Page 115 of On the Power Play

Leslie shook her head. "My parents didn't have a happy relationship. Which was why I waited a little longer to settle down.” She patted Marc’s leg and left her hand on his thigh. “We were so thrilled when Clara met Oscar, and then Jack—” She stopped and looked between Delia and Marc.

“He told her.” Marc patted her hand. “We talked about it right at the beginning.”

Right at the beginning? She processed that statement. Jack must’ve talked to his parents about her and mentioned their conversation about Angie. Her hands tingled at the image of Jack sitting in his room with his phone pressed against his ear, reliving the words they’d said to each other.

Leslie looked up with a shimmer in her eye. “Okay, then. Well. You might not know, but Jack hasn’t dated anyone since Angie, and both of us have been heartsick about it. Of course we miss her, but we don’t want him to be lonely, and . . .” She put her right hand over her heart. “Anyway. We were over the moon when Jack said he wanted to start dating you. Not only because you’re you. But because he sounded so happy.”

You’re scared of making this real. Delia’s ribs shrunk like a wool blouse that had been accidentally put through the dryer. In an instant, it was like she was a gecko on the ceiling staring down at the relationship timelines of her life. Her mom working three jobs to make sure she could pay for music lessons. Mary and Tony making her reservations and dinner arrangements and dropping everything to accompany her to Edmonton or wherever the hell else she wanted to go for a show. And now Jack. Staying the night with her. Getting the video taken down. Putting a coat on her doorstep.

Delia dropped back into herself and pressed hard against the armrests. Maybe she was scared. Because everyone around her had to love her. She was an only child, and after losing her father, she was all her mother had. She’d gotten used to being doted on. To being the apple of someone’s eye. She liked it that way. Because she knew all too well that even the people who were supposed to be there for her could leave at any moment. It simply wasn’t worth the risk to leave anything up to something as volatile as choice.

Leslie leaned forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to presume?—”

“No, it’s okay.” Delia shook her head and folded her napkin in her lap. “Jack is wonderful. I’m so glad we met.”

The idea of stepping into a relationship without collateral sent her reeling. What if she couldn’t be like her mom? Like Mary? What if she was incapable of giving like they did? She hadn’t even been able to bring in enough money to keep her mother at home tending her herb garden instead of putting on a uniform and leaving the house at nine o’clock at night. What if she’d always have to pay the people around her to make sure they stayed?

The lights in the arena dimmed and the announcer’s voice came over the speaker. A spotlight landed on a children’s choir and the Canadian flag. They all rose for the national anthem, and Delia scanned the arena in awe.

Had there ever been a time that she’d stood in an audience as massive? Probably only at a few concerts when she was a teenager, but this was different. Then they’d been united for the love of music. Never had she felt united for a love of country.

She sang the words to their anthem in barely more than a whisper and her throat grew thick. Her emotions were wild and unleashed, and she couldn’t get a grasp on the reins.

She wanted Jack.

She needed Jack.

She loved making music.

She needed her music.

And as the children’s angelic voices sang God save our land, that tangled fear and need and love swelled into gratitude so big, it couldn’t be contained inside her.

She loved and needed the hell out of this place she lived. This country that had embraced her mother with open arms, even if she was barely making her citizenship official. Canadians weren’t people who hung flags in the beds of their trucks or who looked for opportunities to blow things up to prove they were beyond the reach of the old world. Well, except for maybe on Guy Fawkes Day . . . or Victoria Day and Canada Day in Toronto. But that was beside the point.

Canadians were generally more subtle. They tattooed the maple leaf on their wrists and hips to keep a reminder close. They put small flags on their coats and backpacks to humbly announce exactly what they stood for.

It wasn’t so much a symbol of who they weren’t as Canadians, but who they were.

Kind.

Tolerant.

Eternally apologetic.

Hard working, nature loving, muscle-it-out people whose national hero wasn’t someone with power, influence, or money but a teenager who lost his leg and then ran halfway across Canada on a prosthetic for cancer research. Sleeping in a camping van.

Holy. Crap. Tears sprang to Delia’s eyes, and she almost laughed out loud.

That was why people loved hockey.

She finally understood.

Everything Jack was trying to tell her clicked into place like her ears had finally popped after a long flight. For the first time, she got the camaraderie and physical intensity. Even the fights made sense, and that was ironically what tipped her tears over the edge. They would go to battle for their team.

Jack had gone to battle for her.

Delia’s heart swelled like one of those foam animals that grew ten times their size when soaked in water. As the cheers died down and the lights came up, Delia pulled out her phone to text Jack, even though she could see him standing in his jersey with the rest of his team on the ice and knew he didn’t have his phone.

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