Page 17 of Pucking Fate

What was I doing on July twenty-second almost five years ago? “I think…I think I was on vacation in Miami. That day, I mean, five years ago while you were…”

“I know,” Maya replies softly.

Stepping up closer to her, I ask, “What do you mean?”

She bites her bottom lip and lowers her eyes to her sandals like they are suddenly more fascinating than the park. “Because…I-I was going to tell you that I was on the way to the hospital. But then I saw the photos of you and your friends on social media at a party on some boat.”

“I wish you had called me. I would’ve swum back to shore if I needed to and then booked a flight. I would’ve doneanythingto be here.”

Maya nods. “I think I knew that you probably would have come. The distance was an excuse because I wasn’t sure if I could bear seeing you. Thanks to the hormones, I was bawling like a baby, and in agonizing labor…”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “For not being there and the agonizing part. But mostly I’m sorry for making you not want me there.”

She shakes her head and finally meets my eyes. “That’s the problem. Ididwant you there. I wanted it so badly that I wouldn’t have wanted you to leave.”

“Oh.” Not only did she want me with her when she gave birth to our son, she wanted me to stay with them.

“I knew you would have to leave though, to go back to Greensboro to get ready for the start of the hockey season…”

Fucking hockey.

For the first time in my life, I think I’m starting to hate the first thing I ever loved because it likely not only cost me Maya, but my son too. My family.

Every time I’ve looked at Maya these past few days, I’ve seen the worry in her eyes. I thought she was just waiting for me to screw up, and honestly, I didn’t blame her.

But part of me is wondering if she’s also worried about those feelings for me coming back and is trying to keep her distance.

Or maybe they never left.

My feelings for her never faded. I just tried my best to forget they existed.

7

Maya

Christian’s been coming over every day for the past week. And I have to admit, I didn’t expect him to keep such an enthusiastic interest in Finley for this long. I thought the playboy would get bored after a day or two playing with a four-year-old and use summer training as an excuse to get back to Greensboro.

But to my surprise, Christian has been showing up consistently, staying over a little longer each day. He has taken me and Finley out to eat, the park, and even skating at the Warhawks arena.

In fact, the past two nights he hasn’t left until the sun sets, only to return a little after sunrise the next morning.

Which means I’m having to get up earlier than ever to grab a quick shower and try to look halfway awake before he shows up on our doorstep.

The three of us have also been eating all three meals together; breakfast, lunch, and dinner, including tonight.

It’s nothing fancy, just spaghetti, garlic bread, and a salad. But the simple, routine activity feels strangely intimate. Christian’s sitting at the head of the table, cracking jokes, and making Finley laugh between bites of pasta. The man fits in so easily at our dinner table, as if he’s been here all along, like this is how it was always supposed to be.

“So, Finley,” Christian says, twirling his fork around his spaghetti. “How would you feel about coming to one of my and Uncle Preston’s games in Greensboro this season?”

Finley’s eyes light up, his excitement obvious. “Yeah, yeah! I wanna go to a game and wear my Bobcats jersey!”

“We’ll have to get you a new one with Uncle Preston’s number on it too,” Christian replies with a grin. “We can hang out before and after the game. It’ll be fun.”

I sit in my chair quietly watching their exchange. It’s sweet, and I know how much this means to Finley. But there’s a small part of me that aches.

Christian makes sliding into this fatherly role look so easy, which is great for Finley. But to me, this familiar version of Christian seems too good to be true. It’s the version who swept me off my feet and then ran away. I also know that off-season Christian has all the time in the world for us, for Finley. But during the season, we’ll be lucky if he calls even once a week.

“Are you sure you won’t be too busy to see us when we visit?” I ask, my voice more pointed than I intended. “With your busy game schedule and all during the season, I mean?”

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