Page 96 of Player Misconduct
“A double star,” I say. “Two stars that look like one until you look close.”
“Seems on brand.”
I peer in and move it to the right location and then step aside for her. She leans in. “Oh—wow. One’s blue.”
“And the other is gold,” I say. “Together they balance.” I could keep going. I could tell her about optical doubles or gravitational pairs, how sometimes they only look close from our angle, but I don’t. She’s smart; she’ll hear the rest.
She looks up at me, the sky reflected in her eyes. “When did you get into this?”
“After my hip surgery when I thought my career was over. My dad bought me the telescope. He wanted me to remember that we’re all just a spackle of dust on a watery planet. That if we don’t take the shot, the universe doesn’t care one way or the other, so do it anyway,” I say, surprised by how easily the word comes now. “During those nights of rehab when I thought my career in Hockey was over, the nights were the worst. I’d go up to the roof of my building and realize the same stars were over Helsinki as everywhere else. That I hadn’t disappeared justbecause no one can see me playing on a team. No one sees the planets day to day… but they’re still there.”
Her face changes—softens, yes, but with a weight that says she understands exactly how that kind of loneliness feels.
“Maybe it doesn’t make sense to a lot of people but it helped put everything into perspective for me. Whether I ever played again or not, it wasn’t earth shattering. It took the pressure off.”
“I think that’s beautiful. And I think your father was a very smart man.”
“He was. I hope I’m half the father he was.”
Her hand reaches out, resting against my heart. “I know you will be.”
She shifts, one palm sliding instinctively to her belly again. She’s done it six times tonight, like a metronome only I can hear. I want to ask if he’s moving yet, if he kicks when she lies down, whether she’s thought about names, whether she’ll let me paint tiny galaxies on his nursery ceiling. I want to ask if I can be there for everything and still be the quiet she needs.
Instead I lower the telescope and sit beside her on the blanket. The city’s a hush below us; the sky is pretending to be kind.
“I need to say something,” I begin, and the way her shoulders go tight says she thinks it’s something dangerous. “I hate the noise. The rumors. The way people talk about you like you’re a headline. I want to—” I stop, flex my hands once against my knees, dial back the part of me that would walk out onto a press scrum and swallow all their microphones whole. “But I know what we agreed, and I am okay with being quiet if that’s what keeps you steady. I’m—” I search for the word that doesn’t scare her. “I’m here. However you need me to be.”
She stares at my mouth like the words might rearrange themselves if she watches long enough. Then she nods once, like something inside her gives. “Thank you.”
The wind lifts. The fairy lights sway with it. I want to tuck her under my arm and build a wall around us out of blankets.
“Do you want dessert?” I ask, because I’m a genius at changing the subject when I’m about to say something true.
“What kind?”
I lift the little bakery box with a flourish. “Cardamom buns. Contraband levels of butter.”
Her eyes actually light. “Okay, I officially forgive you for the pizza incident."
We tear them in half and hand each other the bigger halves. Sugar dusts her lip; she swipes it away with her tongue and my brain goes static for three full seconds. All I can think about is kissing her, but that’s nothing new. All I ever think about is kissing her.
She leans back against the cushion behind her, a hand curved over the side of her belly. I lay back next to her and without thinking, I let my hand rest near her on the blanket, palm up, an offer I won’t push.
She looks at my hand. Then at my face. Then down again. Then she reaches for it and places my palm against her stomach. “He liked the buns too,” she says, and then I feel it.
A kick, a push… something that tells me he’s here with us too.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. It feels like someone put a small new sun in my chest and told it to warm the parts that went cold in the desert.
We sit like that, staring at her perfect belly, my hand spayed out of most of it to make sure I don’t miss anything if he changes position.
Another small hello. “Show-off already.”
“Wonder where he gets that,” she says, voice fond.
I can’t help it. I lean forward and press my lips to the place my hand just was. Not a kiss full of heat—just a pressed vow, a quietgreeting to two heartbeats at once. When I look up, her eyes are wet.
“Hey,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean—”
