Page 177 of The Play Maker

I’m so focused on her, I almost miss the woman who steps into my peripheral vision.

She takes a seat beside me, placing her expensive looking purse onto her lap. Brown hair twisted neatly, a sleek coat. Older. Reserved. Watching Maisie intently, as if trying to memorize every movement.

I glance sideways. She notices, catching my eye.

“You know her?” she asks, nodding toward the rink.

I swallow hard. “Yeah. That’s my girlfriend.”

Her expression shifts—something flickering across her face so fast I barely catch it.

“I’m her mom.”

My stomach drops straight through the bleachers.

Oh fuck.

This is her. The mom who never shows up. The one Maisie said hasn’t seen her skate since she was a kid. The one she didn’t invite this time because she couldn’t handle being let down again.

“You’re—?” I blink. “You’re Maisie’s mom?”

She nods slowly, still watching the rink. “I wasn’t planning to come. But someone sent me a message. They told me I’d regret it if I didn’t. That she’s magic out there.”

My throat tightens. “That was me,” I say quietly. “I sent it.”

She turns to look at me fully now, her brows lifting. “Is there a reason why?”

I glance back at the ice where Maisie’s on the ice. She lifts her arms, then her whole body curves into motion, elegant, confident, like she’s telling a story I’ve never heard but suddenly know by heart.

“Because I love her,” I say. “And she deserves to be seen.”

Her mom looks at me for a long second, and then turns her attention back to the rink.

Maisie skates like she’s dancing with the music itself. Like her body knows the beat better than the speakers. Every jump lands with perfect control, every spin seems to hang in the air a little longer than it should.

I hear a collective inhale from the crowd.

She’s perfect. I don’t have another word for it. Every spin, every step, every little flick of her wrist feels like it’s dipped in gold. I can see her breathing through the transitions, feel the emotion pouring out of her as the music swells.

When the final sequence hits, she takes a deep breath, throws her arms up, and nails a clean triple toe loop. The crowd stands, cheering as she comes to a stop.

I lift out of my seat, clapping, and whistling, and making all the goddamn noise I told her I would. “That’s my girl!” I yell.

Her mom sniffles beside me, wiping under one eye.

“She always loved to skate,” she murmurs. “She’d practice outside. On the sidewalk. On the tile in our kitchen with socks. I used to think it was just a phase.” She pauses. “I should’ve come before.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. There’s a pressure building in my chest, tight and aching. Not because of her. But because of Maisie. Because I know how much this moment will mean to her.

Maisie lifts her arms slowly, and gives a small, graceful bow toward the crowd. Her eyes flicker across the stands, searching, and then land on her mom.

Her mom’s expression softens, her lips trembling.

The announcer’s voice cuts through the noise, reading out the scores. Technical elements, program components. High numbers that confirm what we all saw. She nailed it, just like I knew she would.

Maisie’s shoulders relax, a shy smile tugging at her lips. She steps off the ice, heading toward the boards where her coach waits, clapping quietly.

Her mom catches my eye for a brief second, but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s grateful I made her come see her daughter perform.