Chapter 56
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
JACKO
Ileave the kitchen with flour on my shirt and something bigger in my chest. Something solid. Settled. Like I’ve finally stopped holding my breath.
The Jamie situation has been taken care of.
He’s been charged and has a court date set and there’s an injunction in place so he can’t be within a ten-mile radius of my girls or the rink.
Maya doesn’t have to be present thankfully.
They’re allowing her to submit video evidence for the hearing.
I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.
Now we’re concentrating of building a life together.
Maya’s laugh follows me down the hallway, light and real. Lila’s singing too, still narrating her muffins like it’s the Bake Off finals. It’s chaos in there. Sticky fingers and toddler commentary and the smell of cinnamon thick in the air. And I realise I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Not even the rink.
That thought knocks around in my head as I haul my kit bag into the truck. For so long, the rink was it; home, purpose, identity. But now it’s just one part of my life. A piece. Not the whole thing.
And yeah, I’ve still got a job to do. Still got games to win and pucks to clear and guys who count on me. But I’ve got something else now, too. Someone else. Two someones.
I drive with the window cracked, the cold biting in. My phone buzzes in the cupholder. It’s Murph, probably checking if the promised mountain of food is on schedule.
MURPHY: Don’t forget the food or I will cry and it will be your fault.
MURPHY: Also bring forks.
MURPHY: And beer. pls. love u. bye.
I shake my head, grinning. Idiot.
The lads have been solid, ever since everything happened with Jamie.
Quiet when it mattered. Loud when it helped.
Ollie’s still doing extra passes by the bakery, like it’s part of his route.
Dylan offered to “sort things out” in a way that definitely would’ve landed us both in prison.
Even Coach said I could take time if I needed it.
But I don’t want time off.
I want to skate. I want to move.
Because now, when I get on the ice, it’s not about fighting ghosts or proving something. It’s just me. And when I come home, Maya’s there. Lila’s there. My people. My reason.
At the next red light, I text Murphy back.
JACKO: Got lasagne. Got muffins. No forks. You’re on your own. Beer in the truck. Don’t cry.
He sends a sticker of a sobbing cartoon bear. Fitting.
When I pull into the lot behind the rink, Ollie’s already out front, tossing a ball off the side of the building like he’s a bored golden retriever.
“Forgot your leash again?” I call.
He catches the ball one-handed and grins. “Says the man with a toddler sous-chef. Lila tells me you’re afraid of overmixing fairy cakes now?”
“She’s a harsh coach,” I deadpan. “Don’t mess with the batter or you’ll get benched.”
He snorts. “You bringing food in or just vibes?”
“Both.”
We unload the back of the truck together, bags of meals, muffins, a six-pack that Murphy will probably hide from Coach. Inside, the locker room smells like Tiger Balm and the aftermath of protein shakes, but it feels like home. The real kind. The kind you come back to, not the kind you run from.
The guys are already chirping each other, tape flying, jerseys half on. Murphy is holding court from the bench, one sock on, phone in hand.
He looks up when I drop the bags.
“Oh thank fuck,” he says reverently. “If I had to eat one more granola bar for dinner, I was gonna walk into the sea.”
“You live in a flat in the city,” Dylan says, yanking his hoodie over his head. “There is no sea.”
Murph ignores him and rifles through the bags until he finds the lasagne. He doesn’t even heat it up, just grabs a fork from his locker and digs in.
“I thought you said you lost all the forks,” I say.
“Emergency stash. Don’t ask questions.”
Coach walks in then, and the volume drops by half. He eyes the food, the mess, the muffin crumbs on the bench, and sighs like we’ve all personally disappointed him. Then he claps his hands once.
“Ten minutes. Ice. Let’s go.”
Everyone moves. I pull my pads on slow, deliberate. The way I always do. But my chest’s still light. Lighter than it’s been in years.
Because when I’m out there today, clearing the crease, taking hits, skating drills, I’m not thinking about pain or the past or whether I’ve got anything left to prove.
I’m thinking about a little girl in a unicorn apron. A woman who made me believe in home. And a kitchen that smells like cinnamon.
And now I skate for that.
We finish drills and run two short three-on-three bursts, the ice carved up with hard stops and flying shouts. I throw a check on Dylan, who chirps the whole way down.
