Page 77 of Hockey Nanny

The first period ticked by in uneven bursts. Colorado scored first on a messy rebound that left the Knights’ goalie sprawled and frustrated. The crowd noise surged, red jerseys leaping against the glass.

Henry groaned dramatically. “That wasn’t fair.”

“No,” I said, swallowing. “It wasn’t.”

The camera cut to Dawson on the bench. He pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through his hair, then stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused. The shot lingered a beat longer than necessary, like even the broadcast sensed something off.

My chest ached.

I wondered what he was thinking. If his mind was still back in his bedroom, the door closing between us. If he was replaying Henry’s face, crumpled and hurt. If he was blaming himself, or me, or both.

“Carissa?” Henry nudged me with his elbow. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“The quiet thing,” he said. “You do it when you’re worried.”

I squeezed him closer. “I’m okay.”

The lie tasted thin.

The Knights answered back with a goal late in the period, Boone crashing the net and shoving the puck through traffic. Henry jumped to his feet, arms in the air, yelling Boone’s name like he could hear him through the screen.

I laughed despite myself, the sound shaky but real. “Easy, tiger. You’re going to knock the lamp over.”

“Worth it,” he declared, collapsing back onto the couch.

At intermission, Henry demanded popcorn. I let him drag me into the kitchen, grateful for the movement, the excuse to look away from the screen. The microwave hummed, the smell of butter filling the space, grounding me in something ordinary.

When we came back, Dawson was already skating laps for the second period. The camera caught him mid-stride, and this time there was no mistaking it. His shoulders were tense. His movements were rigid, like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

Colorado capitalized on it.

A turnover at the blue line led to a breakaway. Dawson chased after it, stick extended, but the Avalanche forward slipped past him and buried the puck top shelf. The crowd exploded.

Henry went still.

I felt it in my gut, a sinking certainty that settled deep and refused to budge.

The commentators started circling the moment immediately, replaying the turnover from three angles. “Uncharacteristic mistake there,” one of them said. “You don’t usually see him caught flat-footed like that.”

The camera cut back to Dawson, hands on his knees, head bowed. When he looked up, his face filled the screen, eyes dark and distant, mouth set in a hard line that did nothing to hide the strain there.

He looked lost.

My throat tightened.

I imagined myself in the stands. Imagined Henry beside me, waving his sign, yelling Dawson’s name. Imagined catching his eye, giving him something solid to lock onto.

Then I imagined the look he’d given me in his bedroom, guarded and weary, and the uncertainty crept back in.

Would he even want me there?

Henry shifted beside me. “He looks sad.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Is it because you guys were fighting?” The question was small. Careful.