But what follows is not a fist bumpora paper, scissors, rock battle. It’s a full-blown secret handshake that somehow now involves two fist bumps, a finger snap, a shoulder shimmy, a high-five, and finally, a dramatic finish where they both pretend to throw confetti into the air.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s perfect.
"Oh my God," I laugh. "That handshake is getting out of control."
I watch them, my heart doing that soft, aching squeeze it does whenever I see them together. It's only been three months since Colt terminated his lease, packed two suitcases of clothes and moved into the apartment above Butter Batch.
Three months since I told Big Mike and his investors that yes, I’d take the franchise deal, but headquarters stays in Chilmore.
But in those three months since, my life has finally stopped being a series of tasks to survive and started being…this.
Colt is back on the ice full-time. The concussion is a memory, the bruise long faded. He plays like he was never gone, maybe better, because there’s a new lightness to him.
A joy that wasn’t there before.
That lightness isn’t just from being back on the ice, though. It’s from the choice he made. The one he called his parents about the night he turned down New York.
They’d argued, of course.
His mom had cried about ‘legacy’ and ‘missed opportunities.’ But Colt held his ground. He told them, for the first time in his life, that his happiness wasn’t negotiable.
And when the silence on the other end of the line finally broke, his dad had simply said, “Well. If that’s what you want, son.” It wasn’t a parade, but it was a start.
Now, three months later, they text him after every game. Just a simple‘Great goal’, but it’s more than he ever got before.
Even when he’s on the road, he doesn’t disappear. My phone buzzes constantly, with pictures of his hotel room, or a video of Samuel trying to order room service in French and failing spectacularly.
Last week he sent a selfie of him and Gabe on the team plane, with Gabe scowling while Colt holds up two fingers behind his head.
He calls every night. Without fail. First to talk to Morgan, to ask about her day, her math test, whether she’s practicing her card tricks.
Then, after she’s in bed, he calls me. His voice is a low, intimate rumble through the phone, telling me about the game, the city, how much he misses my bed.
Sometimes, he convinces Big Mike to let Morgan come along on a trip.
She’s been to Boston and Vancouver now, sitting in the family box with the other players’ families, wearing her tiny Snow Leopards jersey with BUDDY on the back.
She comes home buzzing with stories and a backpack full of mini shampoos from the hotel.
I go sometimes, too. But mostly… I stay here.
I don’t mind the quiet. Because when Colt’s away, I get my Tuesday nights with Debbie at Shear Trouble. We drink the secret champagne, and she updates me on every piece of town gossip.
“Okay, chaos crew,” I say, pulling milk and eggs from the grocery bags. “It’s a school night. Morgs, bedtime.”
“But Mom—” Morgan whines, still buzzing from the handshake.
“No buts. You have that field trip tomorrow, remember? To the wildlife sanctuary. You need your brain to be awake for the otters.”
Morgan groans, but she’s already skipping toward me, her socks sliding on the hardwood. She wraps her arms around my waist, burying her face in my sweater. “Did you get more of the rainbow sprinkles?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re the best.” She tilts her head up, her hazel eyes always shining. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you more, baby.”
