The Pucking Player

29. Alaska is for Ex-Boyfriends

29

ALASKA IS FOR EX-BOYFRIENDS

SOPHIE

T he hum of my car engine fills the silence as I turn onto the familiar street. Sunday dinner feels more like a walk of shame tonight. The Victorian house looms ahead, looking exactly like it always has—the intricate trim, the steeply pitched roof, the wraparound porch where I’ve spilled so many secrets to my sister over the years.

Where I gushed about Liam just a few weeks ago. God, what an idiot.

This evening is unusually mild for New York, hints of spring softening the winter’s edges. As I pull into the driveway, I spot Jessica and Mom on the porch swing, wine glasses in hand. Mom’s still in her court clothes, a perfectly tailored suit that fits her tall frame like a glove. She could’ve stepped right off the cover of Forbes Women , except for the way she’s kicked off her heels to curl up on the swing. Next to her, Jessica is her mirror image, all sleek dark waves and sharp green eyes that can cut you down at fifty paces. They look relaxed together, like my world hasn’t just imploded. Like there aren’t photos of Liam and Olivia Carrington plastered all over social media. Like I haven’t spent the last three days alternating between crying and pretending I don’t care.

You knew better. You knew exactly who he was.

Jessica lifts her glass in greeting as I climb the porch steps. Mom wordlessly hands me her own glass of red, then pulls another from the side table she keeps stocked for exactly these kinds of emergencies. Because Margaret Novak believes in being prepared for everything, whether it’s a surprise motion in court or a daughter’s heartbreak. The wine sloshes slightly as I sink between them on the swing, the familiar creak of the chains and the proximity of their bodies comforting. Just like old times: Mom in the middle, me and Jessica flanking her.

For a long moment, we sit in silence, the gentle sway of the swing matching the rhythm of my breathing. No questions. No platitudes. Just the three of us, like countless evenings before, when boys broke my heart in high school or college acceptance letters went the wrong way. Or when we were much younger, when we used to crawl into our parents’ bed, crowding and pressing into our mom.

Though the night is warm, I huddle deeper into my coat, taking a long sip of wine. The moment stretches, broken only by distant traffic and the soft whisper of budding leaves in the breeze.

“Please don’t make me see him again.” My voice comes out ragged. “The Valentine’s Day PR date...I just can’t do it.”

Jessica leans over and puts her hand on my knee. “Already canceled. And I have to tell you, watching Dad try to convince Rothschild that his star player needs to be traded to Seattle was quite a spectacle.”

“Seattle?” Mom arches a perfect eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Last I heard him fuming, he was pitching Alaska. ”

“No, Alaska was reserved for Tommy Jenkins when he asked me to Junior prom.” Jessica grins. “Dad had his hockey leagues hierarchically organized by then.”

“Ah yes, Tommy.” Mom swirls her wine, the ruby liquid catching the porch light. “He’s a partner at a hedge fund now. Probably for the best, your father would’ve ruined his hockey career.” She pauses, something shifting in her expression. “But seriously now,” she continues thoughtfully, “everyone talks about my choice to step back from corporate law like it was this great sacrifice. A textbook cautionary tale about giving up your dreams for a man.”

Jessica and I exchange glances. We’ve heard variations of this story our whole lives, usually as warnings, red flags to watch for in our own futures.

“Life can get messy and confusing,” she continues, her voice softening. “Especially while you are young. When I fell in love with your father, it felt like...like finding a missing piece of myself. Like becoming whole in a way I didn’t even know was possible. It’s what we all search for in love, that feeling of completeness with another person.”

“But you gave up being partner,” Jessica says quietly.

“I did.” Mom takes a slow sip of wine, late afternoon sunrays reflecting off the rim of her glass. “And I resented myself. Questioned my choice. Then Jessica came along, and I found myself losing my identity in motherhood too. It’s what love does to you, you see. Whether it’s for a partner or a child, it makes you want to merge completely.”

I think about Liam, about how easily I’d started reorganizing my future around him. How natural and right it had felt. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Losing yourself?”

“No, sweetheart.” Mom shifts to face me, her eyes bright with hard-won wisdom. “The problem is thinking it has to be one or the other. That you have to choose between love and self, between heart and ambition.” She laughs softly. “It took me twenty years to figure out that balance doesn’t mean equal parts at all times. Sometimes love takes the lead, sometimes ambition does. The trick is not letting either one consume you completely.”

“Is that when you went back full time?” Jessica asks.

“Yes. I finally understood that there is time and space in life for everything. Being Mark Novak’s wife, and being your mother, those things don’t prevent me from being successful in my profession. Despite what people say, it is absolutely possible to have it all at the same time. You don’t have to choose.”

I think about Stanford, my dream school. About Columbia and the possibility of having both love and freedom, if there was still anything to have.

“But how do you know?” I whisper, my voice small. “How do you know what’s right when everything feels wrong?”

