Page 22 of Hockey Nanny

“Carissa.”

I stepped inside and stopped short.

It was enormous. A living area with couches that looked like they’d never been sat on. A dining table I could count seats around without reaching the end. Floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city in steel and light.

Henry dropped his backpack and took off running, sneakers pounding across the rug.

“This is bigger than the house,” he announced, skidding to a stop and spinning in place.

I laughed despite myself. “It’s a hotel.”

“It’s a palace.”

The bellboy set our bags down and gave me a look that suggested this was all perfectly normal. I thanked him. He left with a nod that carried a weight I hadn’t earned either.

The door closed. Silence followed, thick and unfamiliar.

Henry didn’t notice. He scrambled onto the couch, bounced once, then twice, then launched himself toward an armchair.

“Hey,” I said. “Feet.”

He froze mid-climb and looked at me, eyes bright. “Can I fly it?”

I glanced around, mentally tallying fragile objects. “Stay away from lamps. And glass. And anything that looks like it costs more than your bike.”

“That’s everything,” he said, already lifting the helicopter.

He took off running, arm slicing the air, the Black Hawk swooping low over cushions and chair backs. He narrated the flight under his breath, commentary intense, full of mission and purpose.

I leaned against the counter, watching him. He moved like he belonged here, like excitement had claimed the space before doubt could catch up. A few weeks ago, he’d been careful in new places. Hands tucked. Questions held back. Now he treated the room like a playground.

The helicopter banked hard near the window.

“Henry.”

“I’m landing,” he said. “Emergency landing.”

“Good call.”

He dropped onto the rug, cross-legged, and set the helicopter down with reverence that bordered on ritual. He adjusted the rotors, lined it up, then launched it again, this time lower, tighter.

“Coach would like this place,” he said casually.

My chest gave a small, unexpected hitch. “Coach does stay in places like this.”

He grinned. “Yeah. But not with us.”

I didn’t answer. There was something about the way he said it. Matter-of-fact. Certain.

He sent the helicopter skimming past my shoulder. I ducked instinctively.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s fast.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I pushed off the counter and wandered toward the window, city lights flickering below. Somewhere out there was an arena packed with noise and bodies and expectation. Somewhere out there, Dawson was preparing for a weekend that mattered. Gage too. Boone, no doubt, already making friends.

And here I was. In a suite. Under someone else’s name. Watching a kid who’d found his footing faster than I had.