Page 49 of Slapshot Baby

"Helping."

"I didn't ask for help."

"You opened four wrong drawers. You need a system." I pull a shallow ceramic bowl from the closet shelf and set it on the entry table. "Keys go here. Every time. You walk in, keys go in the bowl. No thinking required."

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You're reorganizing my apartment."

"I'm giving your brain fewer problems to solve." I move into the living room. "Where are your photos?"

"What photos?"

"Family photos. Anything from the last four years. Team pictures, holidays, birthdays."

He shrugs. "Mira might have some. There's a box somewhere."

"Find it."

He disappears into the guest room and comes back with a cardboard box. I open it on the coffee table. Framed photos, loose prints, a couple of team portraits.

I pick up the first one. Kai is at what looks like a championship celebration, hoisting a trophy, his face split open with the kind of joy that makes my throat ache. Confetti in his hair. Teammates piled around him.

He looks at it blankly. Like it's a photo of a stranger wearing his face.

"That goes on the mantle," I say softly.

I line them up. The championship. A family dinner where Laura is laughing and Charles has his arm around Kai's shoulder. Mira and Kai on what looks like a hiking trail. A team photo where everyone is in suits, Kai in the center with the captain's C on his chest.

Each one is a window into the years he can't reach. I arrange them chronologically, left to right, a visual timeline of the life his brain dropped.

"The idea is anchoring," I tell him. "You see these every day. Even if the memories don't come back, the context does. You start building a framework around the gap."

He stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his arm. His eyes move across the photos slowly.

"I look happy," he says.

"I’m sure you were."

"How do you know?"

I pick up the championship photo. His face in it is unguarded in a way I've only seen once before. The morning after, when he woke up holding me and didn't let go.

"Because I've seen what your face looks like when you're not performing. That's what this looks like."

His eyes shift to me. The weight of his attention makes my skin warm.

I take out the desk calendar that's in my bag and place it on the counter.

"Daily reminders. Appointments, therapy sessions, medications, anything you need to track. Update it every morning."

"You bought me a calendar."

"I bought you a system. The calendar is just the delivery mechanism." I uncap a pen. "What's on your schedule today?"

"Physical therapy at four and apparently having my apartment redesigned without my consent."

"You love it."

"I tolerate it." But the corner of his mouth lifts.