Page 82 of Hockey Nanny

“Why?”

“I knew having him here would just piss you off. Thought I’d save us both the trouble.”

I let out a low laugh, the first real sound I’d made since leaving the ice. “Good call.”

We both laughed quietly, and I could feel the tension drain just a little.

Gage smiled at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “See? Sometimes talking helps.”

I wanted to punch something. Wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. But all I did was release a slow exhale. He’d just taken the corner off my armor without even touching me. It sucked how well that worked.

Eventually, he stood, sparing me a slap on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, man. Just don’t wait too long.”

I watched him walk out, heard the locker door click behind him. Silence came back, heavier this time. Immense. Crushing.

And I was left alone.

The emptiness pressed into me. The stink of sweat and ice and equipment and despair. My heart pounded in my chest as if it wanted to explode, and my head spun with every possibility I hadn’t considered. Carissa. Boone. Gage. The playoffs. My mistakes. Everything.

I could still feel Gage’s shoulder where it had brushed mine, steady, unshakable, a reminder that someone out there was willing to see the mess I was in. And I hated myself for needing it. Hated myself for feeling it. Hated myself for realizing howmuch I’d let the distance between me and Carissa fester while hiding behind a routine I’d built like armor.

I thought of Boone waiting outside, pacing, probably frustrated, probably ready to charge in and fix it in his own reckless way. I thought of Gage, trying to help without being overbearing, trying to give me a path out of the spiral I’d chosen. And I thought of Carissa, probably at home, probably wondering if I’d ever figure it out, if I’d ever let her see the side of me that wasn’t just a captain or a teammate or a perfectionist.

I didn’t know how to fix any of it. Didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know if talking would help or ruin everything further. Didn’t even know if I deserved to be fixed.

The locker room felt colder than it had five minutes ago. The benches pressed into my legs. My skates dug into the tile. The smell of sweat lingered, sharp, metallic. And I was trapped in the middle of it, trapped in my own mind, trapped in the consequences of every choice I’d made and every word I hadn’t said.

I wanted to go back to the ice. Wanted to push myself until my body forgot my heart and my brain stopped spinning. But even that didn’t feel like enough anymore. Even that wouldn’t erase the way I’d let things slip between Carissa and me. Even that wouldn’t stop the fear that everything I’d worked for this season could unravel because I couldn’t be honest.

I sat there, fists pressed against my knees, and let the quiet swallow me. The echo of the rink, the laughter with Gage, the absence of Boone; all of it pressed together. And I realized that if I didn’t get my head straight before the final game, everything—the cup, the wins, the people I cared about—would slip right through my fingers.

And I had no idea where to start.

27

~

Carissa

I pushed off from the railing, stomach twisting as I realized Henry wasn’t anywhere near his seat. Panic flared, sharp and immediate. One second he’d been bouncing in place, hands clinging to the rail, eyes wide with excitement, and the next… gone. The Game Seven crowd surged around me, a river of bodies in jerseys and hats, and I had to fight to shove my way forward without getting trampled.

“Henry!” I yelled, voice lost in the roar, the puck slapping against the boards somewhere below.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, and I caught the tail end of it: goal review, a near miss. But I barely registered the words. My eyes darted in every direction. The jumbotron above flickered an image of Dawson skating hard, stick snapping, the tension written across his face.

Shit. And here I was, having lost his kid.

I bolted down an aisle, hopping over spilled popcorn and dodging soda cups as someone tried to pass me with a tray in hand. The scent of pretzels and butter mixed with the cold bite of the arena air, but it didn’t quite register. My chest heaved, lungs screaming. I spun into the concession area, glancing behind counters and between patrons, hoping to see that familiar green hoodie, that small frame, anywhere. Anywhere.

A cluster of people erupted in cheers at a screen nearby. I didn’t stop to look. I passed the mini screens mounted above the snack bars: a slapshot, a blocked attempt, a scramble in front of the net. Dawson’s face appeared for a fraction of a second but it was peripheral. Only to taunt me some more.

I didn’t have the luxury to watch. I had to find Henry.

I twisted through the hallways leading toward the bathrooms, peering around corners, scanning every stall, every nook where a small child could hide or be hidden by accident. A janitor wheeled a cart past me, muttering something about spilled beer. I muttered an apology as I raced past him, fingers gripping the railing on the short staircase I had to navigate. My legs burned, but the thought of Henry alone, scared, maybe panicking, made the effort irrelevant.

Somewhere in the distance, someone scored. The arena erupted in noise, a wall of sound that pushed against me. I ducked into a narrower corridor, pressing myself against the wall to let a family pass. A screen overhead caught my eye: Dawson zigzagging through the defensive line, the puck clattering against the boards. His body moved like clockwork, but the edge in his eyes mirrored the edge in my own panic. I shook my head, forcing myself to keep moving.

I ran through another concession area, weaving between people buying hot dogs and soda, almost knocking over a tray.