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Zach
“Wilder!” Coach Noah calls out.
Both of Jackson’s kids start skating toward Noah, away from their goal.
“No.” Noah waves his hand. “Number thirty-three Wilder.”
I snicker.
Then I see Jackson a few yards down, face to the glass like I am, waving his hands for the younger of his sons to turn around.
Katelyn is sitting on the bench a few rows behind him, smothering a smile with her mitten.
My snicker turns into a laugh.
The indoor practice arena is large but empty, save for the players and their parents, so sound travels.
Jackson jerks his head in my direction. “Knock it off, Hunt.”
My daughter skids to a stop on the ice. “What?”
“Sorry.” Jackson gestures for her to keep going. “Talking to your dad.”
Her blond curls stick out around her helmet, reminding me so much of her mother. But then she jumps into her little seven-year-old sprint and knocks over one of her opponents, reminding me of me.
Coach Noah blows his whistle and skates into the fray, resetting the group of six- to eight-year-olds.
Izzy sighs as she steps up next to me, cup of hot cocoa in hand. “She’s gonna be trouble.”
I grin as I drape my arm over her shoulder. “It’s good for her to get it out of her system in summer league.”
“Get it out of her system, or learn bad behavior?” Izzy shakes her head and hands me her hot chocolate.
Before I take a sip, I lean down and press a quick kiss to her temple. “I love you, Sugar.”
Luke
Two years after winning the cup, I retired. So did the rest of the guys. And now, this is our routine.
Jackson and Zach stand at attention, playing assistant coach—even though Noah does just fine. And why wouldn’t he? He’s a starter on the Sleet now. He doesn’t need help.
Ash and I just enjoy sitting here, watching the chaos, then going home to our child-free, wife-centered lives.
“Ash.” Meghan turns to face us from her spot with Natalie a few rows ahead. “Can you go get the extra marshmallows from the car?”
Ash groans, but we all know he’s going to do it.
He’d do anything for her. Just like how he’s facilitated the girls’ illegal hot chocolate distribution.
Sitting between Meghan and Natalie is a two-gallon thermos with a spout. Accompanied by paper cups, sprinkles, and a dwindling bag of marshmallows.
I get up with Ash and move down to sit next to my wife.
My shoulder bumps hers. “What’s the flavor this week?”
Natalie smiles at me. “Snickerdoodle.”
I hold out my hand. “Load me up.”
