Chapter 23
Drew
I didn’t sleep.
We’d beaten St. Louis 3–1. They came hard, heavy on the forecheck, but we answered early and never let them dictate pace.
Miguel read them like he’d studied their breathing.
Glove, blocker, pad, chest—he absorbed everything St. Louis threw at him, every rebound dying against his gear.
Goalies “standing on their head,” that’s what people call it when a netminder steals you a game.
I’d said those words for years, but last night, I felt them.
He was… beautiful out there. Not pretty.
Beautiful. Balanced, calm, economy of movement, shoulders set, eyes locked in.
He moved like music—nothing wasted, nothing panicked.
We went into the third up 2–1. They threw everything at him—players blocking his sightlines, rebounds, chaos—but he didn’t flinch.
When the horn blew and the scoreboard read 3–1, the building shook, the crowd erupted.
Gloves and sticks scattered, the boys thundering toward the bench.
Across the ice, Miguel lifted his mask, breath fogging in the cold air, and our eyes met. Just for a heartbeat.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice—at least I hoped not—but long enough for the spark that look caused to shoot up my spine.
I drove home wired and woke up empty.
Six years.
By 8:55, I was in the community center lot, palms too dry on the steering wheel. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed glass. The sun was out, the air too bright for a day like this.
Inside, the room hadn’t changed.
Same burned coffee smell. Same folding chairs in a quiet circle. Same cheap art print of a lighthouse taped crooked on the wall. Like calm could be stapled to drywall.
Marsha sat in her usual spot with that steady, grounded posture of hers. “Hi, Drew,” she said gently.
George was there—work-rough hands folded on his knees.
Sarah, shoulders small but jaw set. Zachary, hood up, leg bouncing so hard his shoe tapped the tile.
Two new people were present: a woman with silver braids pulled back tight and eyes that scanned the exits, and a guy in his forties in a button-down that didn’t quite fit, like he’d lost weight too fast.
“First names only,” Marsha said, gentle as ever. “Share what you can. We witness, we don’t fix.”
George started. “I’m George,” he said. “Today I caught myself talking to my Edith in the kitchen. Asked if she’d seen my glasses. They were on my head.” His mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a sob. “I guess that’s… something.”
A thread of soft, respectful laughter moved through the room. Not at him. With him.
Marsha’s eyes softened. “That’s connection,” she said quietly. “It sneaks in on ordinary days.”
Sarah went next. “I’m Sarah. My son lived twelve days,” she said. “His clothes are still in the dresser. I can’t pack them away yet. I thought I’d be able to by now.”
Marsha’s voice was gentle but steady. “That’s a hard step, Sarah. Sometimes holding on is part of healing too—its own small ritual. You’ll know when the time’s right.”
Zachary cleared his throat. “I’m Zachary. My mom died in June.” His voice shook, but he kept going. “Everybody keeps telling me to ‘stay busy.’ I’m busy all day and then at night I just feel stupid and alone.” He looked down, knuckles white where he gripped his own wrist. “So I’m here.”
The room went quiet. Marsha nodded. “Busy doesn’t mean better,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”
“I’m Drew,” I said. My voice felt like it had to fight through my chest to get out. “It’s six years today. My wife and our daughter died in a plane crash.”
Saying it out loud still hit like a body check you never saw coming.
“I thought…” I exhaled, slow. “I thought by six years I’d be—I don’t know—functional. Stable.” I let out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “And in a lot of ways I am. I’ve got a job. I show up. I keep the routines going: practice, travel, meetings. Stay busy enough not to feel too much.”
No one looked away.
I rubbed my thumb over the knuckle of my opposite hand, trying to keep my breathing even. “You told us a few weeks ago to make a ritual,” I said, glancing at Marsha. “Something that’s ours.”
She dipped her chin in that small way of hers that meant keep going.
“So I cook,” I said, letting the words hang there a second.
“Wednesday nights, if I’m in town and not on the road.
My wife used to do Sundays—pasta night. After they died, I kept it up for a while, thinking maybe the smell or the taste would make the absence feel less final.
Then one Sunday it hit me—they weren’t coming home—and I stopped.
Couldn’t step into the kitchen to cook a real meal for years.
But now, when I cook, it feels like she’s there again.
I can almost hear her humming while the pan sizzles. ”
My throat tightened. I pushed through it.
“The first time…” I said quietly, “I shared it with someone.”
I could see Miguel in my head like he was still sitting at my table—forearms braced on wood. The way his voice seemed like he was half-singing when he got animated or teasing, the way it filled my dead-quiet apartment and made it feel like somewhere someone actually lived.
Marsha’s voice was soft. “That’s a beautiful ritual, Drew. You brought life back into something that held loss.”
The woman with the silver braids spoke for the first time.
“Hi, I’m Beverly.” Her smile was tentative.
“The first time I let anybody sit in my husband’s chair, I almost threw up,” she said.
