“Good. I miss you guys.”
“Miss you too, Daddy,” Lily says, and then she’s done with the phone and runs back to Jeffrey and her dance routine.
Luke hands me the phone. “Tell Daddy about the tower.”
“I think we already told him about the tower, buddy.”
“Tell him again. With more detail.”
I take the phone, and Luke wanders off, and it’s just me and Archer’s face on the screen, and neither of us says anything for a second. He’s leaning against the headboard, one arm behind his head, and I’m standing in the kitchen wearing his sweatshirt—the one that I grabbed this morning because the house was cold, and it was right there, and it smells like him, and I’m not going to examine that decision right now.
“You wearing my hoodie?” he asks.
“Sorry, I was cold.”
“I don’t mind.” His mouth does something—not a smile, not a smirk, just a slight movement at the corner. “Looks good on you.”
“Everything looks good on me,” I tease.
“True.” He says it fast, throwaway, and then clears his throat. “So how’s everything? Anything I should know?”
“Luke’s tower was structurally sound. The giraffe is living his best life. I went grocery shopping, and your fridge now has actual vegetables in it. Oh, and the plumber called about the bathroom thing. I told him next week.”
“The bathroom thing.”
“The drip. In the master bath. You mentioned it last week.”
“I mentioned it once, and you called the plumber.” His eyebrows drift up.
“It was dripping, Archer. Someone had to call.”
He’s quiet for a second, looking at me through the screen with that expression he gets sometimes—the one where his eyes go soft and his jaw relaxes, and he looks like he wants to say something, but the words are stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
“Thanks, Syd.”
“Stop thanking me. Go eat dinner. You have a game tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.”
“Goodnight, Syd.”
“Night, Arch.”
I hang up and stand in his kitchen, pressing the phone against my chest for a second before I put it down.
Bedtime is smooth. Lily requests a story about a princess who is also a shark, which is not a book that exists, so I improvise. Luke wants a chapter of his octopus encyclopedia. I read both, tuck them in, and leave the hallway light on the way Archer does.
Then I pour myself a glass of wine and turn on the game.
It’s strange watching him on TV. I’ve done it before over the years, I’ve caught his games here and there, usually at a bar back in Minnesota or on Lauren’s couch during playoffs. But watching him from his own living room, on his own couch, with his kids sleeping upstairs and his sweatshirt and scent around me, is a different experience entirely.
He’s good. He moves in the crease with a controlled intensity that doesn’t match the man who stands at the kitchen counter and forgets where he put his coffee mug. Every save is a full-body reaction, coiled and explosive, and I catch myself leaning forward on the couch every time the puck comes near him.
The camera cuts to a close-up between plays, and he’s standing in the crease, tapping his posts, mask up, scanning the ice. His jaw is set, and his eyes are locked in, and he looks like a completely different person than the one who FaceTimed his kids two hours ago and made a joke about a giraffe named Jeffrey.
My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. Then three more times in rapid succession.
