Page 137 of The Overtime Kiss

Then I try not to gnaw my leg off with worry.

I do my best to put my worries out of mind as we battle Seattle in a rough, physical game the next day, jostling for control of the puck every second it seems. I’m slammed into the boards nearly as many times as I shove the team around. But we trudge off the ice with a hard-fought win, and as soon as I’m in the visitors’ locker room, I text Sabrina.

Tyler: How is he? How’s Luna? How are you?

Sabrina: Parker stayed home today, of course, but he’s doing so much better! No more barfing, and he’s been fever-free without meds for nearly twenty-four hours, so that’s good!

My shoulders relax.

Tyler: Thank god. And Luna?

Sabrina: That girl has some serious germ avoidance skills! She’s practically sealed herself in a bubble since yesterday. She’s all good.

I breathe a huge sigh of relief as I sink down on the bench in front of my stall.

Tyler: Thank you so much for taking good care of him.

Sabrina: It’s the job. Glad I could do it!

I wince at those two words—the job. It’s the truth. Of course it’s the job. But it’s a reminder, too, that I have my work cut out for me. I made her feel like she’s only my employee. I’ll need to show her when I return home that she’s so much more, even if it’s not the time to articulate exactly how much.For now though, I shower, put on my suit, and head to the jet, grateful this was a short trip and I’m on my way home.

We land in San Francisco in the evening and I jump into my car and drive home. But when I pull into the garage, I spot my mother’s car parked on the curb. I check the time. It’s nearly nine. That’s odd. I didn’t think she’d be here at this hour. It’s a little late for a pop-in.

I go inside, head up the steps to the first level, and run right into them at the front door. “You’ve got everything,” my mother says to Luna and Parker as they hoist their bags onto their shoulders. “So we should be all set. And you can play with all the dogs tonight at my house.”

She looks up at me with a smile. “Oh, hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

“I’m fine, but what’s going on?”

Parker looks great, his eyes bright, his cheeks rosy. He flings himself at me. “Dad! I’m all better.”

“I heard,” I say, giving him a big hug. Then I do the same for Luna, but that still doesn’t answer the question of why they’re taking off right now.

“Sabrina texted me,” my mother begins. “She’s not feeling so great. So I came over to collect my babies, and I’ll get them to school tomorrow. I didn’t want Sabrina to worry about making sure they got to bed on time and having to make them breakfast, and she needs to rest herself,” my mom says, going into full mom mode and grandma mode too.

My muscles tighten and I’m antsy to check on Sabrina as soon as I can, but I give my kids a kiss and a hug, and we chat a moment before they leave.

The second the door is locked I march downstairs and knock on Sabrina’s door. “Are you okay? Can I come in?”

“Go for it,” she says weakly. The door’s not locked, so I open it, and my heart stops. She’s curled up under the blanket on the couch, her face pale, her blonde hair a wildmess and falling out of a half-made bun. She looks both beautiful and tragic, cocooned with a kitten in her arms.

“Hey, baby,” I say, and I close the distance, sitting right next to her.

She pushes a hand out from under the blanket, trying to stop me. “Don’t get too close,” she says, her voice cracking like Parker’s was yesterday. She tugs the blanket up higher over her mouth and coughs into it. When she stops a second or two later, she says, “Go. Save yourself while you still can.”

I smile. “I’m not scared,” I say. Then I touch her forehead. She’s burning up. “Sweetheart, did you take any Tylenol?”

She shakes her head. “Not one hundred two.”

“I bet it is.” I hunt around for the thermometer, but I don’t spot it on the coffee table or anywhere in her living room.

She points weakly toward the stairs. “It’s upstairs. Kitchen.”

And that’s that. I scoop her up, blanket, kitten and all, locking her door on the way out, and carry her toward the main living room, Drama meowing dramatically of course as I go.

“Tyler,” Sabrina says, but her protest is half-hearted. “You can’t carry me upstairs.”

“I can and I am,” I say.

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