Her voice had grit in it, but also warmth.
“Then I realized the empty chair wasn’t what made him mine.
Loving him did. That doesn't leave just because someone else is in the room.”
Marsha gave a small nod, the kind that said stay with that truth.
The man in the button-down let out a breath. “I’m Luis,” he said quietly. “My brother was my person. I’m only here because the hospital lady wouldn’t stop calling. Today’s three weeks.” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You showed up, Luis,” Marsha said gently. “That’s the first step, and it’s the hardest one.”
Marsha looked around the circle. “Anniversaries are heavy,” she said softly. “Not because grief comes back, but because love doesn’t leave. Love wants a place to land. Ritual gives it a place.”
Her eyes returned to me. “And letting someone sit in that ritual with you?” She smiled, just a little. “That’s not moving on, Drew. That’s moving with.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, not right then. My jaw locked; my eyes burned in that way I always hated.
But I nodded.
That was enough.
Outside, the sun sat too bright on the cracked asphalt of the lot. I stood by my truck and watched my own reflection waver in the driver’s side glass. The reflection staring back wasn’t any different, but somehow, I felt like I was.
Six years ago today I lost my life. That part was still true.
But for the first time since, something in me didn’t feel dead.
Without letting myself think, I unlocked the truck, slid in, and drove off. There were some places I needed to be.
*****
The shop air was cool and green with the scent of stems and soil. I went straight to the lilies—Laura’s favorites—and picked out a few daisies for Ellie. She’d called them sunshine flowers when she was little. I still could hear her saying it, that tiny burst of pride when she got the words right.
The florist wrapped them in paper the color of sand, tied it with a thin gold ribbon. It felt too pretty for grief, but maybe that was the point.
By the time I reached the cemetery, the winter sun was high enough to warm the stone but not the air. I crouched between their names—Laura Jane Mackenzie and Ellie Grace Mackenzie—and laid the flowers between them.
“Six years,” I murmured. “Some days it feels like yesterday. Some days it feels like forever.”
The words hung in the air, fragile, absurd.
My fingers traced Lauren’s name, the grooves cool against my skin. When a tear fell, it landed right in the curve of the L. I let it stay there.
“I miss you,” I said. “Every day. Every damn day.”
Wind skimmed through the bare trees, and for a heartbeat it felt like they were listening.
“When I married you, Em,” I said softly, “I didn’t think there’d ever be room in me for anything else. Then Ellie came along, and somehow my heart just—expanded. You two were everything. I didn’t need anything else. Didn’t want anything else.”
My throat burned. “And then, that day… it all just—” I stopped, swallowed hard. “You know the rest.”
The silence pressed in, steady as the cold.
“I still talk to you in my head,” I said.
“Still try to make sense of it. But lately—” I exhaled.
“Lately something’s shifted. There’s someone,” I said quietly.
“I didn’t plan it. Didn’t even see it coming.
He makes the quiet less heavy… makes me notice things again. Not like before—just different.”
I gave a shaky half-laugh. “It’s complicated. You’d probably tease me for that.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “He’s… a man.” The word left my mouth in a whisper that felt heavier than shouting. “I kissed him, Em. And for a second I thought the world would tilt off its axis. But it didn’t. It just—felt like breathing.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “It’s wrong in a hundred ways. He’s younger. He’s one of my players. This—this isn’t supposed to happen. But it did.”
I stared at the flowers until the colors blurred.
“I don’t want to feel like I’m betraying you. God, I’d never—” My voice cracked. “But maybe… maybe you’d tell me it’s okay to keep living. To let something new in, even if it doesn’t look like what we had.”
Another tear hit the stone, darkening the carved letters. I pressed my palm flat over it. The granite was cold, unyielding. Still, I felt something ease in my chest—like the stone had taken a little of the weight.
“I love you,” I whispered to my girls. “Both of you. Always will.” The wind shifted. “I think…” I swallowed. “I think I’m ready to live again.”
The lilies stirred in a small breeze, the paper around them soft with dew. I took it as a sign. Or maybe just the world reminding me it keeps going, whether I do or not.
I sat in the grass until the damp bled through my jeans. When I finally stood, the weight was still there, but it wasn’t crushing anymore. It felt like something I could carry.
I pressed two fingers to my lips and then to each name. It felt childish and exactly right.
Back in the truck, I watched my phone wake up. Messages from JB about video, one from the ops manager about bus times next week, a PR reminder. My thumb hovered over Miguel’s contact longer than it should have. I typed:
Rodriguez: Proud of you last night.
I stared at the words until they went blurry, then hit send before I could get noble and delete them.
Traffic hummed somewhere beyond the cemetery wall. And I thought about a quiet, patient smile that had started to feel like a promise.
When the phone buzzed, I didn’t look right away. I sat with the sound in the quiet cab and let myself breathe.