This is worth everything.
29
NORA
Ididn't sleep last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Tyler's bruised ribs, his split lip, and the careful way he moved, trying to hide how much pain he was in. And every time I thought about Reaper doing that to him—deliberately, repeatedly, while their coach watched and did nothing—I got angrier.
By 6 a.m., I'd made a decision.
Tyler left for practice at nine-thirty, kissing me goodbye at the door, still moving stiffly even though he tried to hide it. Harper was fussy, teething again, and wanted nothing to do with her toys, books, or anything except being held.
"Perfect," I murmur, strapping her into the carrier against my chest. "We're going on a field trip, baby girl."
The drive to the arena takes twenty minutes, with Harper dozing off in the back seat. I know Tyler's practice schedule by heart now—10 a.m. to 1 p.m. on Wednesdays, full ice time, the whole team.
I arrive at twelve-fifteen, park in the visitor lot, and get Harper situated in her carrier. She's awake now, looking around with those wide blue eyes that are so much like Tyler's.
"We're going to see Daddy," I tell her quietly. "And Mommy's going to handle something."
The word lands before I've finished saying it.Mommy.I don't know when that started feeling like mine. I'm not her mother. I know that—I have always known that—and I've been careful with it. I’ve kept a quiet distance from the word the same way I've kept a quiet distance from a lot of things in that house.
But it came out easy just now, naturally, the way things do when you've stopped thinking about them. I look down at Harper's wide blue eyes and feel the particular weight of it settle in my chest. Not guilt exactly. Something softer than that. Something that feels a lot like belonging somewhere I didn't plan to stay.
The arena's mostly empty this time of day, just practice, ice, and a few staff members. I can hear the sounds echoing from inside—skates on ice, pucks hitting boards, the occasional shout.
There's a viewing area with windows overlooking the rink, and I position myself where I can see everything without being immediately visible.
Tyler’s on the ice, running drills with his line. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s favoring his left side slightly. And the captain—Reaper. The C on his chest is the only thing that lets me pick him out at this distance; the helmets make everyone else look the same.
Reaper is skating through a drill, and when he passes Tyler, he says something that I obviously can’t hear. Whatever it is, though, makes Tyler’s jaw clench, but it doesn’t look like he responds.
I watch for the next thirty minutes, cataloging every interaction: the way Reaper deliberately won’t pass to Tyler during drills, the checks that are harder than necessary, and the passive-aggressive comments I can see, even if I can’t hear them. The intimidation tactics that would be bullying in any other context, but apparently pass for normal in professional hockey.
My anger crystallizes into something cold and sharp.
At twelve forty-seven, Coach blows the whistle, and practiceends. The team starts skating toward the bench area, and I know this is my moment.
I head down the stairs, through the door withPlayers and Staff Onlyon it, and straight toward the ice.
A staff member tries to stop me. "Ma'am, you can't?—"
"Watch me."
I push through the door onto the rink level, and suddenly I’m standing at the edge of the ice in my boots, with Harper strapped to my chest. The team’s clustered together near the far bench, helmets still on, in a loose ring around Coach. I can see a few numbers on the backs of the guys facing away from me—but the inner ring is blocked, and that’s where Reaper probably is, somewhere in the middle of his teammates, hidden from view.
Tyler sees me first. His head snaps up, and his face goes from confused to panicked in about half a second.
He skates over fast, stepping off the ice onto the matting, blades scraping as he rushes toward me.
“Red?” His voice is alarmed, mortified. “What are you doing here?”
“Where is he?” I ask calmly, adjusting Harper’s carrier. “I can’t see him from here.”
Tyler’s eyes widen. “No. Absolutely not. Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
“Where, Tyler?”