Page 59 of Huge Pucking Play

She nods, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Okay. One step at a time."

Cyn shifts on the couch, wincing slightly.

"Still feeling rough?" I ask.

She nods reluctantly. "The nausea comes and goes. But everything aches. No one tells you that part."

"Come here." I pat my lap. "Put your feet up."

She raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Foot rub. I've been told I'm pretty good at them."

"You don't have to?—"

"I want to." I meet her eyes.

After a moment's hesitation, she shifts on the couch, swinging her legs up. Her feet land in my lap, small and vulnerable in their fuzzy slipper socks.

"Nice socks," I say, tugging one off. "Penguins?"

"They were a gift." She looks embarrassed. "From my mom."

I take her bare foot in my hands. Her skin is soft, warm. I press my thumbs into her arch, and she lets out a small gasp.

"Too hard?"

"No." She sinks deeper into the couch. "Perfect."

I work methodically, applying pressure where she seems to need it most. Her eyes drift closed, tension melting from her face with each stroke of my fingers.

"Where did you learn to do this?" she murmurs.

"Mostly hockey. Years of foot cramps, muscle strains."

Oscar watches us for a moment, head tilted. Then he trots away, returning with a well-loved plush moose clenched in his jaws. He drops it at my feet, tail wagging hopefully.

"Is that for me?" I ask him.

Cyn laughs. "That's Marty. He doesn't share him with just anyone."

I reach down with one hand, scratching Oscar's ears. "I'm honored, buddy."

Oscar responds by jumping onto the couch and settling against my side, chin resting on my thigh.

"He likes you." Cyn sounds surprised. "He's usually more reserved with new people."

"Dogs know good people when they meet them," I say, switching to her other foot.

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely. Scientific fact."

She smiles, eyes still closed. "Then I guess you pass the test."

I work her foot in silence for a minute, watching her face relax. The afternoon light filters through her blinds, casting softstripes across her living room. For a moment, I can picture a future here – the three of us, soon to be four. It's terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Will you stay for dinner?" she asks suddenly. "Nothing fancy. I can barely look at most food right now, but maybe toast? Or scrambled eggs?"

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