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He pulls up the sleeve of his jersey to show off the neat line of his scar. I’m only bothered by blood and open wounds usually, but the scar calls to mind the panic I felt that day knowing he got hurt. I also haven’t completely been able to get rid of the mental image of the blood. I look away, studying some of the framed team photos on the wall.

“Looks great,” Parker says. “Glad it didn’t keep you from continuing in classes.”

“I was sad we didn’t have class yesterday,” he says.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Parker says. “This is our first time trying to do a series of classes with the players helping. It hasn’t been easy. Their schedules are so busy, I’m not sure we can do it again.”

“Maybe in the off-season?” Liam says hopefully.

“Maybe.” Parker nudges his shoulder. “But by then, you might have moved beyond that kind of class.”

“You think?”

Before responding, Parker glances at me as though looking for approval to broach the subject of moving beyond what he’s doing now. Liam has only had three classes because of the Appies’ schedule, but his hockey talk hasn’t slowed down at all. In fact, he convinced me to buy him rollerblades so he could play street hockey with some guys in our neighborhood when the streets are dry. He has three classes left over the next five weeks, and I don’t anticipate this slowing down.

I give Parker a quick nod, feeling a little like I’m sealing my doom, but also minding a little less than I would have a few weeks ago. I’m not sure if it’s because there’s no reason—and actually no possibility—to avoid the topic of hockey now that Camden and I are … whatever we are. It might also be Parker’s influence, which is hard to ignore.

“Are you thinking about signing up for the youth league later this spring?” she asks.

“I’d like to.”

Now Liam is the one looking at me with a question in his eyes. Though he’s definitely been talking about signing up for the rookie program with Appies Youth Hockey, I have so far remained noncommittal. I raise my eyebrows and my shoulders, giving him a noncommittal we’ll see. Which is more than I’ve given him before, and as such, he seems to be taking it as an absolute answer.

But then his face dims a little. “I’m probably not ready yet.”

“Nonsense. We’ve got kids who sign up for the rookie program who haven’t even been to classes like the ones you’re doing. And they definitely aren’t getting to work one-on-one with a player like Camden. You’ve got an advantage. Plus, at the last class, I could see a real improvement from your first week. You’re doing great.”

I hope Parker means the things she’s saying about Liam’s ability to fit into the rookie program at his level (see: my whole opinion about setting up expectations), but she strikes me as a very genuine person. And it does make me proud to hear her encouraging words to Liam. Even if I am starting to feel like hockey is about to consume my life like some kind of giant, ravenous bird.

Bass thumps through the walls from the arena, a heartbeat of anticipation. A line of cars had already been entering the other side of the parking lot when we pulled through the security gate, and even in these hallways where we pass only an occasional other staff person, the excitement almost crackles in the air.

As I trail behind the two of them, wondering if I should be leaving a trail of cracker crumbs from the emergency stash in my purse so I can find my way back out, they discuss the youth hockey league. I swear, I can actively hear the credit card within my purse weeping.

I guess at least we have gear now, though I meant what I said to Camden and want to pay him back somehow. I haven’t had the guts to look up all the things he bought and how much they cost yet. But I will.

“I didn’t tell your mom why we’re here early,” Parker says, stopping in front of a door. “But I think you’re going to love this.”

She pauses dramatically, and my stomach tightens a little with nerves. I’m sure whatever it is will be good, but I cannot take the anticipation any longer.

“How would you,” Parker starts, taking a breath and a dramatic pause that has me feeling murdery, “like to read out the starting lineup in the locker room before the game?”

From the hockey knowledge I’ve gleaned from Liam, I think a starting lineup is basically five guys. Well—five guys plus a goalie. So, Liam gets to read a list of six names. I’m not sure what I was expecting as Parker’s surprise, but this honestly feels a bit underwhelming.

Not to Liam though.

His eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. He glances at me, and I widen my eyes right back, hoping to fake match his energy.

“Seriously?” he asks Parker in an awed whisper.

She nods and then pulls a folded paper out of her crossbody bag. “Yep.”

Liam takes the paper like he’s holding some kind of delicate, breakable thing, and gingerly unfolds it.

“You can keep that too,” she says. “I bet we could get the guys to sign it.”

My son looks like he might expire from the excitement of this, and he shocks us both by throwing his arms around Parker.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he says in a rush. “This is—wow. Oh my gosh. Bruh.”