Chapter Fourteen
Tristan
I can’t bake for shit. Never have, probably never will.
I get the baking soda mixed up with the baking powder, I end up mixing too much or too little, I fuck up my ratios, and I inevitably end up with a goopy, inedible mess that is somehow both burned and raw.
I don’t know how the folks on the Great British Baking Show do it.
I once exploded an angel food cake in my oven.
If Paul Hollywood had seen that abomination, he would have had me dragged straight to the guillotine, or whatever execution devices the Brits are known for. Maybe the rack.
So baking isn’t an option, but I keep thinking about what Minerva said, about making things with her hands.
About love. Whenever I eat her food, or I go through the highly detailed charts she puts together, or open the luggage she packed just so, I have proof that she’s paying attention to my needs.
As my assistant, I appreciate her attention to detail.
As my… friend with benefits? Situationship?
Regardless of the label, I want to do something for her that makes her feel as cared for as I do.
I want her to feel treasured. Not tolerated. Not handled. Treasured.
But what am I supposed to do for the woman who thinks of everything?
The answer comes to me after an away game while I’m doomscrolling on my phone.
Since meeting Kepler, I’ve sought out the occasional ferret video, so they pop up in my feed from time to time.
I watch one featuring a mama and her kits, which look like tiny hair sausages.
Then, a video of two adults learning to use the talking buttons designed for dogs and cats. Then—
I sit bolt upright in bed, clutching my phone in both hands. “Yes. Holy shit, yes. That’s perfect.”
Flopping onto my back again, I bookmark the video for later. I’ll have time to sketch out my idea on the flight back to Vegas. I can’t bake to save my life, but this, I can do.
* * *
Kepler surveys the pile of wood, toys, hardware, and accessories. There’s no way he has any idea what I’m doing. Hell, I barely know. I have a plan, I have measurements, and I have the tools, but it’s been years since I built anything by hand, and I’ve never attempted anything half as fiddly.
I’ve never tried to build a whole world for someone before. But Min deserves that—something made with my hands and my heart, not just my schedule.
“You’d better appreciate this,” I tell him. “And you better tell your amazing mama how wonderful I am, so she does that koala thing again. And another bj wouldn’t be bad either.”
He stares at me so intensely, I think I might need to get him tiny ferret earmuffs to go with his goggles.
Minerva’s got the day off, and I talked Marley into taking her to a sports medicine conference, so I’ve got at least six hours to get this done.
“Okay, little man, here goes nothing.” I reach for my safety gear, check the battery on my drill, and get started.
My vision starts with a box. I’ve decided to make it about six feet tall, though it turns out to be a bit taller once I add the casters, so it’s easy to roll if we decide to move it later.
The back and sides of the rectangle are made of plywood, which I had cut to my desired measurements in the store, since I can’t very well set up a table saw in the condo.
The front of the box is just a wooden frame to hold the hardware cloth, which swings out in two panels, like the doors of a tall cabinet.
I nearly manage to take my own eye out with the pocket screws before I realize that I’m using the wrong bit, like a freaking idiot.
The hardware cloth gives me trouble, too, because I need to trim it slightly to fit the doors, which requires clippers.
I come this close to snipping off my pinkie while trying to hold the metal mesh flat, then nearly give myself a heart attack when Kepler runs off with a scrap of sharp wire.
“Get your butt back here, sir!” I command as I fish around under the sofa in search of the fluffy villain. God, Minerva loves this little chaos noodle. It makes me want to build him a whole universe just to see her smile. “If you poke your eye out, your mother will kill me.”
Kepler squeaks in dismay when I finally locate him and drag him out, but his eyes are intact, so that’s something.
Once the frame is done, I can move on to the fun stuff: ferret-sized shelves for Kepler to run around on, a bridge made with pieces of wood and eye-hooks, a dangly rope with a ball on the end, a stretch of see-through hamster tunnel, and the most important section of all: the wheel.
I don’t know if Kepler has ever seen a wheel before, but when I finally step back to admire my handiwork, his beady black eyes fixate on that wheel.
Instead of some flimsy hamster version, I got one that’s designed for cats.
It’s freestanding, and supposedly it can withstand all kinds of wear and tear.
Now, if only I can convince Kepler to use it.
Minerva keeps a container of baked chicken shreds in the refrigerator for treats. When I go to grab it, Kepler dances around my feet in anticipation. I set a few pieces on the wheel to lure him closer.
“Good job.” I rub his back with my finger while he eats. “Good job, bud, so brave. Want to take a couple of steps? See how you like it?”
