Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
JACKO
The problem with researching car seats is that it makes you feel like a moron.
There are five-point harnesses and ISOFIX bases and rear-facing versus forward-facing arguments that sound like they’ve been debated since the dawn of time.
I don’t even know what half the acronyms mean.
I’m two videos deep into a parenting YouTube channel called “Tots and Travel,” and I’ve learned that apparently, some people have entire spreadsheets for car seat comparisons.
I rub a hand over my beard and lean back in the chair, the office one Murphy lent me for the flat. It creaks in protest. On the table in front of me is a notepad filled with scribbles like Group 1/2/3? 9kg+?? and check compatibility with my truck?? and a very clear underlined phrase: SAFETY FIRST.
I’m not planning to take Lila anywhere, not unless Maya asks. But I still want to be ready. Prepared. Responsible. I hated that I had to put them in a taxi last night. I wanted to drive them home, make sure they were safe.
If I ever do drive her somewhere, she deserves the safest seat I can find. No cutting corners. No guessing.
I glance at the clock, it’s half past ten. My physio with Mia’s at eleven. I bookmark a couple of the car seats and shut the laptop before I can spiral into a comparison rabbit hole.
Still feels a bit surreal, all of this. That I’m sitting here, a fully grown man, researching booster seats and crash ratings because a three-year-old handed me two sticky raisins and called me Mr Bear.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“Strip,” Mia says cheerfully as I walk into the physio suite.
I blink. “Buy me dinner first?”
She snorts and gestures toward the treatment table. “Shirt off, gentle giant. Let’s see what that shoulder’s saying today.”
I peel off my hoodie and sit while she does her thing. Range of motion tests, gentle pressure, that ridiculously cold gel she always forgets to warn me about.
“Any pain?” she asks, manipulating my arm.
“Just your bedside manner.”
“Be serious, Jacko.”
“Fine. No pain. Bit of stiffness if I overreach, but it’s minor.”
She raises a brow, then taps a few notes into her tablet. “You’ve done well. Rehab’s been textbook. You’ve even got better posture than when we started.”
“Been doing those stupid wall angels you love.”
“They’re not stupid. They’re science.”
“They make me feel like a penguin at ballet school.”
Mia laughs, then sobers. “Want the good news?”
I nod, heart kicking up a notch.
“You’re cleared.”
I blink. “To play?”
“Yep. I’ll submit the official sign-off to Coach today. You can suit up next match.”
Something loosens in my chest, a coil I didn’t realise had wound so tightly. I grin and fist-bump her with my good hand. “Cheers, Mia. Seriously.”
She gives me a soft smile. “You’ve earned it. Just don’t do anything stupid, yeah? Or I’ll never hear the end of it from Dylan.”
“No promises.”
Murphy’s halfway through a protein shake when I walk into the locker room, his shirt hanging off one shoulder like he’s trying to be in a Calvin Klein ad. Ollie’s on the bench beside him, re-taping his stick while humming something vaguely threatening from Les Misérables.
“Oi, Jacko,” Murphy calls. “Looking limber. You stretching for fun now, or what?”
Ollie glances up. “Is he finally back on the ice, or just here to judge our fashion choices?”
I toss my gym bag down and grin. “Cleared this morning.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Ollie whoops and throws his stick tape in the air like he’s just scored a hat trick.
“You beauty!” he yells. “Back in the trenches!”
Murphy beams. “About bloody time. We’ve been losing fights without our enforcer. I had to threaten someone last week. With my words.”
“You used words?” I mock-gasp. “To communicate?”
Murphy flips me off. “Jacko, I swear to God, one more week on the sideline and I was gonna start scrapbooking.”
“You already scrapbook,” Ollie says.
“I collect memories,” Murphy retorts. “It’s different. I don’t know, blame Sophie.”
We’re all laughing, but underneath the banter, there’s something else, that thrum of belonging. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it until now. The jokes, the camaraderie, the way these idiots make the world feel a little less heavy.
Murphy claps me on the back gently, avoiding my shoulder and says, “We’ll win it for you, mate. Or with you. Next game, you drop the gloves first shift?”
I shake my head. “Only if someone gives me a reason.”
Murphy grins. “I’ll find you a reason.”
Later, after weights and stretches and a mandatory team meeting that mostly involved Coach ranting about offside calls, I head back to the flat. The leftover adrenaline from getting cleared hasn’t faded, but it’s not the only thing buzzing under my skin.
I keep thinking about Maya.
About the way she looked last night, tired, yes, but also softer somehow. Like her guard slipped for half a second and I got to see the real her underneath. The way she thanked me quietly, like she wasn’t used to anyone showing up for her.
It made me want to punch the past. Whatever’s made her so careful, so guarded, I want to burn it to the ground.
But I can’t. I can’t fix what I don’t understand. I can only show her that not all men leave bruises. That some of us stay, even when the raisins are squashed and the doors are locked and the past is a shadow behind her eyes.
I sit at the kitchen table again and pull my laptop closer.
Back to the car seat.
It’s a stupid little thing, but it feels like the right thing. Something practical. Quiet. Like I’m building a foundation for something that might not even happen.
But if it does, I’ll be ready.
I scroll through the bookmarked links, cross-check weight ranges, compatibility lists, safety ratings. I make a note to measure the backseat of my car and check the belt path. There’s one model that keeps popping up on every “top 5” list; safe, easy to install, works with Lila’s age and size.
I add it to the cart.
I don’t buy it yet. But it’s there. Just in case.
And maybe that’s what this is, really.
Just in case.
Just in case she needs me.
Just in case she lets me in.
Just in case this thing we’re building slowly, gently, turns into something more.
Tomorrow, I’ll text her. Something casual. Maybe offer to bring extra pastries to the bakery. Maybe just ask how she’s doing.
Whatever it is, it’ll be small.
But it’ll be real.