice and she's been turned into a saint by death." Maria's bluntness felt like ice water. "You've had three months. Also, you're comparing yourself to a ghost, which is fucked up and unfair."
Through her window, I could see the arena in the distance, lit up like a beacon. Inside, Brad was probably taping what was left of his knee, swallowing painkillers that would barely touch what he was about to endure.
"I left them." The admission tasted like ash.
"You left, past tense. You can un-leave, present tense." Maria grabbed my face between her palms, forcing eye contact. "You love them. That weird, broken little family is yours. You're just terrified because loving them means you could lose them."
"Or fail them."
"Same thing in your twisted brain." She released me, grabbed the remote. "Game starts in ten. We're going to watch Brad destroy what's left of his body for glory, and you're going to see Finn in the stands and remember why you belong there."
The pregame show was already running highlights of Brad's career—young Brad, healthy Brad, Brad who could pivotwithout screaming. Then they showed current Brad, arriving at the arena two hours early, his limp so pronounced even the cameras couldn't hide it.
"Christ, he can barely walk," Maria muttered.
The camera found Finn in the family box, wearing Brad's jersey, Sarah's parents flanking him like bodyguards. He was holding a sign: "MY DAD IS A WARRIOR." But his other hand clutched his inhaler, and I could see from the way he sat—shoulders slightly forward—that his breathing was still tight.
"That's your kid," Maria said quietly. "Not legally, not biologically, but yours. Look at him looking for you."
She was right. Finn kept turning, scanning nearby seats, confusion growing when he couldn't find me.
"I abandoned him." The weight of it crushed my chest. "Just like his mom, except she didn't have a choice."
"So fix it."
"How?"
"Start by answering your phone." Maria pointed to my cell, lighting up with Brad's contact photo—him and Finn laughing, covered in pancake batter, a photo I'd taken last Sunday when everything was perfect.
The text was simple:Finn keeps asking where you are.
Then another:I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Any of it.
A third:Please come.
The game started. Brad took the ice looking like he was skating through quicksand, each stride a victory against physics. The commentators noticed immediately.
"Wilder's laboring out there," one observed. "That knee injury has clearly progressed."
But he played anyway. Through the pain that I could see in his clenched jaw even from Maria's couch. Through checks that made him stagger. Through a knee that wouldn't bend properly, forcing him to skate like a broken marionette.
