Page 55 of Huge Pucking Play

The team filters into the training room, sticks tapping against the polished floor. I tuck my phone away and plaster on my coach face. Professional. Focused. Not at all distracted by the fact that Cyn is obviously avoiding me.

"Morning, Coach." Martinez nods as he passes, clipboard in hand.

"Morning." My response is automatic while my eyes drift to the medical suite door down the hall. No sign of her.

On Monday, I caught a glimpse of her between sessions. She was leaning against the wall outside the women's restroom, her face pale as winter ice. When she saw me, she straightened up, squared her shoulders.

"You okay?" I asked, keeping my distance. Professional boundaries in the workplace – our unspoken rule.

"Feeling a little better," she said. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

Before I could say more, she was gone, hurrying back to her office with that purposeful stride that usually makes me grin. This time, it left me standing alone in the hallway, feeling oddly hollow.

I snap back to the present when Barnsey misses an easy drill. "Eyes up, not down!" I bark, channeling my frustration into coaching. "You won't find the puck on your skates."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I wait until the players rotate through the drill before checking it.

Cyn: Sorry, still feeling off. Rain check on dinner?

My thumbs hover over the screen. I type and delete three different responses before settling on something casual.

Me: No problem. Need anything? Soup? Ginger ale?

Her reply is almost immediate.

Cyn: Just rest. Talk tomorrow.

I stuff the phone back in my pocket, that hollow feeling expanding. This isn't like her. Cyn is direct, fearless. She says what she means. This avoidance is new, and it's setting off alarms in my head.

I force my attention back to work, to the players who need my guidance. But my mind keeps drifting to Cyn's green eyes, how they couldn't quite meet mine on Monday, how quickly she disappeared.

After practice, I try once more.

Me: Just checking in. Miss your face.

Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.

Cyn: Miss you too. Just need to kick this bug. Still not 100%.

I sigh, drop my phone into my gym bag. Whatever's going on with Cyn, it's clear she's not ready to share it. The question is: how long do I pretend not to notice?

Later, my apartment feels too quiet. I pace from living room to kitchen, beer in hand, untouched. The thought hits me likea blindside check – morning sickness. Pale face. Fatigue. I stop moving, blood rushing in my ears. Is Cyn pregnant?

I set the beer down on the counter. The thought loops in my head, gaining momentum with each passing second.

"Jesus," I mutter to the empty room.

We’ve been careful. Haven't we? I rake my fingers through my hair, We’ve used protection, but was it enough? Nothing's foolproof.

I drop onto my couch, elbows on knees, head in hands. A baby. The possibility sits heavy in my stomach, part terror, part something else I can’t pinpoint.

When Sarah and I were married, we talked about kids early on. I pictured myself coaching little league, teaching a son or daughter to skate. But then came the fights, the growing distance, the divorce. The dream of fatherhood faded in the rearview mirror of my life.

Now I'm thirty-eight. Starting over in Chicago after several directionless years in Palm Springs. Finally feeling like I have direction again with the Blades. A baby would detonate my careful plan.

"Fuck." The word hangs in the air.

I stand up, restless again. If Cyn is pregnant, why hasn't she told me?

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