Page 36 of Sweet Thing

“We’ll talk more when you get back.”Right.The poor guy didn’t want to be discussing this with me. I was just the help.

“Yeah, we will. And Adeline?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

My heart went into a pitter patter. Foolish, so foolish. “I’m happy to help. Go get ’em, tiger.”

The line went dead. I closed my eyes, cringing at my absolute absurdity.Go get ’em, tiger.How was I still upright after that?

Mabel was tuckered out,so I was able to put her down in Mom and Dad’s room just as the game was starting. I kept the baby monitor on the end table as I settled in with the women I’d watched games with for the last twenty years. All my life, I’d known this crew—my mom, my great-gran, Vi, Rosie, Ashley, who was married to Dex O’Malley, and their daughters, Willa, Jenny, and Bea. The Kershaw women wore pink Theo’s Tarts jackets, a tradition started by Aurora who used to gather her granny brigade and bring them along to home games. We were a noisy lot, with the constant trash talk masking the worry that our guys might fall victim to injury at any minute.

Seeing Dad gliding onto the ice always got our blood pumping, but it was extra fun to see Hatch on the bench as well. Dad’s dream was to play with his eldest son—now I can retire happy, he’d say, but I knew he wanted more. Like playoffs-more. Finals-more. He had played with the Rebels for most of his career, and that team had won the Cup four times. A fifth wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, and to do it with his son? That would be legendary.

At the first break, the Rebels were up 2-0, and Tilly was yawning.

“Silly Tilly needs her Zs,” I said, nuzzling her head. Her hair was starting to come in thick, leaving us in no doubt as to her Kershaw bona fides.

“No Zs!”

Before my mom could make a move, I stood and reached for my little sister. “Come on, Til.”

She jutted her bottom lip and pouted. “I need a song.”

I sighed heavily, my usual opening salvo in the negotiation. “Okay. But only if you brush your teeth for the whole five minutes.”

“One minute.”

“Two, or I won’t be able to find my guitar.”

Tilly bolted for the stairs, which made everyone laugh. My mom sent me a look of gratitude, and four minutes later after arguments about rinsing her mouth (swallowing your toothpaste won’t keep your stomach clean), whether she could sleep in her Theo’s Tarts jacket (it’s only for games), and which of her jim-jams should get the royal nod (you only need one pair of Baby Shark shorts, not two), she was settled under the covers with Ducky, her favorite toy. Lars had given it to her two Christmases ago, and I had assumed she’d have moved on by now, but us Kershaw girls had a lot in common. It was hard to leave the fine Finn in your rearview.

“What should we sing about?”

“Duckman.”

“Ducky?” I patted the soft and worn toy, tucked in beside her. I had a song for him, like I had for most of her toys and favorite things.

“No, Duckman! Uncle Lars!”

Uncle Lars, huh?

I picked up the Martin guitar, pulled the strap over my shoulder, and settled it in my lap. The weight was familiar against my body, like welcoming an old friend. After my family, I’d missed playing guitar the most. It wasn’t feasible to carry it around on my travels, but I kept my hand in by playing recorded background music when I called home to sing to Tilly.

Strumming the strings, I picked out a C chord. The guitar was slightly out of tune and would need to be restrung, but it was good enough for a lullaby. To the tune ofTwinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, I started quietly so as not to wake Mabel in the room next door.

“Duckman, Duckman, on the ice … Skating faster than the mice.”

Tilly whispered, “Mice.”

“With your silly beard so thick … How you move about so quick …”

“Duckmaaaan …”

I strummed and waited until Tilly joined in, “Duckmaaaan!”

“On the ice,” I continued. “Skating faster than the …”

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