Page 83 of Hockey Nanny

“Sorry, sorry!” I gasped, not really processing the murmured exclamations.

My stomach pulled tighter with every second I couldn’t find him. I had been so distracted by the tension between Dawson and me all day, thinking about his distance, thinking about whether he even wanted me here at all… and now it had come crashing down.

A loud cheer erupted behind me, another goal attempt, maybe a save. The screens in this section caught a flash of Boone skating past the net, laughing at something Gage muttered. It would have been cute, had I had the headspace. I didn’t. My head was a single thread: find Henry.

I sprinted down a concourse toward the upper seating sections, scanning every row, every opening. My hands clutched at railings, at the backs of chairs, at anything I could use to steady myself as the crowd pressed in and out. The loudspeaker relayed a line of play, but the words dissolved into static in my brain.

Another hallway came up near the suite entrances. The air was warmer here, tinged with cleaning chemicals, popcorn grease, and the faint smell of cold metal from the arena structure. I paused for just a heartbeat, trying to catch my breath, scanning faces as they passed in both directions. And then I saw Dawson’s shoulder moving past the doorway to a service corridor.

End of the first. Oh, thank God.

Relief and panic collided in my chest. I had to catch up.

“Dawson!” I called, voice shaking. He stopped mid-step, turning toward me, eyes narrowing in concern but also recognition. “It’s Henry. He’s gone. I can’t find him.”

He took off at a jog, and I followed, weaving past staff, security, and a pair of maintenance doors. Boone and Gage fell in step behind him, silent but alert, matching our pace.

My hands shook, and as if he sensed it, Dawson grabbed one without breaking his stride, and gave it a squeeze. “We’ll find him. He has to be here somewhere.”

We reached another stairwell leading back toward the lower bowl. I clutched the railing, chest heaving. My whole world was reduced to searching, moving, scanning, fighting the crowd, hoping that Henry was safe, that I hadn’t failed him entirely.

Dawson was a steady presence, controlled, but I could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled around the railing. He understood the stakes without me having to spell them out. Boone and Gage fanned out, eyes moving over every aisle, every seat, ready to intercept anyone who might be blocking our search.

We moved in tandem, our trio slicing through the maze of concourses, hallways, and stairwells. They only had a few more minutes before they had to be back on the ice.

I pushed on, heart hammering, voice hoarse from calling his name. Dawson’s hand brushed mine again, just enough to anchor me, and I realized, painfully, that this was the first time in days I had felt the smallest fraction of connection to him.

I spotted him finally, wedged between two tall fans near the railing, squinting down at the ice as if the whole arena existed only there. Relief slammed into me, hot and heavy, and I bolted forward, weaving through the crowd, ignoring the blur of jerseys and yelling fans.

“Henry!” I shouted, skidding to a stop just as he turned. His face lit up the second he recognized me, and I didn’t wait. I scooped him into my arms. He wriggled a little at first, laughing nervously, but I held him tight, burying my face in the back of his hoodie. “Don’t ever do that again,” I hissed, my heart still racing.

“You said I could see better from up here,” he squeaked, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the fear. “I didn’t mean to get lost.”

“You’re lucky I found you,” I said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “And you’re never wandering off again. Okay?”

He nodded solemnly, gripping me like I was his lifeline, and I couldn’t help but laugh, though it was tight and breathless. Boone and Gage appeared almost instantly. Gage carried Henrylike he weighed nothing, arms firm around him, while Boone stepped slightly ahead, his body angled to shield us from the press and anyone else trying to snap photos. The chaos of the arena seemed to fold around us in that moment.

Dawson came up beside me, eyes scanning Henry first, then me. Relief softened the tension in his face for a fraction of a second before it was replaced by the sharp edge of concern. He didn’t say a word, but I could feel the weight of everything he carried in the way his shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched. I reached out, brushing my fingers lightly along his forearm. Our eyes met, and for just a beat, there was understanding without words.

Then the arena announcer’s voice cut through the speakers. Time to get back on the ice. The Knights had little room for error, and every second counted. Boone’s grin was quick and mischievous, but the urgency in his eyes matched mine. Gage, still holding Henry, moved with surprising calm, scanning the surrounding crowd for obstacles. We didn’t waste another second. The boys hustled down the concourse, Dawson following us like a shadow, and Henry nestled securely in Gage’s arms, pointing at the ice every few steps.

Gage handed the boy to me, then leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. “No more running off, little guy. Stay with Carissa. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, sounding glum—or guilty.

Gage winked at me, then hurried to the ice.

We made it just in time to catch the first faceoff of the next period. The crowd erupted around us, and I could feel the tension ripple through Henry as he pressed close, eyes wide, clutching my arm. The jumbotron flashed, showing the puck being dropped, players colliding, Dawson hustling past the blueline. My stomach tightened. He looked tired and too tense but he was moving with precision, command, authority.

He was doing everything he could. I had to believe that would be enough.

The period started better. Dawson passed the puck with clarity, his vision sharp, his body moving with that controlled aggression that always reminded me he was in charge. Boone was skating wide, keeping the other team on their toes, and Gage floated between offense and defense like a silent anchor. I watched Henry mimic every move he could see, arms pumping, yelling encouragement, even jumping in his seat when Boone cut past a defender. His laughter and shouts gave me a thread of normalcy amid my gnawing worry.

But the Knights were still behind. Every goal we didn’t score tightened the pit in my stomach. I could feel it for Dawson too. I caught glimpses of him on the jumbotron, shoulders tight, eyes darting for opportunities, jaw set. He didn’t glance toward the stands once, not even when Boone nudged past him, shouting some quick, reckless encouragement. Dawson’s focus was total, and I could almost see the weight of guilt pressing on him, the memory of Henry disappearing flashing through his mind with every split-second decision.

By the middle of the period, sweat had plastered Dawson’s hair to his forehead, but his movements never wavered. I could see the frustration flicker in his eyes when a pass didn’t land, when the puck bounced away, and it made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t quite place. I wanted to shout, to make him look at me, to let him know that Henry was safe and I still believed in him. But I stayed quiet, letting the boys’ confidence and controlled chaos play out below.

When the whistle blew for another stoppage, Henry nearly bounced out of my arms, pointing toward the locker roomentrance. “That’s where Dawson’s gonna score, I know it!” he cried. I laughed, setting him down carefully, and I caught Dawson’s eyes just long enough to nod encouragement. He flinched slightly at the gesture, then nodded back, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.