Page 107 of From Maybe to Baby

I do some curls with Gloria sitting on the other end of my weight bench while she waits for me to say something, but I don’t feel like talking anymore. Because if I talk, I need to think, and I only have so much capacity for that.

Yeah, I’m fucking overwhelmed by life. That happens when you become a widower in your twenties. Shit’s not supposed to turn out that way. I was supposed to grow old with Genny. I was robbed and I’m pissed about that. I always will be.

"The kids talk about Alexa almost as much as they talk about Genny," she says finally.

Like I hadn’t noticed.

"Since when are you and Bert on Team Alexa?" I scoff before I can change my tone to something more polite.

She doesn’t miss a beat. "Since we saw how good you all were together. The kids were happy. You were happy. Even your game improved."

I drop my weights to the ground and shake my head. "She left, Gloria. Let’s not keep dwelling on her."

Through the kitchen window, I see the kids at breakfast. Lukas is eating for a change, instead of pushing food around his plate, and Jace is attempting her own hair, and not doing badly for a three-year-old. Her concentration leaves me with a combination of pride and heartbreak all at the same time.

How does that happen?

My phone starts buzzing. Damn thing never stops.

Team manager:

Whatever's cleared your head, keep it up. Stats don't lie.

Coach:

That footwork's back. Keep this momentum for season opener.

Vince:

PR loves the redemption angle. City's ready to root for you again.

Glad I’m making everyone but myself happy.

I grab my weights off the ground for another set.

Gloria gets up to return to the house. I do appreciate her help with the kids, I really do. If that comes at the price of her meddling, I need to just suck that up.

She says, "You know what else Genny would say if she were here?" She pauses at the door. "She’d say love's about making room for more without losing what was."

She heads inside, leaving my head spinning.

I watch the squirrel dart through the yard, kicking up damp leaves. The morning light shines on a pile of toys the kids left out. A half-deflated ball. A plastic sword.

I put down my weights and grab the ball, lining up a shot to our kid-height basketball net, and let it fly. It drops right in, landing with a thud because it’s so low on air.

I take the shot again.

Visitingwith the team psychologist wasn't my idea. Coach strongly suggested it after I spent an entire practice running the same drill over and over, trying to perfect a play that was already perfect.

"You're using hockey to avoid dealing with things," she says in our first session. "And you're using the kids as a shield against moving past your grief."

Damn. Sounds like she’s been briefed by my mother-in-law. I wouldn’t put it past the woman.

I want to argue, I do, but the shrink has my practice footage pulled up on her tablet. Hard to argue with that. "Your game is solid," she says. "But you're playing it safe. On and off the ice."

So this is what a sports psychologist is all about.

She's right. I've been running the same plays, the same routines, the same patterns since Genny. It’s how you getthrough the day when you’ve been through what I have. I mean, am I supposed to apologize for that?

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