Mom wraps an arm around each of us, pulling us close like she did when we were little. “Oh, my brilliant, careful girls. You follow your heart, not just your head. Our world puts logic on a pedestal, tells us to ignore our feelings. But I’ve learned differently. Yes, make your spreadsheets and decision trees.” She smiles my way, no doubt as a dig at my color-coded planning habits. “But in the end, trust your gut. It knows.”

“Being with Liam felt right, Mom,” I whisper, tears finally breaking free. “It felt so right.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulls me closer. “Heartbreak doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. It’s just part of finding your way.”

“Even if the man in question is currently dating pop stars?” I try to joke through my tears .

“Even then.” Mom kisses my temple. “Because here’s what I’ve learned: the right love, the real kind, doesn’t ask you to be less. It challenges you to be more. To find that balance between merging and maintaining, between giving and growing.”

“Like you and Dad?” Jessica asks softly.

“Like me and your father. Like me and my career. Like me and motherhood.” She squeezes us both. “The heart is infinitely expandable, girls. You don’t have to choose between loving fully and living fully. You just have to do both at once.”

We sit in silence, letting her words settle. The swing creaks gently, the wine warms our bellies, and somewhere in my chest, something that felt knotted begins to loosen.

“Besides,” Mom adds with a flash of her courtroom smile, “any man worth loving will be worth the work of finding that balance. And any man not worth it, well, that’s where furious fathers come in handy.”

Jessica snorts wine through her nose, and just like that, the heavy moment breaks into laughter. But Mom’s words sink into my heart, a compass pointing toward something I’m not sure I can see yet.

Trying to lighten the mood, I wipe my eyes and grin. “Remember when Dad installed those motion sensor lights because he was convinced guys were creeping around?”

Jessica groans. “The neighbors thought we were having a disco party every time a squirrel went by.”

The silly banter helps, even if it can’t quite thaw the ice in my chest that Liam left behind.

“Speaking of Dad’s security measures,” a deep voice cuts in, “I told you O’Connor was trouble.”

Just as I thought I’d escaped the “I told you so” parade.

We look up to find Adam filling the doorway, all six-foot- three of big brother rage. His dark hair is still damp from practice, curling slightly at the edges—and probably already featured in at least twelve TikToks from thirsty fans. I swear, the man can’t touch his toes without it becoming viral content. But right now, his unfairly photogenic face is set in murder mode, jaw clenched so tight I’m worried he might crack a tooth.

“Not helping, buttface,” Jessica hisses under her breath.

Adam runs a hand through his hair, his signature move when he’s agitated, and coincidentally the same that’s earned him millions of views under #hockeyboyhair. “I’m just saying, if he wasn’t such a?—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Jessica cuts in with a hiss, leaning closer, “I’m telling everyone about the t?—”

Adam shoots me a look that could turn Medusa to stone while Jessica gives that little smirk of hers. He glances between us, confusion morphing into dawning horror as he catches my apologetic shrug. The moment it clicks— that his secret artistic adventure is no longer just between us—his face goes through the five stages of grief in about two seconds flat.

Oh yes, big brother. Your baby sister might have accidentally spilled about that hockey stick with “ fortis fortuna adiuvat” tattooed on your butt. The same brother who practically needed smelling salts when I got my ears double-pierced is rocking a motivation poster on his ass. His eyes go wide with betrayal as realization hits, and I mouth “sorry” while Jessica’s grin grows positively feral. The look he gives me promises revenge, but the panic in his eyes when Jessica wiggles her eyebrows suggests he knows he’s totally screwed.

I mean, what would Daddy Dearest say if he knew his star winger was walking around with Latin inspirational quotes on his backside? Something tells me “fortune favors the bold” wasn’t quite what he had in mind for the family motto.

“What was that?” Mom’s lawyer voice slides in—the one that made her a legend in corporate law before she scaled back to support Dad’s hockey career.

“Just telling Adam how his new pre-game stretching routine is trending on TikTok again,” Jessica covers smoothly, channeling the same quick thinking that made Mom such a force in the courtroom. “It’s better PR than anything else we might have manufactured.”

Mom’s eyes narrow slightly—she didn’t survive twenty years of balancing a law career with being a coach’s wife by missing details—but she graciously lets it slide. The Margaret Chen who used to go for the jugular in court has learned when to pick her battles at home. “Well, if you’re all done plotting whatever it is you’re plotting, dinner’s almost ready. Adam, please go in and help your father set the table.”

“Mom,” Adam protests, “I’m not twelve anymore.”

“No, you’re a grown man who eats my food every Sunday.” Mom leans back, raising her glass with the kind of elegant authority that reminds me of all she gave up and all she became anyway. “You guys need to work for it while we girls finish our drinks here. Fair is fair.”

I chuckle, the ache in my chest easing, if only a little. Even if one of my siblings is plotting homicide, the other’s plotting blackmail, and Mom’s probably already drafted a motion to have Liam legally banned from the state of New York.

