“Fine,” she says, but her hand moves protectively to Tyson’s shoulder. “Just... being careful.”
I understand. Evan’s threats are still fresh, and being here—at a team function that could potentially be photographed—is a risk she’s choosing to take.
“How about a quick tour before the full social gauntlet?” I offer, reading both their hesitation. “Brody’s got a pretty awesome hockey memorabilia room that’s much quieter than the backyard.”
Relief flashes across Tyson’s face, quickly hidden. “That would be cool.”
“BORING,” Blythe announces. “I need to meet EVERYONE IMMEDIATELY.”
“I can take her to the backyard,” Golda offers, but I can see she’s nervous too, despite her attempted casualness.
“I’ve got a better idea.” I pull out my phone and text quickly. Within moments, the front door opens and Elliot appears.
“There you are!” she exclaims, as if we’re hours late instead of minutes. “Blythe, Rodriguez just taught Roman this ridiculous dance and he’s terrible at it. We need someone with actual coordination to show these hockey players how it’s done.”
Blythe’s eyes go wide. “I am an EXCELLENT dancer. I know FIFTY different moves.”
“Perfect. We only need ten.” Elliot winks at me over Blythe’s head as she takes her hand. “Coming, Golda?”
“In a minute,” she says, understanding my intention to give Tyson some space. “Save me a seat?”
“Always.” Elliot leads a chattering Blythe toward the backyard, leaving the three of us in relative quiet.
“Thanks,” Tyson says softly once they’re gone.
“No problem.” I keep my tone casual. “Sometimes you need to scope out the territory before diving in. Varga’s exactly the same way with new places.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”
“Absolutely. First road game in every new arena, he has to walk the entire perimeter before he’s comfortable. Says it helps him visualize the space.”
It’s not entirely true—Varga’s pre-game ritual is actually much weirder and involves specific sock-taping procedures—but the white lie serves its purpose. Tyson’s shoulders relax slightly as he recognizes his caution isn’t weakness but strategy.
I lead them into the house, pointing out features that might interest a hockey-obsessed ten-year-old. “Brody’s got signed jerseys from basically every team. He trades them after games—it’s kind of a tradition.”
“Even rival teams?” Tyson asks, clearly scandalized by the thought.
“Even them. Hockey’s weird that way—you can try to kill each other for sixty minutes on the ice, then grab a beer after.”
His brow furrows as he processes this complexity. “Like how you and Roman checked each other into the boards during practice but then he came to dinner with you guys?”
Smart kid. “Exactly like that.”
The memorabilia room lives up to its billing. Displays of vintage gear, photos from historic games, and a particularly impressive collection of pucks from significant moments. Tyson moves through the space, quietly reverent, occasionally asking questions that reveal his growing knowledge of hockey history.
I catch Golda watching him, something soft in her expression that eases some of the guardedness from earlier. “He’s been reading hockey books from the library,” she says quietly. “Every night before bed.”
“He’s got a good eye,” I reply. “Notices details most kids his age wouldn’t.”
“He notices everything,” she says, a shadow crossing her face. “It’s a survival skill. Reading the room, gauging moods...”
I understand what she’s not saying. Tyson’s awareness isn’t just natural curiosity—it’s a defense mechanism developed in a home where tension could flare without warning.
“Hey, Tyson,” I call, deliberately shifting the mood. “Check this out.” I point to a framed photo of a much younger Brody, hair longer and wilder, celebrating what I know was his first NHL goal. “Think you can guess what year this was based on the jersey design?”
The challenge engages him immediately, and soon we’re deep in a discussion of uniform evolution and logo redesigns. By the time we’ve made a full circuit of the room, his earlier hesitation has faded, replaced by genuine enthusiasm.
“Ready to brave the backyard?” I ask when we’ve exhausted the memorabilia.
