Page 9 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie
I chuckle, shaking my head, as I follow her, and lean against the wall, watching them with a grin.
Mom comes over and nudges me. “You’re doing a great job with them, you know.”
I glance at her. “Yeah?”
She nods. “Yeah. What single dad would raise their kids to be as good as this?”
Sighing, I rub my hand through my hair, “But they don’t relate well with kids their age, even most adults. They are so anti-social and it worries me.”
Mom squeezes my arm. “Blake, honey, they’re only four. Some kids are social butterflies right out of the gate, and others take their time.”
I exhale, running a hand down my face. “Yeah, but what if they never outgrow it? What if they always keep to themselves?”
She gives me a knowing look. “And what if they’re just waiting for the right people to come along? You know, not everyone needs a big crowd to feel comfortable. Some kids take a little longer to find their people.”
I let that sink in, my eyes drifting to Mia and Nico as they excitedly rummage through their new gifts.
“You were the same way, you know,” she adds. “Quiet, picky about who you let in…, until hockey.”
I huff out a laugh. "Yeah. I barely spoke to anyone outside of you, Dad, and Coach."
"Exactly," she says. "And look at you now - star goalie, handling media like it’s second nature." She squeezes my arm."Again, some kids just take their time. And even if they stay a little reserved, that’s not a bad thing. Maybe they just haven’t found their ‘hockey’ yet!”
That makes me pause. “I just want them to be happy, mom.”
“They are happy, Blake.” She gestures toward them. “Look at them. They have a dad who loves them more than anything. And they have each other.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah…, they do.”
Mom pats my arm. "You’re good with them, Blake."
I glance at the hallway where they disappeared, a warmth settling in my chest. "They’re my world, Mom. I just don’t want them to struggle, you know? Especially feeling the absence of a mother."
She squeezes my arm gently. "They won’t. You’re raising them with love, patience, and a good dose of magic tricks. They’ll be just fine. Just keep being their dad, Blake.”
But as I stand there, watching my kids squeal with excitement over their gifts. These kids—they’ve got me wrapped around their tiny fingers, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Suddenly, my mind drifts for just a moment.
Back to the airport.
Back to Whitney.
Chapter three
Whitney
The road curves like a ribbon unraveling ahead of me. Wind whips through my open window, cold and sharp, but I don’t roll it up. I let it sting my cheeks, tangle my hair - anything to keep me grounded as I drive through the familiar streets of Autumn Cove.
I exhale slowly, watching as the familiar town stretches out before me. Even in the early spring chill, the streets are alive with color and movement. Storefronts are draped in pastel banners, bouquets of fresh flowers line the sidewalks, and families move in and out of shops, their arms full of decorations. The Bloomtide Festival is coming up, and as always, the town is buzzing with energy.
It’s beautiful. Just as I remember it.
A group of kids races past, their laughter ringing through the crisp air. At a corner bakery, an elderly couple sits outside, steaming mugs of coffee in hand. The scent of cinnamon and sugar drifts through the air.
For a second, warmth spreads through me. Nostalgia. A soft, bittersweet ache. A part of me misses this. A part of me misseseverything if I’m being honest. I grip the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting on the open window.
After about thirty minutes, I pull up in front of a three-story house that looks exactly the same as it did when I left.
Painted in a soft cream color and nestled between towering oak trees whose bare branches sway gently in the breeze. The wraparound porch, once my favorite spot for lazy summer afternoons, still has the same two rocking chairs that creaked under my weight when I was a kid. A porch swing hangs to the right, swaying slightly in the wind. Mom’s touch is everywhere - potted plants lined neatly along the steps, a fresh wreath on the door, a welcome mat that readsHome is where the coffee is.