Kepler’s sneaky when it comes to nipping the chicken out of my grasp before he has to take a single step, but eventually, I manage to get all four of his feet on the wheel. When I offer him a fresh morsel, he takes a step forward. The wheel rotates slightly. He freezes in alarm.
“You’re okay,” I coo. “Give it a chance, I think you’ll really—”
Kepler bolts. Except, because he’s running forward, all he manages to do is get the wheel going at about a hundred miles an hour.
I don’t know if that was the plan or if he started off scared before realizing that this wheel is the greatest thing to ever happen to him.
Either way, I’m left holding a piece of cooked chicken while Kepler enters a state of zoomie nirvana.
I don’t understand how such a little guy can have such a bottomless well of energy.
Kepler runs as fast as his tiny legs will carry him.
Eventually, he feints sideways, launches off the wheel, and surges up the twisting pipe of hamster tubing, all the way to the top of his new playground.
From there, he parkours down the platforms I’ve installed here and there, tackles the dangly toy, tumbles off a ledge, drops four inches to the floor in a breathless heap, and vaults back onto the wheel in one unbelievably fast, semiliquid motion.
“Damn, dude, wish I had your skills.” I chuckle to myself as I gather up my tools. I’m not sure what Minerva will think, but Kepler already loves it.
The pale surface of the plywood stands out in the kitchen.
Maybe I should stain it to match the rest of the furniture?
I’m not sure what I’d need to seal it with to make it safe for Kepler to play on, and it’s getting late.
Even if I ran out to the store right now, I wouldn’t be able to get a coat on before dark.
Once I’ve got my crap cleaned up, I settle onto the couch to do some stretches while researching safe stains for pet structures. If I’m going to share my space with this playpen, I want it to look good.
It takes Kepler twenty solid minutes of extreme zoomies and American Ninja Warrior-level exertion to tucker himself out. I’m deciding which of two pet-safe stains to order when he hops up onto the couch, clambers onto my chest, and sacks out.
“Oh, come on,” I complain. “At least give me time to get more comfortable.”
Kepler wriggles closer and nudges his head under my chin. He lets out the cutest fucking chirrup! I’ve ever heard in my life.
Well, goddamn it. I guess I’m stuck here now. Not the worst thing—being trapped under something Min loves.
Kepler’s dead asleep on my chest, making huffing noises against my collarbone. His body is warm and limp after his full cardio session on the wheel, and I’m scrolling mindlessly on my phone so I don’t accidentally wake him.
That’s when I see the unread messages in the family group chat.
Mostly memes from Ellie. Some blurry shots of my parents’ dog wearing a scarf. A photo of fresh cinnamon rolls that my mom probably made for Dad’s union meeting. I scroll back a few days. I haven’t said anything since Monday.
The guilt hits in a tender, familiar wave. They’re my anchor. And I’ve been drifting without meaning to.
I miss them.
I miss how my dad groans every time he gets out of a chair, insisting he doesn’t need a new knee. I miss my mom’s advice, always wrapped in passive-aggressive baking. I even miss my sisters yelling over each other like they're still twelve and playing Mario Kart.
My thumb hovers over the FaceTime button.
It’s not as if I have some big news. No trade, no injury, no championship. Just a ferret jungle gym and a girlfriend-who’s-not-a-girlfriend who I’m pretty sure owns my soul.
Min would tell me connection is good for my cortisol levels or some shit. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I just… miss being someone’s kid.
I hit the button anyway.
The screen rings once, twice, then flickers to life. Mom’s face fills the frame, backlit by the glow of the kitchen. She’s holding a whisk and wearing one of her oversized “This Is My Baking Shirt” tees.
“Tristan DuBois, you better not be calling to tell me you shaved your beard again.”
I laugh. “Hi, Mom.”
Her eyes crinkle with joy. “Hang on, hang on—girls! Your brother’s on the phone!”
I hear a distant thud, a chair scraping, and then chaos as the rest of the DuBois clan enters like a hurricane made of flannel and sarcasm.
And I melt right into it.
The screen splits as Ellie and Jules squeeze in beside Mom, both talking over each other.
“He lives! I thought you died or moved to space—”
“—or got recruited by some secret hockey cult—”
“—or fell off the face of the Earth—”
“Hi,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “Love the support, as always.”
Behind them, Dad ambles in with a mug of coffee. He’s still in his work boots. “Hey, Tris,” he says, calm as ever. “You break anything or just miss your mom’s lasagna?”
