“No one here is taking notes for a custody report,” I say quietly.
Her smile turns grateful. “Thank you. For understanding that this isn’t just about me being nervous. There are real stakes.”
“I get it. And for what it’s worth, everyone here thinks you’re amazing.”
“They don’t even know me.”
“They know enough. They know you raised two incredible kids. They know you’re brave enough to leave a bad situation and build something better. That’s more than enough.”
The afternoon progresses, and I find myself constantly aware of where Golda is, who she’s talking to, whether she’s enjoying herself. I try not to hover, but my eyes keep finding her across the yard.
“Dude,” Rodriguez mutters as he passes me a fresh beer. “Could you be any more obvious? You haven’t taken your eyes off her for more than a minute.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
“Just saying. After the week you’ve had, it’s good to see you not looking like someone stole your puppy.”
“My week wasn’t that bad.”
“Your week was tragic. Even Varga felt sorry for you, and he once played an entire period with a separated shoulder without complaining.”
Before I can defend myself, the karaoke starts.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Rodriguez announces, having connected his portable machine to Brody’s outdoor speakers. “It’s that time! Who’s brave enough to go first?”
The usual good-natured heckling ensues, with veterans nominating rookies and rookies attempting to deflect to coaching staff. I keep one eye on Golda, who’s watching the proceedings with a mixture of amusement and what might be professional assessment as Brody massacres “Sweet Caroline.”
“Not exactly Carnegie Hall,” I murmur, sliding into the seat next to her.
“I’ve heard worse,” she says diplomatically. “Though not by much.”
“Just wait. Roman’s up next, and he only knows Norwegian death metal.”
“That’s not true,” Roman protests, having overheard. “I also know Finnish death metal.”
His performance—a guttural rendition of something that might originally have been “Enter Sandman”—has Blythe utterly enthralled. “HE SOUNDS LIKE A DINOSAUR HAVING FEELINGS,” she declares, which Roman takes as the highest compliment.
The karaoke rotation continues, each performance more questionable than the last. Through it all, I’m acutely aware of Golda beside me, her occasional comments revealing both her musical knowledge and her remarkably diplomatic ability to find something positive about even the most tragic performances.
“You’re up, Malone!” Rodriguez calls eventually, waving the microphone in my direction.
“Not a chance.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m strictly an audience member.”
“Scared?” Varga taunts.
“Smart,” I correct. “I know my limitations.”
“What about you, Golda?” Rodriguez asks, and I feel her tense beside me. “Show these hockey boys how it’s done?”
“Oh, I don’t?—”
“MOMMY HAS THE BEST VOICE EVER!” Blythe announces with daughter-pride that would be touching if it weren’t so loud. “SHE SINGS ME TO SLEEP AND IT’S LIKE ANGELS AND BUTTERFLIES HAD A MUSIC BABY.”
Golda closes her eyes briefly, a flush creeping up her neck as attention shifts her way. “Thanks, Blythe, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Come on,” Rodriguez wheedles. “One song? For team morale?”
“She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to,” I say firmly, recognizing her discomfort.
