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34

LIAM

Dad and a few other hockey greats who found their way to the wild north for the wedding, gather around discussing the upcoming finals.

Hendrix, never one to miss any sports talk, joins us. “The Titans are going to win.”

I shake my head because the Cup belongs to the Knights.

He continues, “And when we do, I’m going to Disneyland. Since you won’t be riding off into the sunset with the Stanley, where will you take your consolation prize trip?”

Dad asks, “You mean his honeymoon?”

I swallow thickly because everything has happened so fast, and because Jessica and I aren’t a real couple, we haven’t been planning our dream trip for months.

I blurt, “We’re going to Berlin to visit Oma and Opa. I’d like to do it for Christmas like we used to when we were kids, but I think those will be blackout dates for next year’s game schedule.”

Hendrix staggers backward. “You’re taking Jess to meet our other grandparents?”

It’s a big deal because even though I love Grannie Bell to death, the family king and queen are Dad’s parents.

Hendrix mutters, “Maybe I was wrong.”

Does that mean he knows this is all fake? Hendrix is the self-appointed family goof, but he’s observant. Must’ve inherited it from Mom.

Uneasiness slithers through me, but one of the guys shifts to the recent Generals’ scorching loss to the Titans and we’re back on track.

Dad pulls me aside and says a few words about loyalty and marriage, then gives me a long and searching look.

“Anything else on your mind?” I ask.

“There’s been something you’ve never been able to forget. If it means anything, I don’t hold it against you. No one does. I suggest you let it go, son. Leave it in the past.” He nods in Franklin’s direction.

“Easier said than done,” I mutter just as Jessica rushes over to us.

Saved by the belle of the ball. My bride.

Late that night, the family sends us to a nearby hotel.

Lights dim, we both crash onto the bed, still in our formal wear.

“We did it,” Jessica says, her voice small.

I find her hand and twine my fingers around hers.

“We did,” I say before we both promptly fall asleep.

The next day, Mom, Grannie Bell, Aunt Goldie, and Dolly prepare a big pancake brunch and send off.

Everyone thinks it’s disappointing that I have to jet to Pennsylvania for a game so soon after the big day. But I need a minute to think. To recuperate. To process what the ring on my finger means.

KJ and his cousins are obsessed with each other. Despite the communication differences, they figure out how to play which is pretty promising. Mom gets misty a few times, probably emotional over all three of her kids now married or in a serious relationship.

At one point last night, she said, I knew there was hope for you .

I grunted because that’s how she’d expect me to respond, but it’s all a lie. I think. I mean, Jessica did look beautiful. We exchanged vows. There was the kiss. Then dancing wasn’t the left-footed disaster I feared it would be.

She and Dad tag-teamed me, and her suggestion to forgive was the real disaster because I can’t do it. It’s impossible. I’m a horrible human. Nothing will change that. Even if she still accepts me even after what happened in high school, she wouldn’t want to be with a guy who can’t forgive himself.

As I said, disaster .

So is the first period of the game in Pittsburg.

We’re put through our paces and tested, first by an offensive cluster, resulting in two penalties and a point against us. Our assists are out of sync and we repeatedly lose the puck. My head is everywhere but on the ice.

During a break, we regroup in the locker room. Everyone is in a foul mood, grumbling, and shooting accusatory glances, casting blame for the lackluster play.

It’s not until we get the countdown warning for the start of the next period, that I realize I’m hanging around over a dozen guys who’re acting how I usually do.

It’s miserable.

Or perhaps Jessica is rubbing off on me.

Gripping my hockey stick like a tour guide with an umbrella, I whistle. “Gather ’round. We have to be out there in two minutes. I don’t care what you do during those one hundred and twenty seconds, but when you hit the ice, I want to see you smiling. Force it if you have to— during the next twenty minutes, we have to come back and get ahead. Got it?”

They’re all silent except for the rise and fall of inhales and exhales.

I arch an eyebrow and demonstrate what I mean.