“Neither. I built something.”
Mom raises a skeptical brow. “Is it still standing?”
“Rude,” I deadpan. “It’s a ferret enclosure.”
Three beats of silence. Then Ellie blurts out, “You don’t have a ferret.”
“I do now.”
The girls shriek like I just told them I had a baby, and for once, I don’t feel the need to downplay anything. I want them to know my life. All of it.
“You got a pet?! What’s its name?! What does it look like?! Why didn’t you tell us?!”
I shift my phone to show Kepler, still passed out on my chest. “This is Kepler. And technically, he belongs to Minerva.”
Mom blinks. “Minerva?”
“My assistant,” I say, too fast. “Sort of. She started out that way. I guess. She’s—uh—she’s a lot more than that now.”
Ellie gasps and throws her hands up in the air. “Are you dating your assistant?”
“Yeah. I mean—yes. I am.” I look down at the sleeping ferret and add, “We’re… serious.”
Dad just nods. “About time one of you hooked someone smart.”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. They don’t even know her yet, and they’re already proud.
“She’s not just smart,” I say. “She’s brilliant. Kind. Weird in the best way.”
I don’t realize I’ve gone soft until Jules starts tearing up. “You really like her.”
“Yeah,” I say, without thinking. “It’s easy. Like breathing.”
The screen goes quiet.
Then Mom smiles, her pride shining through. “Well. That’s our boy.”
“She sounds amazing,” Ellie says, blinking fast. “I hope we get to meet her soon.”
“You will,” I promise. “We’re taking things slow, but it’s real. She makes me better, somehow. Not just on the ice.”
Ellie fake-wipes a tear. “He has emotions now. Alert the press.”
“Do you have a picture?” Jules leans forward. “Of you two together, I mean.”
I pull up the photo we took last week on the patio—Minerva in my hoodie, Kepler poking his head out of the pocket. I’m looking at her instead of the camera, and I don’t even care. I shoot it off in a text to Jules.
“Ohhhh, my God.” Jules claps her hands, staring at her phone. “She’s adorable. She’s so… glowy.”
Ellie nods from over her shoulder. “She has a good aura. I approve.”
Dad peers at the screen. “She’s the one who made that cinnamon sourdough you raved about last time we talked?”
“Yeah. She bakes when she’s anxious. I benefit.”
“She can stay,” he says.
“Do you think she’d be comfortable coming here for Christmas?” Mom asks gently. “No pressure, of course. I just… I’d love to feed her. And fuss over her a little.”
I smile. Or maybe I just selfishly want her woven into every part of my world. “I think she’d like that. Just don’t scare her. She’s never had family who gave a damn.”
That makes them all quiet.
Ellie breaks it first. “We’ll tone it down. A little.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jules mutters. “I already have a ferret-sized Santa hat picked out.”
Kepler stirs, chirping like he knows he’s being talked about.
“We should go,” Mom says, voice thick. “Let you rest. But thanks for calling. Really.”
“I love you guys,” I say, throat tight.
“We love you more,” they say in chorus.
The call ends, and the living room goes quiet. Lonely for half a breath. Then warm again, because of the girl whose shadow fills this place even when she’s gone.
Kepler sighs as I stroke one finger down his spine, gentle, careful not to disturb him.
My hand’s still wrapped around the phone, screen gone dark.
But I can still see their faces in my head—Mom, Dad, my ridiculous sisters.
All of them smiling like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to hear from me.
It hits me harder than I expect.
I didn’t realize how much I missed them.
Not just their voices, but the ease. The way they just… see me. Not as a commodity or a paycheck or an NHL forward with good stats. Just their son. Their brother. Still the kid who built forts in the woods and cried when our dog got sick.
I swallow hard and lean my head back against the couch cushion.
Min’s not even here, and somehow she’s the reason I made that call.
She builds things. That’s what she does. Not just devices and charts and endless ferret spreadsheets. She builds safety. Trust. She built a home here and let me in. And now I want her in every part of mine.
I tap the screen back on and open our shared album. The one I titled Science Babe + Ferret Dad, because I’m a little whipped and don’t care who knows it.
I scroll past blurry selfies, half-eaten pastries, and the one where Kepler is mid-sneeze. I find the one I need. Min on my lap, curled under my arm, holding a beaker of hot chocolate.
I hit Share and send it to my mom.
No text.
No explanation.
Just this is the girl that’s starting to mean everything to me.
And if I’m lucky, she’s my future.