Much harder.
I’m standing near the glass watching him talk with a younger player when cold slips through my sweater.
I rub my hands together. Not dramatically. Barely at all.
Two minutes later, Colby's team jacket settles over my shoulders.
I look up.
He doesn't pause. Doesn't make an announcement. Doesn't ask if I'm cold. He just drapes it around me and keeps listening to the player in front of him.
As if taking care of me is automatic.
As if he has stopped thinking about whether he should.
The jacket smells faintly like cedar, soap, and cold air.
I should take it off.
I do not take it off.
Jamie appears beside me a few minutes later, hands in his pockets, gaze on the ice.
"You know," he says quietly, "we haven't seen him this happy in a long time."
I turn toward him.
He keeps watching Colby.
"I'm not sure what to say to that."
"You don't have to say anything."
Across the ice, Colby crouches beside Jillie, adjusting the strap on the oversized helmet again while she gestures wildly with both hands, probably explaining a rule she invented three seconds ago.
He listens like it matters.
Like she matters.
Jamie glances at me.
"He's good at looking fine when he isn't."
The words land softly.
He does not say them dramatically.
That makes them harder to ignore.
"I know that look," Jamie continues. "I've seen it after bad games. Bad headlines. Bad stretches where he acts like if he keeps moving fast enough, nobody will notice how tired he is."
My throat tightens.
I think of Colby in my bakery kitchen, carrying boxes like he has nowhere else to be.
Colby in Peterson's Market, standing beside me and Jillie like ordinary things matter.
Colby at the charity skate, reaching for my daughter before anyone else even moved.
