Page 76 of Hockey Nanny

“No,” I said firmly, stroking his hair, my own eyes burning. “Never because of you. I promise. This is grown-up stuff. It has nothing to do with you.”

He clutched my shirt like it was the only solid thing left. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, even as doubt gnawed at me. “I’m right here.”

Dawson stood frozen near the bed, conflict etched into every line of him. His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall.

“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

I looked up at him, anger flaring through the ache. “You don’t have time to comfort your foster child?”

His jaw clenched. “I have to leave.”

“You’re just going to walk out?” I asked, incredulous. “Right now?”

“What do you want me to do?” he snapped, the control finally cracking. “I have a game.”

The words echoed in the room, heavy and final.

He grabbed his bag and moved for the door, pausing only long enough to brush a hand over Henry’s head.

“We’ll talk later,” he said, already halfway gone.

The door shut behind him with a soft click that felt anything but gentle.

Henry sobbed into my shoulder.

I held him, rocking slightly, my own chest aching as the house seemed to exhale around us, the fallout settling in slow, painful waves.

The game started with the volume too loud.

Henry had the remote clutched in both hands like it was a life raft, his knees tucked up under his chin on the couch, eyes bright despite everything that had happened upstairs. The Avalanche logo flashed across the screen, followed by the Golden Knights skating out under a wash of white light and roaring crowd noise. The commentators’ voices filled the living room, confident and buoyant, like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

I stood behind the couch longer than I meant to, one hand braced on the back cushion, my gaze skimming the screen without really landing anywhere. The house felt too big without Dawson in it. Too quiet in a way that didn’t soothe, only amplified every echo of the afternoon.

“Is Uncle Dawson starting?” Henry asked, craning his neck toward the screen.

“Yeah,” I said, then corrected myself when my voice wavered. “Yeah, he is.”

The camera cut to the starting lineup, Dawson’s name rolling across the bottom of the screen. He skated into frame, helmet already on, jaw set. He looked the same as always from a distance. Big. Solid. Unshakeable.

Except I knew better now.

I sat down beside Henry, close enough that our shoulders touched. He didn’t comment on it, just leaned into me like it wasthe most natural thing in the world. I wrapped an arm around him and focused on the rhythm of his breathing, using it as an anchor while the puck dropped and the game surged to life.

Colorado came out aggressive. Fast transitions. Relentless pressure in the neutral zone. Even I could tell the Golden Knights were scrambling earlier than usual, passes just a fraction off, timing not quite there.

Henry narrated everything like he always did, filling the spaces where my thoughts wanted to spiral.

“That guy’s really fast,” he said, pointing at the screen. “The one with the long hair.”

“Mm-hm,” I replied, eyes fixed on Dawson as he chased the play back into their zone.

He was a step late. Not badly. Just enough that it caught my attention.

I shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under me. “Hey, bud, why don’t you sit back? You’ll miss the replay.”

“Oh,” Henry said, scooting closer, his socked feet brushing my thigh.