Maya's hand lands on Dante's arm. She just holds.
Gio reaches us next, his gown already off and draped over one arm. Genny is a step behind him, champagne in hand. His eyes are bright.
"You good, Cole?"
I open my mouth, and the old answer snaps into place before I can stop it.I'm great. I'm good. Beautiful day. Can you believe we made it?The words line up behind my teeth, smooth and ready.
I close my mouth.
For once, I make myself stand there with the question still inside me. The sun burns across my face. Maya is beside me. Dante is beside her. Across the lawn, Serena is coming toward us with her hand locked around Salvatore's arm, and I keep my mouth shut until the lie passes.
"I don't know," I say.
Gio looks at me. His head tilts.
"I'm happy. And I'm scared. And I'm sad. And I can't figure out which one is the biggest."
"All of them," Gio says. "All of them are the biggest. That's the thing."
He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes once, heavy and warm. I stay quiet under it.
Serena reaches Dante and puts her hand on his face. She says something in Italian that makes his jaw tighten and hiseyes close. Salvatore stands behind her, hands in his pockets, watching his son be held by his wife.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen, and the sun-hot lawn narrows to the name glowing there.
The Blackhawks front office.
A third text this week. Pre-draft combine details. Interview scheduling. Hotel blocks, interview rooms, report times, September at the end of every line. My father took the Georgetown news the way he takes everything, with one nod and a long pause before he said, "The mind for this works on ice too, Cole."
Today, the scarf he's wearing says the rest.
Dante got the same text. The same team has them both circled. Chicago. The two of us projected six picks apart, the Voss-Maddox line continuing onto NHL ice. Maya's Tribune job is twelve miles from the United Center. We mapped it last week on the couch while Dante calculated commute times and Maya said, “If either of you suggests I come to every home game, I will write an exposé about your defensive lapses.”
She'll come to every home game. We all know it.
Adrian crosses the lawn with Clara on his back. She's laughing, her arms locked around his neck, her heels hooked at his hips. Declan is already with us, standing near the edge of the group, and Adrian deposits her on the grass beside him.
"I just carried a woman across a graduation lawn," Adrian says. "In dress shoes."
"Your back is going to hate you tomorrow," Declan says.
"My back already hates me. Four years of hockey. The back and I are not on speaking terms."
Clara straightens her dress. "For the record, I didn't ask to be carried."
"You pointed at your shoes and said these weren't made for grass."
"That's a statement of fact, not a request for transport."
"The implication was clear."
"My implication was that the university should invest in paved pathways. You drew your own conclusions."
Talia appears beside Declan, carrying two glasses of champagne. She gives him one without asking, and he takes it without looking. The handoff is practiced and automatic, the glass passing into his grip before his eyes leave the group.
"My dad wants a photo of the team," Talia says. "All of you. By the fountain."
"Addison wants a photo?" Gio says. "Addison doesn't take photos. Addison actively avoids cameras."
