25. April 2, Saturday #3
“It’s fine,” Madison barreled on, ignoring that. “I’ve got plans. I’m gonna join the military, get out, go to school, be a social worker like Babs. Except less strict. No bedtime lectures. Less required reading time, more eat pizza and have fun.”
As she spoke, her hands disappeared into the tunnel pocket of her sweatshirt. She tugged the fabric down in front of her in a distracted, almost protective way.
“And,” Madison added, words coming fast now, “I’m not having kids. Or getting married. Men are trash and lie and say they love you and will always stay, and then they don’t. They never do.”
The words hung there.
Heavy.
And wrong.
“Not all of them,” Zoey said quietly.
Out on the ice, Ilya bent to say something to one of the kids on the bench and laughed when the kid gestured wildly back. Light caught the curve of his grin; his shoulders were loose in a way they rarely were in full gear.
Madison’s eyes tracked Zoey’s.
For a second, her mouth softened, the line between her brows easing. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Maybe not all, but you never know.”
Zoey didn’t let the softness linger too long. Madison hated feeling exposed.
“You’re allowed to change your mind someday about kids and marriage,” Zoey said. “Or not. Either way? Wanting to be like Babs?” She nodded toward the bench, where Babs now had the sobbing toddler on her lap, rocking and singing something off-key. “That’s a pretty fantastic plan.”
Madison made a face. “Ew. Feelings.”
Zoey grinned. “You should tell her, you know. About the social worker thing. She’d probably pretend not to care and then dance a jig when she got home.”
“Yeah right.”
But Madison’s gaze lingered on Babs a second too long, eyes softer, the resentment in her shoulders easing into something closer to wistful.
A whistle blew, signaling another shift. Madison slipped away toward her claimed seat before Zoey could say anything else.
Below, a kid in Ilya’s group refused to go to the bench and skittered away from him. Ilya reached out and, to Zoey’s surprise, caught him under the armpits and lifted him, spinning them both once in a circle.
The kid squealed, legs out straight in front of him.
Ilya set him down carefully, hands steadying the boy until his skates found purchase again.
Zoey watched, a lump in her throat.
For that one brief second, there was nothing but joy on his face. No tight line between his brows. No flicker of what if I break them. No calculation about availability or time or how this fit into a schedule.
Just a man thrilled down to his bones that a kid was enjoying something Ilya taught him.
She made her way back towards the ice and wandered closer to Ilya leaning against the half wall.
“Look at you,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly against his arm. “Careful, or PR will think you’re a big softie and start asking for all sorts of appearances.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes still on the ice. His shoulders were a fraction lower, his jaw not quite as locked. “You’re right. I should make them skate laps.”
“This is exactly why your approval ratings are low among the five-to-eight demographic.”
His mouth twitched. “They respect me.”
“They’re using your body as furniture.”
As if to prove her point, the tired kid from earlier leaned sideways and collapsed against Ilya’s legs, letting Ilya support his body weight.
Ilya looked down, then back at Zoey. “Respectfully,” he said.
Zoey laughed before she could stop herself.
This was who he was when he let himself forget all the rules he’d written for himself.
This version of him fit here—on the ice with kids, laughter loud, heart obvious—with a naturalness that made her chest ache.
Later, when the final whistle blew, the kids mobbed one another trying to get off the ice, falling in happy piles, helmets knocking.
Parents, foster parents, staff, siblings—everyone in the stands stood and clapped like they’d just watched a championship game instead of ninety minutes of mostly controlled chaos.
Jayden barreled toward them, helmet firmly set, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. “Did you see me?!” he shouted, practically vibrating.
Zoey dropped into a crouch so they were face to face. “Saw every second. I’m going to be bored watching NHL games after this.”
He beamed so hard his face might crack.
Ilya reached over and tapped the top of his helmet fondly. “Gonna have to sign you to a contract before someone else steals you,” he said gravely.
Jayden gasped. “Really?”
“In a few years,” Ilya amended, but his eyes were warm.
Over Jayden’s head, Babs caught Zoey’s gaze and smiled.
Zoey straightened slowly, letting the roar of voices wash over her.
For just a flash, the picture arranged itself in her mind.
Harried Saturday mornings getting ready for hockey practice.
Jayden at the tiny kitchen table, feet swinging, insisting cereal totally counted as protein if you ate enough of it.
Ilya in socks and an old Cyclones T-shirt, stealing the last reheated French toast stick while Jayden accused him of lying about vegetables being the reason he was so tall.
Then, both of them turning on her the second she admitted fake maple syrup tasted better than real maple syrup.
The idea didn’t feel laughable.
It felt possible.
No.
Worse.
It felt right.
Her throat thickened, and she forced herself back into motion.
There were stickers to hand out, certificates to sign, volunteers to thank.
As families started filing out—kids trailing behind like hyper squirrels—Zoey moved from person to person, reminding them about the wrap-up party at the group home in two days, making sure no one left without at least one high five and a “See you soon.”
At the base of the stairs to the mezzanine, Nina intercepted her, tablet in hand, lipstick perfect.
“That went well,” Nina said, crisp. “We hit our numbers, zero serious injuries, families loved it. Social content is going to be gold. Sponsors are already asking about next season. Good work, Zoey.”
Zoey’s muscles sagged in relief. “We have at least six shots that’ll make Marketing cry in a good way. Ty did the Canadian washing machine again; kids lost their minds.”
“Good.” Nina’s gaze flicked briefly past Zoey, toward the ice and Ilya, who was crouched beside Jayden, helping him tug off one stubborn skate.
The look was fast.
Neutral.
Cataloguing.
Then Nina’s attention snapped back. “Management is upstairs. They’d like a quick debrief when you have a minute.”
Zoey nodded, hitching her clipboard under one arm. “On my way.”
She was buzzing.
This was it; exactly the pitch she’d hoped to make when she’d first walked through these doors in her too-tight work shirt, feeling like an impostor. The clinic actually worked. The kids had fun. The parents were engaged. Sponsors wanted year two.
This was the life she’d wanted when she moved back here.
Her work was a dream.
Her foster file was moving.
Mitch seemed…occupied elsewhere.
And out on the ice, Ilya had looked like the kind of man a person built a life around, not just a secret.
For once, all the arrows of her life were pointing in the same direction.
Halfway up the stairs, her phone buzzed again in her pocket.
She didn’t check it.
Tonight, she’d tell Ilya about her licensing moving forward. About the possibility of Jayden. She’d tell him honestly, without demanding anything, without asking him to have all the answers. She’d give him the chance to know where her life was heading and decide where he wanted to stand.
Then she’d call Kayla and Kira and demand the full rundown on whatever was devouring their lives lately.
One thing at a time.
Zoey adjusted her grip on her notes and stepped into the glass-fronted mezzanine box, heart light, smile ready.
Sam stood near the rail with two management reps, Nina, and a sponsor liaison at their elbow. They all turned as Zoey entered, eyes expectant.
She straightened her shoulders.
Prepared to talk continuation. Expansion. Year two.
Ready, maybe, to stop hiding quite so hard in the rest of her life.
All the pieces were finally sliding into place.
She had no idea how fast they were about to blow apart.