For an answer.
For him.
Kate looks at her phone for a beat longer, her thumb hovering like she might try again, like she could will a response into existence if she just waits long enough. When nothing comes, she exhales softly and turns back to me.
“It couldn’t have been easy moving here with two boys and doing it all on your own,” she says, her voice gentler now, thoughtful. “But look at you, Maria. You’re in college.” She gives a small shake of her head, her lips pressing together like she’s genuinely impressed. “What you’re doing is hard. Raising a family, taking classes, working full-time…” She trails off, her brow creasing slightly. “I don’t know much about raising kids.” Then, quieter, almost like the words slip out before she can stop them, “Not like Tuck.”
Something in me stills.
“Not like Tuck?” I ask, my voice careful, but my heart kicks a little faster, a sudden, sharp rhythm against my ribs. “What do you mean by that?”
For a split second, her expression cracks. It’s quick—so quick I almost miss it—but it’s there. A flash of something raw and unguarded. Regret? Panic? Like she’s said too much.
Then it’s gone.
She smooths it over with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, pulling herself back together piece by piece. “Oh—ah—your boys,” she says, waving a hand lightly, too lightly. “He’s good with them.”
She turns toward the rink like the conversation is over, like nothing just shifted between us. But I don’t look away. I watch her for a second longer, something uneasy curling low in my stomach. The noise of the arena swells around us—skates carving ice, sticks cracking, parents shouting encouragement—but it all feels a little distant now, like I’ve slipped just slightly out of sync with everything.
She’s not telling me something.
And worse…
Tuck isn’t telling me something.
My throat tightens. I reach for my Thermos, unscrewing the lid with fingers that feel just a little unsteady, and take a long drink of water. It’s cool, but it doesn’t settle the thoughts spinning inside my head.
There’s something more in those words…not like Tuck.
Her gaze drifts back to me, and this time she seems more composed, like she’s locked whatever that was safely away again. Her chin lifts slightly, her usual confidence sliding back into place.
“But if you ever need help with your classes,” she says, her tone warm. “I’m just a call away.”
I nod, forcing my expression to stay neutral even as my mind races. “That means a lot. Thank you.”
“What if I need help with something?” Nicklas cuts in, leaning across Kate with a grin, clearly oblivious to the undercurrent threading through the conversation.
She turns to him, rolling her eyes, and fires something back that makes him laugh. Their voices blur together after that, light, easy, flirtatious, but I’m not really listening anymore.
My attention drifts—back to the ice, back to the empty seat beside me, back to Tuck. Always back to Tuck. I consider pulling my phone out again, my fingers itching with the need to do something—text him, call him, ask—but I stop myself.
If he’s pulling away…
If that text was his way of creating distance…
I don’t want that conversation to happen in a few typed words on a screen. I want to see his face. I want to hear it in his voice. I want to know what he’s afraid of, what’s holding him back.
Josh glances up at us from the ice, his helmet slightly askew, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His eyes go straight to the empty space beside me—and linger. Then he scans the bleachers. Hope flickers there for just a second. My chest aches as I watch it fade. His gaze lands on his brother and Ari instead, and even from here I can see the shift—the subtle drop in his shoulders, the quiet disappointment he tries to hide.
He just nods once, like he’s accepting it, and turns back toward the play. I force myself to focus on the game, tracking the movement of the puck, the rush of players up and down the ice—but my attention keeps slipping, snagging on the doors at the top of the stands. Every few seconds, my eyes flick up.
Waiting.
Half-expecting?—
No.
Needing—