“Okay, Mom, in a minute,” he delays, turning back to me. “I warned you about O’Connor, baby sis. ”

“Adam.” Mom’s voice carries that tone that used to send us scurrying as kids.

He looks at her, then softens slightly, leaning down to press a kiss to my temple. “If this makes it better, you should’ve seen practice yesterday. Dad had him doing suicide sprints between every drill for two hours straight. Just as O’Connor thought he was done, Dad would just blow that whistle again.”

He takes my wine glass and steals a sip, then gives it back.

“By the second hour his legs were shaking so bad he could barely stay upright,” he continues, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Then Dad made him do stick handling drills until his shoulders nearly gave out. Made him take slap shots while critiquing every tiny flaw in his form.”

“Jesus, Adam,” Jessica mutters. “You sound way too happy about this.”

He shrugs. “Yep. It’s way better for team morale than me slamming into him in the changing room on the daily. It gives me satisfaction to watch him suffer and keeps team coherence. I especially enjoy watching the extra conditioning after every practice. And there’s a silver lining for him too. He’s gonna be in top form.” Adam grins deviously. “The day before yesterday he had to do wall-sits between drills. Today it was body weight Bulgarian split squats until muscle failure.” He chuckles. “Which is a lot of reps with hockey player thigh muscles, let me tell ya.”

I wince. Suicide sprints are brutal enough for five minutes, let alone hours.

“Isn’t that a bit much with playoffs coming up?” Mom asks carefully.

“I trust that Dad knows exactly what he’s doing. Pushing him just hard enough to make him hurt, but not enough to impact his game performance. Though I have to say,” Adam grins, “seeing our mighty captain puke in the trash can after that last round of sprints was epic.”

We stay silent, looking at Adam in shock.

“I’ll go set that table and then distract Dad with chess.” He clears his throat once he notices our terrified faces. “Maybe by the time you are finished with your drinks, he’ll have worked through some of his ‘trade Liam to Siberia’ plans.”

“Siberia?” Jessica raises an eyebrow, smirking. “We’re expanding our geographical range, I see.”

“Hey, a guy can dream.” Adam straightens up, his expression lightening. “Don’t worry, sis. O’Connor’s learning what happens when you mess with a Novak. “

“Adam—”

“He means well,” Mom says softly.

“Don’t they both?” Jessica nods. “In their overprotective, slightly terrifying, Novak way.”

I take another sip of wine, letting the familiar comfort of being tucked in next to my mom wash over me. “I just wish...” I trail off, not sure how to finish.

“That it didn’t hurt?” Mom suggests gently.

“That he wasn’t such an ass?” Jessica offers.

“That Dad hadn’t installed those motion sensor lights years ago so I could wallow in darkness properly.”

That gets a laugh from both of them, and for a moment, it’s enough to wipe away the dread of having to face Dad.

Eventually, I can’t delay it anymore, and we have to head inside. The familiar scent of Mom’s cooking wafts from the kitchen as she peels off to check on dinner. Jessica and I find Dad and Adam in the library, hunched over the chessboard in deep concentration. Just like every Sunday.

Dad’s got that intense look he gets during playoff strategizing, the one that says his mind is mapping out possibilities five moves ahead. Adam’s pieces are scattered aggressively across the board, typical of his attacking style, while Dad’s formation is more defensive, methodically controlling the center.

I move behind Dad’s chair, resting my hand on his broad shoulder. Without looking up, he covers my hand with his, giving it a gentle squeeze. No lectures about poor judgment. No “I told you so’s.” Just warmth and silent support.

“Check,” Adam announces, sliding his knight forward to threaten Dad’s king.

Dad studies the board, absently patting my hand. “Hmm. Aggressive move, son. But you’ve left your queen exposed.”

“Have I?” Adam leans back, cocky. “Or is that what I want you to think?”

Jessica circles around to study the board. “Oh, Adam. You always fall for his queen-side trap.”

“Not this time,” Adam insists, but there’s uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Dad shifts his bishop, revealing a pin on Adam’s queen. “Mate in three.”

“What? No way.” Adam hunches forward, scanning the board frantically. “I can still... If I move my rook...”

“Nope.” Jessica grins. “You’re done, buttface. Should’ve protected your back rank instead of charging in like a fool.”

“Speaking of charging in without thinking,” Adam mutters, shooting me a pointed look.

But Dad just squeezes my hand again, cutting off whatever lecture Adam was about to launch into. “Good game, son. You’re getting better at seeing the combinations. Just remember, sometimes the best offense is a solid defense.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on any of us, but Dad’s voice holds nothing but love. He tugs gently on my hand until I bend down, and he places a kiss on my temple.

“Another game after dinner?” he asks Adam, standing up. “This time try not to sacrifice your queen for a tactical advantage that isn’t there.”

I catch the slight quirk of his lips, the way his eyes flick meaningfully toward me for just a second. But there’s no reprimand there. Just understanding and support.

And somehow, that makes it both better and worse.