“It’s okay,” Tyson pipes up unexpectedly from where he’s been quietly observing. “Mom’s really good. Like, professional good.”
The simple pride in his voice seems to shift something in Golda. She looks at her son, then at Blythe’s hopeful face, then finally at me.
“One song,” she says finally. “Nothing fancy.”
A quiet ripple of anticipation moves through the gathering as she makes her way to the makeshift stage area. Rodriguez offers the microphone with a triumphant grin, then navigates the song selection. “Preferences?”
She hesitates for a moment. “Blythe, favorites?”
“The one about Elvis!” Blythe announces immediately, bouncing on her toes.
Golda’s cheeks flush slightly as she turns to Rodriguez. “Black Velvet,” she clarifies. “Alannah Myles.”
“Oh, hell yes,” Rodriguez grins, punching in the selection. “This I gotta hear.”
The opening guitar riff fills the backyard, and something changes in Golda’s demeanor. Her shoulders straighten, chin lifting slightly, and I realize I’m witnessing a transformation. The careful, contained single mom is gone, replaced by someone who knows exactly what she’s capable of.
Then she begins to sing, and the entire backyard goes silent.
Her voice is smoky and rich, with a depth that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. It’s one thing to know intellectually that she’s a professional voice actor and singer—it’s another to experience it in person, to watch as she owns every note of the sultry melody.
I’ve heard her before, of course—at the charity game, through audiobooks—but this is different. This is Golda fully in her element, letting her guard down in a way I haven’t seen before.
Around me, my teammates’ expressions shift from surprise to awe as the song progresses. Luca has actually stopped eating, which might be a first in team history. Varga looks personally offended, as if her talent is a direct challenge to his hockey skills.
The kids draw closer, like they’re being pulled by invisible strings. Tyson’s face shines with pride while Blythe sways, mouthing the words she’s probably heard her mother sing a thousand times in their kitchen.
As she hits the chorus, something shifts inside me. It’s not a lightning bolt moment or some poetic realization. It’s simpler than that—just a clear thought cutting through everything else: I’m falling for her.
Because this isn’t just attraction anymore. This isn’t just liking her or enjoying her company or thinking she’s beautiful. This is something deeper, something that makes my chest feel tight and my palms sweat and my brain go completely offline.
This is the real deal. And it scares the absolute shit out of me.
The song ends, and for a moment, there’s complete silence. Then Blythe breaks it with an enthusiastic “THAT’S MY MOM!” that triggers a wave of applause and cheers.
Golda’s cheeks flush as she hands the microphone back to a stunned Rodriguez. “Happy now?” she asks, but there’s a lightness to her voice, a confidence that wasn’t there before.
“That was...” he starts, then shakes his head. “We’re not worthy.”
She laughs and makes her way back through a gauntlet of compliments and questions. By the time she reaches me, the flush has deepened, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes I haven’t seen before.
“Showing off?” I tease gently.
“Hardly.” She takes the water I offer. “But it felt good. I haven’t performed like that in a long time.”
“You should do it more often,” I tell her, meaning it. “You’re incredible.”
“I’m rusty,” she demurs, but there’s pride in her voice—well-earned and too long suppressed.
“Mom!” Tyson appears at her side, expression serious. “Roman wants to know if you’ve ever considered singing the national anthem for actual games. He says the current guy is, um, ‘an offense to eardrums everywhere.’”
“Roman’s exaggerating,” I laugh, though he’s not wrong about our regular anthem singer.
“He said you should talk to Kyla about it,” Tyson continues. “She’s the one who books the performers.”
I watch Golda carefully, uncertain how she’ll react to the suggestion. Public performances would mean visibility—something I know she’s been avoiding since the divorce.
“Maybe someday,” she says after a moment, surprising me. “When things are more settled.”
