Page 46

“Mm-hmm,” I murmured, sipping. “He’s convinced he’s going pro. In hockey. Baseball. Dog training. Depends on the day.”

Beck chuckles. “The confidence of youth. It’s a beautiful thing.”

I glance up at him, surprised by the edge of wistfulness in his voice. “You sound like someone who misses it.”

He tilts his head slightly, the easy smile still there, but something thoughtful behind his eyes. “I do. Sometimes. I started skating when I was four, chasing my older brother around frozen ponds. We both thought we’d go pro, but… he didn’t make it.”

My brow furrows. “Yes, you did mention a brother. Tell me more?”

“Had,” Beck said quietly. “Well, he’s still alive but neither my parents nor I never hear from him. His name is Greg. He’s living in Denver with his husband and two golden retrievers. He tore his ACL twice in college, career-ending stuff. He coached for a while, but he didn’t love the game the same after that. Walked away. Started a bike repair business and never looked back.”

“That must’ve been hard—for both of you … and your parents.”

He nods, exhaling. “It was. Still is. I felt guilty. I got the dream he chased longer and harder than I did. Still do, sometimes. I’ve tried to reach out to him over the years. I just can’t understand why he has cut us off so completely. I think that’s why I started the youth charity programs—trying to give other kids a shot at something, whether it’s hockey or just a place to feel safe.”

I stare at Jake, my heart tugging. “You’re really good with kids, not just Jake. I’ve seen how you are at the rink with the little fans. Patient. Genuine.”

“I like the way they see the world. Honest. No filters. You don’t see that much as an adult.” He pauses. “Jake’s lucky to have you.”

The words catch me off guard—gentle and sincere, with no agenda behind them—and they crack something open.

“I don’t always feel like I’m enough,” I admit, staring into my tea. “I try, but sometimes I wonder if I’m doing it right. If I’m screwing it all up.”

Beck doesn’t speak, just stands there beside me with that steady presence that makes it feel safe to say the things I usually keep buried.

“It’s been just us since Jake was four,” I say quietly. “His dad—my husband—died in a car accident. A drunk driver ran a red light. I was texting him to grab milk on his way home, and the next call I got was from the ER.”

Beck’s head turns toward me slowly. “Abby…” His voice broke a little. “I’m so sorry.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak for a moment. “Jake was so little. He doesn’t remember much, just a few bedtime stories and the pancakes he made every Saturday. Sometimes I think that’s a blessing. But for me… I remember everything. The ordinary stuff that turned sacred the second it was gone.”

He reaches over and gently covers my hand with his. His touch is warm, not demanding—just… there. Present.

“I lost someone, too,” he says after a moment. “Not to death, but… I think the grief is still there. I had a best friend in high school, Eli. We were inseparable. He came out to me after a game one night, and I was the first person he ever told, or so I thought. But he must have told someone else, because a week later, someone on the opposing team outed him in the worst possible way. He got bullied so badly he left school, moved across the country. We kept in touch for a while, but I think the pain swallowed him up. I still wear the wristband he gave me for good luck. It's under my glove every game.”

I blink, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice.

“I don’t talk about him much,” Beck continues. “But I get it—the ache that doesn’t go away. The fear of letting someone in again. You carry it quietly, like armor, until someone sees through it.”

A lump rises in my throat. “I’ve been scared to love again,” I admit. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m terrified of what happens if I lose it again. If Jake does.”

“You’re not alone in that,” he responds gently. “But maybe love isn’t about erasing the loss—it’s about having someone beside you while you carry it.”

The tears come slowly, not dramatic, just soft and honest. I don’t wipe them away. Beck doesn’t flinch. He stays, grounding me with his calm, with the safety in his gaze.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” I say. “But… I’m glad it’s you.”

He squeezes my hand. “Me too.”

Out in the yard, Spotty finally returns the ball and bellyflops in the grass with a dramatic groan. Jake falls over beside him, laughing hysterically.

“He’s good at stealing hearts,” I say, watching them.

Beck looks at me, a spark of something tender in his eyes. “He’s not the only one.”

***

Days like this are becoming the norm—casual dinners at Beck’s, afternoons filled with laughter, movie nights where Jake falls asleep snuggled between us on the couch. It feels… natural. Like we’ve slipped into a rhythm that I didn’t even realize we’d started.