Someone screams like they just experienced a jump scare. Another guy slow claps.

“Just showing you how it’s done,” I say, leading the way to the tunnel.

* * *

When I return to Cobbiton, I’m married. A father. Jessica is a mother. And we live together.

A spark of excitement burns along a wick, but when I get to the loft, it’s empty. Quiet. Lonely.

My footsteps echo as I go down the hallway to check on the crab. A few of KJ’s toys were left out.

I lower onto his bed and adjust the head of his favorite plastic soldier figure.

A lot changed fast in my life. I was alone and sinking, not sure how to handle it. Then Jessica entered the picture, shining light, bringing warmth and companionship. The kind I didn’t know I needed, wanted.

When we first met, I said that I didn’t need or want anything. I was wrong. I need and want her.

The front door opens and laughter filters down the hall.

Jessica hollers, “Home sweet home.”

I meet them in the entryway. Jessica has a bag over her shoulder and a box in her arms. Grandma Dolly also has a bag. I help them unload. Jessica doesn’t have more than a car full of belongings. While the assumption was that she’d move in with me now that we’re married, we didn’t discuss sleeping arrangements.

Once the last box is stacked in the hall, Jessica signs and speaks to Grandma Dolly, “Are you going to be lonely without me?”

The older woman smiles warmly and signs. “I’m getting my craft room back. Plus, I expect to see you Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, at least.”

“Don’t forget games,” I add, having offered her a permanent seat in the VIP suite.

KJ rushes toward us, holding his little soldier man, apparently pleased the head is fixed. He signs, “Thanks, Daddy.”

I don’t know how he knew I repaired it, but my heart melts.

I’m a father and it’s my job to fix things. I’m no handyman by any stretch and wouldn’t be able to do much more than hang framed photos and build a bookshelf from a kit, but I’m now the guy KJ and Jessica are going to turn to when things need repairing.

This thought follows me for the rest of the day. I become borderline obsessed with fixing the random things around the house like the leaky faucet, a squeaky door, and the wobbly table leg that Jessica, with her aggressive positivity, says is a reminder that not everything is perfect. She also got a stapler with rainbow staples, but it jammed, so I fix that too even though I still don’t understand why someone needs colorful staples. Lastly, I spackle the hole I punched in the wall in the home office, promising myself not to do that again.

After we do KJ’s bedtime routine which includes me reading a bonus book since I was gone at the game, Jessica finds me in the kitchen, adjusting the loose hand towel holder.

“What’s gotten into you? You’re being so domestic.”

“I’d been meaning to fix this for a while.”

She snaps her fingers. “Put a ring on his finger and just like that, the feral animal is tamed.”

I scoff.

She watches me for a long moment and then says, “Thanks for fixing the table leg and my legal situation with the Coogans.”

“We’re not there yet.” I can’t fix that in an afternoon.

But Jessica and I are married now and I don’t want anything in her life to be broken. Not staplers, not cars, and certainly not relationships.

The screwdriver slides from my grip.

“Are you okay?”

I brush my hand through my hair.

No, I’m not.

Because the biggest thing broken in her life is … me.

“Uh, I should go to bed. Another game coming up. Training. Sleep,” I mumble and disappear into my room.

Our room?

Leaning against the back of the door, I hear the sound of Jessica doing what she calls her good night tidy to the kitchen, her feet padding down the hall, and then the spare bedroom door opening.

Not only am I the worst human. I’m the worst husband. I don’t even know if that bed is made. Is there furniture in there? I’ve only been in the second guest bedroom twice—once when I toured the loft to move in and the second time when KJ arrived and I needed to figure out where he’d sleep.

Turns out, I cannot. I toss and turn, my thoughts alternately hopeful and dismal. It’s a dark night until the sound of footfalls pass my door and a dim light appears from the kitchen.

Jessica has insomnia. Of course, she’s awake.

I hesitate, not sure what I’ll say or do. I’m usually dreaming during these long hours. She should be too, so why isn’t she?