Page 114 of Defensive Desire

But I don’t flinch. I don’t explode or kick and scream. I don’t punch walls or tip the table upside down or storm out like they’re probably bracing for.

Because all I can hear is Emma…

Her laugh echoing down the lake. The sound she made when she reeled in that tiny trout and demanded we name it “Captain Sassy.” I hear the soft moan she made against my neck when I kissed her for the first time. The way her fingers curled in my shirt when I told her I loved her, after crawling to her to forgive me for being an idiot.

I think of her shelves at Chapter & Grind—the one by the kitchen still missing the final screws. The one I promised to finish weeks ago and still haven't.

The stool Grandpa Walt always complains about. I told him I’d fix it just so he'd stop complaining.

And now there’s the new café space.

It's big and empty. Brimming with possibility that Emma doesn't shut up about in her moments of quiet reflection.

She’ll need help wiring the espresso machine. Mounting those vintage hockey signs we found in that dusty antique shop on the drive back down the mountain. She's talked about making the kids’ reading corner a permanent place inside the new store, and I'll be fucked if anyone but me is gonna help make that happen for her.

They’re still talking. Coach Brody and Mike and Blake, voices low and carefully respectful as they reveal details of the trade.

But the thing is… I’m already gone.

Not in a bitter way.

Just moved on.

Because for the first time in my life, I realize hockey doesn’t own me. Not anymore.

Shedoes.

I stare at the ice through the window, remembering my mother's final call. Her voice had been thin, strained, but still so determined to sound normal.

"It's just a check-up, Logan. Nothing to worry about."

Three weeks later, she was gone, and I was in Denver, playing the most important game of my rookie season. I didn't check my phone until after we'd won. By then, she was already gone, and the funeral arrangements were set for the day of our next game.

I played while they buried her.

I played while my brothers stood shoulder to shoulder without me.

I played because hockey was everything. Because I thought that's what she would have wanted.

But now, I wonder if what she really would have wanted was for me to be there. To say goodbye.

I think of the small fishing village on Finland's coast where she grew up. The place she'd describe on quiet winter nights when I was a kid. That place I've always dreamed of visiting.

Stone cottages with red roofs. The smell of the Baltic. How the northern lights would dance across the water in winter.

Now I picture taking Emma there.

Walking those same shores my mother once walked. Finding the cottage where she was born. Showing Emma the place that made half of who I am.

I can see Emma sketching the harbor, collecting shells, laughing as I teach her the few Finnish phrases my mother taught me.

And suddenly it's so clear.

I've given everything to hockey. My youth. My body. Even my chance to say goodbye to my mother.

I won't make that mistake again. Not with Emma.

Blake leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Logan. You okay?”