“Thanks.” She takes the bags and puts them in the trunk. “Just so you know, Lily has decided she wants French braids every day now. That’s your fault.”
“Guilty.”
“She told me mine aren’t as good as yours.” Bree shakes her head, but a faint smile lingers. “So thanks for that.” She pauses, looking past me into the house where Lauren is sitting on the couch with a glass of wine, waving. She turns back to me. “Lauren’s visiting?” she asks.
“For the weekend. Celebrating the end of the season.”
Bree nods. She knows the Knights lost in the first round of playoffs—five games against Boston. Archer played well, but the defense fell apart in game four, and they couldn’t recover. He took it hard, as he always does. After they were eliminated, he sat on the patio for two hours while I kept him company in silence because sometimes that’s what he needs—just someone beside him, not talking, not fixing, just being there.
“How’s he handling it?” Bree asks, her concern genuine. Despite everything between us, she still cares about the father of her kids.
“He’s okay. Disappointed. But the offseason will be good for him.”
“Good.” She turns to leave but stops. “Sydney.”
“Yeah?”
She stands on the porch, looking at me. “The kids are happy,” she says. “I notice it every time I pick them up. Lily is, uh— calmer. And Luke talks more. He told me last week that you’re teaching him to dance, which, knowing Luke, means he’s doing his own version, and you’re letting him. I just—” She swallows. “They’re happy. And I know that’s partly because of you.”
My throat tightens. “Bree—”
“I’m not great at this. The sharing thing. The co-parenting with the new girlfriend thing. It’s, uh—a work in progress.” She pulls her keys from her bag. “But I’m glad they have you. You’re good for all of them.” She gives me a small, slightly sad smile.
“Thanks,” I say, returning the smile.
She walks down the steps, gets in her car, and drives away while I stand in the doorway, watching her taillights fade down the street.
Lauren appears behind me with her wine glass. “How’d that go? Was it awkward?”
“No,” I say, realizing it’s true. “Not at all, actually. She said the kids are happy.”
Lauren wraps her arm around my shoulder. “They are, Syd. Everyone can see it.”
That evening, Archer fires up the grill and the backyard fills up.
Banks and Winnie arrive with wine and a cheese board. Ollie arrives alone with a six-pack of craft beer.
The backyard is warm with early spring air and the string lights I hung last week because the patio needed something and Archer said “whatever you want, it’s your house too.”
Lauren steps outside with a fresh glass of wine and surveys the scene—Archer and Ollie at the grill, Banks in a chair with Winnie on the armrest.
“So this is the hockey world,” she says, settling into the chair next to me.
“This is the hockey world.”
“It’s very attractive. As a collective. You failed to mention that.”
Ollie materializes next to us like he was summoned by the wordattractive. He has a beer in one hand and flashes his most charming grin, his eyes locked on Lauren.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says. “I’m Ollie. Oliver St. Brown. I play with Woody.”
“Woody?” Lauren glances at me before turning back to him. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Archer,” I tell her.
“They call him Woody?”
Ollie’s grin widens. “It’s a hockey thing. Everybody gets nicknames—mostly last names. Archer’s last name is Lockwood, so he’s Woody. Or Lockdown if he’s having a good night between the pipes, which is most nights, the smug bastard.”
