“Thanks, Dad.”
“The team looked solid. That second goal, the setup was clean. Good puck movement through the neutral zone.”
“Cole's been working on the breakout pattern all week. It's starting to click.”
“I could see that. Your positioning was strong too. Much better than the Philadelphia game.”
“I made some adjustments.”
“It showed.”
They talk about hockey for a few minutes, and it's just a father and his son discussing a game. No notebook. No critique list. No five-year plan. Just George Shaw telling Logan he played well and meaning it.
By the time the main courses arrive, the table is loud and warm. Cat is still careful around Mom, and my mother is still watchful.
George is still George —economical with his emotions. But the ice has cracked. The walls have lowered.
After dessert, we stand outside the restaurant on the sidewalk. The November sun is low and warm. Cat approaches me while Logan is talking to George.
“I meant what I said inside. I'm sorry for what I said to you when you were young. I was wrong.” She adjusts her scarf. “You make my son happy. I can see that. I'm going to try to make peace with it.”
“That's all I'm asking.”
She nods once and turns to George. They say their goodbyes and walk to their car.
Mom is standing beside me. She watches Cat walk away. “She's trying. It's a start.” She puts her arm through mine. “You did good today, baby. Both of you.”
Logan comes over. He shakes Mom's hand. She holds it for a moment and looks him in the eye. “You take care of my daughter.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And come see me at the boutique. I wasn't kidding about having things to say to you.”
He nods. “I’ll be there.”
Mom hugs me one last time. She gets in her car and drives away. Dom and Sarah leave next, then Nolan, who hugs me and tells me I'm the best thing that's happened to his brother and to call him if Logan ever messes up.
Then it's just us. Logan and I on the sidewalk outside Romano's in the November sun.
“We did it,” I say.
“We did it.”
He takes my hand, and we walk to the car. He opens my door, I get in, and he walks around and slides into the driver's seat.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Home.”
He starts the car. We pull away from Romano's. The Long Island streets are quiet and golden in the afternoon light. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, and his hand finds my knee.
“Logan.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for not giving up on us.”
“Never.”