“Relax, Jacko,” he yells, grinning. “You skate like it’s ballet out here.”
I shrug. “Could’ve flattened you.”
“Could’ve,” he pants, “but didn’t.”
Jonno blows the whistle again. “Alright, cool down. That’s enough for today. Murph, get home to that baby of yours. Rest of you, team meeting room in twenty. We’ve got videos to run through.”
Once the meetings over we all head out to the carpark, ready to head off for the afternoon. Only I’m going to pick my girls up and take them to visit the newest little Raptor. Lila is literally bursting at the seams to see him now.
Dylan whistles low. “Gonna cry when you see him, huh?”
“Only if he’s got Murphy’s face,” I mutter.
“And if the kid’s got any taste, he’ll root for me,” Dylan adds.
“Make sure you get some pictures,” Ollie calls. “At least one of Lila acting like she owns the place.”
Sophie opens the door in pyjama bottoms and a hoodie, hair in a bun, eyes tired but radiant.
“Oh thank God,” she says. “I was about to eat cereal with a baby on my boob and cry into a bottle of formula.”
“You’d cry into the cereal,” Murphy calls from the couch. “Keep it real.”
Maya sweeps past with a foil tray in each hand. “Step aside, I’ve brought carbs and salvation.”
“Are those the famous chicken stews?” Sophie gasps. “Did you do the ones with the thyme and lemon?”
“Batch cooked while Lila narrated the whole process,” Maya says, grinning.
“Daddy Bear grated the cheese,” Lila adds proudly, ducking under Owen’s arm to march straight to the bassinet.
Murphy’s already standing beside it, bleary-eyed and barefoot, with that new-dad twitchiness of someone who’s only slept in ninety-minute increments.
“There he is,” I say, coming to stand beside him.
Finn is a peanut in a knit onesie, cheeks red and round, tiny hands curled into fists. He’s sound asleep, snuffling softly.
Lila leans in close. “He is tiny!”
Murphy snorts. “Extremely.”
She nods solemnly. “I’ll keep him safe.”
“Good,” Murphy says. “We need backup. The kid farts like a grown man and somehow controls our entire lives.”
“What’s his name?” Maya asks, tucking a tea towel under a dish.
Sophie’s the one who answers, glowing. “Finn. Finnegan, technically.”
Murphy slumps into the armchair with a melodramatic groan. “I lobbied for something with flair. Axel. Raptor. Maybe Storm.”
“You wanted to name our baby like he was in a boy band from space,” Sophie says, deadpan.
“And you picked a name that sounds like a poet.”
“Finn is classic,” she insists. “And also, your family dog is named Pasta.”
“Short for Pasticcio!” he yells.
“Still food.”
“You just wait until he starts crawling,” Murphy tells me. “You think checking into boards is rough? Try not stepping in poop or baby sick at two in the morning.”
“I’ve already had glitter slime on my ceiling,” I say, shrugging. “I’m unshakable.”
Sophie grabs my hand and pulls him to the couch. “Come hold your god-nephew or whatever we’re calling this.”
“Uncle Bear,” Lila announces firmly, staking her claim. “Because I said so.”
Maya stifles a laugh, coming to sit beside me on the arm of the couch. Her smile is soft, her eyes full of something close to awe as I settle into the cushions with Finn in my hands, which look massive now I’m holding this tiny bundle.
Murphy watches it all, then says under his breath, “Okay, he looks terrifying holding him. That baby is like two percent his size.”
“Don’t worry,” Sophie says sweetly. “I’ve got photos for blackmail.”
“Send me all of them,” Maya says, already reaching for her phone.
We stay longer than we meant to. Dylan drops off a bag of shopping from Mia and eats three bagels before anyone notices. Ollie arrives with a balloon shaped like a trout and proudly announces, “It was the last one at the petrol station. Fish are soothing.”
Lila sings a lullaby to Finn that’s mostly about unicorns and banana bread. Sophie nearly cries again. Murphy covers his own emotion with a snort-laugh and wipes at his eyes when no one’s looking.
I don’t remember the last time a room felt this full. Not of noise, though there’s plenty, but of belonging. Of warmth. Of something stitched together out of mess and effort and years of showing up for each other.
Of family.
Maya shifts beside me, staring at Finn asleep against my chest. Her arm brushes mine, and I lean into it without thinking.
Yeah.
This is home.