The group chat. Winnie started it last week—her, me, and Tori. We haven’t named it yet, which is a whole ongoing debate.
Winnie:Is anyone else watching this game? Banks just took a hit and barely flinched. I swear these men are made of something other than skin and bone.
Tori:Zayden’s been on the ice for like six straight minutes. Someone tell him he’s allowed to rest.
Me:Archer just made a save with his face. His actual face. Is that normal?
Winnie:Unfortunately yes.
Tori:Welcome to the girlfriend experience. Minus the girlfriend part. You know what I mean.
Me:I’m the nanny, Tori.
Winnie:Sure you are.
Tori:Absolutely. The nanny. Who wears his sweatshirt and watches his games and lives in his house.
Winnie:Very nanny behavior.
Me:I hate both of you.
Winnie:You love us.
Tori:She loves us AND she loves Archer. Two things can be true.
I put the phone face-down on the couch and take a long sip of wine and look at the TV.
The game continues. Archer stops thirty-one shots. The Knights win 3-1, and the broadcast cuts to the postgame, and there he is, hair sweaty and matted from the helmet, answering a reporter’s questions in that low monotone he uses for media. He thanks the team. He talks about defensive structure. The reporter asks about a save in the third, and he shrugs and says “just got a piece of it” like he didn’t fully extend across the crease and block a one-timer with his shoulder.
My phone buzzes.
Archer:We won. 3-1. Good game.
He texts me after games now. Before his agent, before his parents. He texts me.
Me:I watched. You stopped one with your face.
Archer:Cage on the helmet, not my face. Close though.
Me:Very reassuring. The twins are asleep. Luke’s tower survived the night. Jeffrey did not learn the dance.
Archer:Jeffrey lacks commitment.
Me:Don’t we all.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Archer:Thanks for holding everything down, Syd. I mean it.
Me:Always.
I turn off the TV and sit in the dark living room in his sweatshirt and finish my wine.
I put the phone down. I pull the hoodie up to my chin and breathe in, and it smells like him —detergent and deodorant and something underneath that’s just Archer, that I’ve known since I was fourteen and have never been able to describe—and I sit in his house watching the post-game highlights on his TV, and I think about what Tori said.
Two things can be true.
I love them. And I love him.
