Page 100 of ICED
She preens. Maya just rolls her eyes fondly. “I think she thought shewasplaying. Every time you had the puck, she yelled, ‘That’s my Bear!’ and nearly deafened Sophie.”
“Worth it,” Sophie calls from a bench nearby. “I’ve got nothing but time and swollen ankles.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Maya asks her. “You’re due in, what, five minutes?”
“Ten days,” Sophie groans. “Which feels like ten years. But seriously, thank you for tonight. It was nice. Normal. Loud, chaotic, wonderful.”
Maya blushes.
Lila tugs on my hand. “Can we have pizza now? You promised if you won we get pizza.”
“I did promise, didn’t I?” I look to Maya. “Still good for it?”
She nods. “If I say no, she might mutiny.”
We walk out together, Lila skipping between us, holding both our hands. Maya leans her head briefly on my shoulder.
“Your hockey family is terrifying,” she murmurs. “But weirdly lovely.”
“They’re yours now too.”
She exhales, and I feel it, not just her breath, but the weight leaving her. The comfort settling in. The choice she’s made to stop bracing for everything to fall apart.
She chose me.
And I’ll keep choosing her. Sofa neck cricks and all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
JACKO
We follow Murphy and Sophie out of the stadium. She waddles to the car with a dramatic sigh and a sarcastic, “Try not to have too much fun without me.” Lila shouts, “BYE BABY!” out the window like the baby can hear her, and Sophie just grins, hand on her enormous bump.
I drive us home in comfortable silence, one hand on the wheel, the other loosely tangled with Maya’s in her lap. Lila’s already nodding off in her car seat, clutching her foam paw like it’s a teddy. Maya’s quiet, her head resting back, lips curved into that soft smile she reserves for moments like this, when things feel normal.
Safe.
When we get to hers, I carry a half-asleep Lila upstairs while Maya unlocks the door. She’s heavier than she looks, all dead weight and tangled limbs, but she murmurs, “Bear?” against my chest like she knows it’s me, and my heart does this ridiculous flip.
Inside, the flat smells of lavender and home. Maya kicks her shoes off and heads to put the kettle on while I settle Lila into bed. She stirs, mumbling, “I want pizza crusts for breakfast,” and I tuck her in with a kiss to her forehead.
“Dream big, Jellybean.”
When I step into the living room, Maya’s already got teawaiting on the table and that soft throw blanket, the one I’ve been sleeping under, draped across the back of the sofa.
“Thanks for driving,” she says, passing me a mug. “And for winning. Lila thinks she’s your good luck charm now.”
“She’s not wrong.”
We stand there, close but not touching, until Maya reaches for me. I don’t even think about it, I pull her in and kiss her.
It starts slow. Familiar. The kind of kiss we’ve shared in the stolen seconds between Lila distractions and sofa boundaries. But tonight, something shifts. The weight of the game, of her laugh in the stands, of Lila in my jersey, it all presses in.
We’re still kissing when a little voice pipes up behind us.
“Bear, are you Mummy’s boyfriend now?”
We both freeze.
