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But I’m struggling through this conversation and feel like the little meter showing my emotional regulation is teetering swiftly into the red zone. The one that saysHit the deck! She’s gonna blow!

“He’s a legend,” Liam says, then rattles off stats I don’t follow regarding save percentages, goals against average, and career shutouts.

Give him an iPad for the car ride,my brother’s wife suggested.It will make the trip go a lot easier.

Eloise might have been correct—ifLiam were a more typical ten-year-old. I should have known he wouldn’t watch movies or play games with headphones on. Instead, he’s been learning everything he can about his new favorite obsession—hockey—and then mistakenly thinking I’m also interested.

In case it’s not already clear, I’m not.

I’ve never been a big sports girl, generally speaking, and anything I do know is about the more mainstream sports: football, baseball, basketball, soccer—the general American sportsball sports. When it’s either a summer or winter Olympic Games year, I become a temporary expert on figure skating or swimming.

Hockey, however, is what I consider a fringe sport, like MMA or Formula 1 or rugby. There are definitely obsessed fans—just in smaller numbers than the American mainstream sports. I am not one of the obsessed or even mild fans. Before last summer, I knew hockey existed. Liam’s facts notwithstanding, I still only know the very basics: ice, pucks, skates, fights.

After last summer, however, I am not simplydisinterested in hockey or hockey neutral. I am activelyanti-hockey.

But I am veryproLiam. My kid is brilliant and amazing, and I’d never trade him and his penchant for hyperfixating for a kid who’d watch seven straight hours ofBluey. Even if I personally happen to loveBluey.

Unlike hockey players,Blueywould never ever break my heart. Even if I cry in some—fine,most—of the episodes I watch by myself. (I will accept zero judgement for watchingBlueyalone or crying about it.)

The point is: I love Liam. And right now, Liam loves hockey. So, pretending I care about hockey is my current lot in life. I’ll do whatever is needed to make Liam feel loved and valued.

Even if it means gritting my teeth and finding ways to respond as he starts reciting more goalie facts.

“Their pads and gear can weigh up to thirty-five pounds,” Liam says.

“Seems like it would be hard to move carrying that much weight.”

“It takes a lot of athleticism,” he agrees, and I feel a tiny bolt of pride for contributing something he deems useful to the conversation.

Look at me—contributing to the conversation!Then, I remind myself thatI do not care about hockey, and Liam continues onward.

“Shots can launch the puck at speeds of almost one hundred miles per hour,” Liam says. “So, goalies need the protection even if it’s bulky. Pucks can break noses or the orbital bone?—”

I tune Liam out with a shudder as he starts listing off gruesome hockey injuries. I am easily nauseated by talk of blood and guts. If I actuallywitnessany of those things? It’s all over for me. I love this turn of conversation even less than I did hearing about goalie pads.

“Hey! It’s our exit! We’re almost … home.”

The word feels strange and wrong in my mouth, and maybe it does to Liam’s ears, too, because he stops talking and turns to the window.

Harvest Hollow is a small city nestled in the hills of North Carolina. Not typically the kind of place you’d think of as teeming with jobs. Had I known the office administrator position at the title company where I’ve worked for six months washere, I wouldn’t have applied. Just about any other geographic location in the continental United States would have been okay with me.

But the listings on the company’s job site were all vaguely arranged by state, not city. North Carolina sounded not too far, but just far enough for the escape I felt I needed from Oakley. I assumed the job would be in a more significant city like Charlotte or Asheville or the Raleigh-Durham area.

Not … here.

The size of Harvest Hollow is not my issue. Heck, I grew up on Oakley Island, which is tinyandan island. It’s not far from Savannah, but when you have to cross a bridge to leave, it creates a kind of dome effect, enhancing the small town-ness.

Harvest Hollow is at least ten times the size of Oakley. It’s also not too far from the larger Asheville to the east and a little further to Knoxville to the west. From what I understand, this area of North Carolina is also dotted with little towns nestled into the hills and hollers, adding to the population.

So, it’s not the size that has me gripping the wheel so tightly as we exit the highway.

It’s also not because I’m trading the ocean for the mountains, though Iama beach girl at my core.

“Mom! There’s the Summit!”

Liam practically has his face pressed to the window, iPad forgotten in his lap. “Can we stop?”

I glance out the window at the stadium building Liam is gesturing at wildly. The Summit, which houses the Appies, Harvest Hollow’s AHL team, is a physical manifestation of the reason why I would have chosen any other place to live.