Page 28 of Daddies on Ice
“Promise!” Becky crows.
“Promise,” Krystal echoes, soft but firm.
We say our goodbyes to Ms. Harper and the volunteers.
I snag the banner and the tape and my clipboard and somehow also Becky, who has turned into a live wire of sleepover joy.
We follow Carl and Krystal to the parking lot, our breath fogging hosting in the cold.
Carl buckles Krystal in the backseat with competent grandpa hands.
“She’s got a book and spare clothes in her backpack,” he says through the open window. “Sorry, no pjs.”
I grin. “She can borrow Becky’s. They should fit fine. We’ve got spare toothbrushes too.”
He nods. Watching me then the girls in the back. “She sleeps with the night-light on.”
“Got it.” My stomach clenches, my heart pounding at this new soft side to him.
He looks like he has more to say then thinks better of it. “Text if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
He shuts the door and goes to his car.
Krystal waves with both hands like she’s signaling a plane. Becky waves back so hard she hits herself in the forehead and giggles.
We head home with the radio low and the heat up, the two girls narrating their friendship in the back seat like a podcast series, and my heart finally calms.
By the time I park in front of our apartment, they’ve decided they’re both queens, and both allergic to bedtime.
I let them race up the stairs with strict instructions not to touch the railing with their tongues because children are eternal science experiments.
Inside, the apartment looks like a luggage explosion. Two suitcases sit open my bed. Half my closet is on the chair.
Becky’s tiny Thunderwolves hoodie hangs on the closet knob like a mascot.
I have a list on the kitchen counter:passes, chargers, snacks, meds, Becky’s headphones, glitter crayons (non-negotiable), backup story time props.I addKrystal’s toothbrush?and underline it three times.
The girls make a fort out of couch cushions and blankets and immediately become queens of Blanketland.
I heat up leftover soup, hand out crackers and apple slices, and listen to them invent rules about who is allowed in the blanket.
My phone lights up on the counter, the ID showing it’s from an unknown caller.
Every muscle in my neck tenses. I answer anyway. “Hello?”
Silence. A breath, maybe. Nothing else.
“Hello?” I repeat.
Nothing. Then the call is disconnected.
Probably spam.
Could be a reporter with a hidden number.
I set the phone down and make a note to put unknown numbers straight to voicemail.
