I'm halfway through the banana when there's a knock on the passenger window.
Danny. He's holding a sandwich and gesturing at the seat with his chin, eyebrows raised. A question.
I unlock the door.
He drops in, takes a bite of his sandwich, and looks out the windshield like we do this every day. "Heard you showed up to camp with a kid."
"Word travels fast."
"Locker room's worse than a sewing circle." He glances at me sideways. "True, though?"
"Yeah." I finish the banana. "Two months old. Showed up on my doorstep about six weeks ago."
Danny is quiet for a second, chewing. "That's a lot."
"Yeah."
"She good?"
Something loosens slightly in my chest. Nobody on this team has asked me that. "She's good. Yeah."
He nods, like that's settled, and they eat the rest of lunch in silence, and it's the least lonely I've felt at this rink since I got here.
When I finally get home, Harper's awake, and Nora's got her doing tummy time on the living room floor.
"How was it?" Nora asks, looking up at me.
"Fine." I drop my bag by the door and head straight for Harper, needing to hold her, needing something good on this shitty day. "Hey, baby girl. Did you miss me?"
Harper squeals, which I'm taking as a yes.
I pick her up, and she immediately grabs a fistful of my hair, which has gotten longer than it should be. I laugh despite everything, pressing my face against her cheek, and she makes the small sound she makes when she's pleased with herself. I keep meaningto cut it and never do. Maybe I'll let her keep using it as a handle until I do.
"Tyler." Nora's voice is careful. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I lie. "Tired."
She doesn't push, which I appreciate. Just goes back to organizing Harper's toys while I hold my daughter.
The rest of the week follows the same pattern. Practice is brutal, both physically and mentally. Reaper makes a point of showing everyone I'm not worth passing to; Coach does nothing to stop it, and I come home exhausted and angry, trying desperately not to let it affect how I am with Harper.
By Friday night, I'm running on fumes.
Harper goes down at seven thirty. I know I should go to bed early, sleep, rest my body, and prepare for tomorrow's practice. Instead, I find myself wide awake at eleven thirty, staring at my bedroom ceiling, replaying every shitty moment from the week.
Reaper's face when he deliberately skated past me.
The sound of his stick hitting my back.
The way Coach just watched and did nothing.
The locker room where nobody talks to me.
Eating lunch alone in my car every single day.
I give up on sleep around eleven thirty-four and head downstairs, thinking maybe some water will help, maybe moving around will tire me out enough to actually rest.
The kitchen light is already on.