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“I’m going to ask him when I see him.”

The excitement that radiates from Matteo as we finish up in the kitchen is palpable. It wraps itself around me and I hang on to every word he says as he chatters about hockey and skating with Carson.

After Matteo’s bath, we settle on the couch to catch the first period of the game before it’s time for him to go to bed. He cuddles up next to me, dragging a blanket from the back of the couch and pulls it over his body. I wrap my arm around him and pull him close to my side. He rests his head against the side of my chest as I turn on the television.

By the time I find the channel with the game, we’ve missed the opening face-off and the first minute of play. The whistle is blown as the ref calls offsides on the other team and they head to the dot in the neutral zone, closest to where the call was made for another face-off.

Matteo sits up a little straight, moving away from me as I tuck the blanket around him. His leg is pressed against mine and I pull my feet up onto the couch, settling deeper into the plush cushions. “Look, mom, there he is!” Matteo exclaims, pointing at the TV as Carson hops onto the ice, skating towards the play.

Within the next five minutes, they end up scoring, only to have the other team score right after them. The energy is visible and the aggression is in full force on the ice. I lean forward, sitting up as anxiety knots my intestines. Now is the time of the season where they want to avoid penalties, but the tension is so thick, it’s almost impossible.

Personally, I hate playoffs. They’re fun to watch when you’re not watching someone you care about on the ice. Saying I care about Carson is nothing more than being a good person. Fromwhat I know of him, he’s a good man. He’s the father of my son. Our connection is weird, given the circumstances of having a one night stand and the resulting child that he recently found out about.

Regardless of our relationship—or lack thereof—I care about him and his well being.

Carson’s brother wins the next face-off, sending the puck back to Carson. He pushes it around another player with the blade of his stick. He sends it back across the ice to their other winger who sends it to the older Ford brother.

Carson crosses over the blue line, receiving a sauce pass from his brother and heading directly to the net. One of the defensive players from the other team attempts to check Carson. Carson dodges out of his way, losing possession of the puck in front of the net. His brother is there and steals the puck back, taking a shot that their goalie ends up catching.

When I find Carson on the screen again, he’s holding his right forearm. I scoot farther in my seat, my eyebrows pulling together.Oh no, is he okay?I was following the puck and not Carson so I missed what happened to him.

They show the replay and that’s when I see it. He got tripped up and his wrist hit the goal post as he went down. He didn’t stay down on the ice but for a split second before he was back on his skates, holding his arm.

Shit.

“Is he okay?” Matteo asks me quietly as the television cuts to a commercial break right after showing the instant replay.

“I hope so,” I tell him, giving him a gentle squeeze against my side. Sometimes the injuries that don’t look bad can be the most detrimental. This is the playoffs. This is the time of the season where players are pushing their bodies to the limit.

The commercial break ends quickly. The camera pans to the bench and I see Carson sitting there, which is a good sign, butnot necessarily a great sign. Matteo is quiet, watching as the game starts again. My chest constricts and anxiety builds in the pit of my stomach.

There’s a line change and Carson hops over the side of the boards. “Look,caro, he’s back on the ice,” I tell Matteo as we watch him rush over to where the play is moving.

Just because he’s on the ice doesn’t mean he’s okay. Hockey players are borderline insane. They’ll play with broken bones and serious injuries unless someone removes them from the ice and they physically cannot play.

“I can’t wait to skate with him,” Matteo says quietly, the excitement evident in his tone. “Maybe he can help me work on my shot.”

I sit silently, squeezing him to my side again as he nestles back into me. Seeing him excited like this makes my heart swell while simultaneously splintering. There’s regret and guilt that still lingers in the back of my mind, but I know I can’t hang on to it.

Knowing what I know now, I would have done everything differently.

Carson has forgiven me and Matteo doesn’t seem to be bothered by any of this.

So, why can’t I seem to forgive myself?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CARSON

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I stare at the doctor, my arm throbbing as I cradle it in my lap. “I can’t get surgery right now. We’re in the middle of the playoffs.”

A frown tugs his lips downward. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ford. If we don’t operate, it could lead to some serious issues and complications. If you continue to play without the operation, or even immediately after the operation, you could cause serious damage and it could implicate your career.”

This is not what I want to hear right now. Quite frankly, this might be the worst possible news I could have received. When I hit my wrist on the goal post, I knew it wasn’t good. The contact lit my arm on fire immediately. I knew it was broken the instant it happened.

This isn’t the first time I’ve broken a bone while playing before. I broke my jaw a few years ago and played through that. This is different. So much is required of my wrist and my arm and my hand. I understand everything the surgeon is saying.