Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
An annoyingly magnetic blend of control and chaos
Carina
Light hits just right at this hour.
The soft golden spill of the late afternoon, which makes everything look more forgiving than it is. The ivy is catching it in pieces, the leaves still stubbornly green even as the days get shorter.
Down in the garden, Reid is bent over an old crate of rusted tools, sleeves pushed up and jaw set in quiet focus, as though he's daring the sun not to leave until he’s finished sorting every last thing.
I tip back in the folding chair, my feet propped on an upside-down box with my ankles crossed. One hand is wrapped around the sweating condensation of a ginger ale bottle, the other is rest on the bump.
The hoodie I’m wearing smells like detergent and cologne and him. It hangs off me in soft folds, tightest where the swell of my belly presses forward, firm and insistent beneath the faded Storm logo.
The baby shifts and rolls, as though she’s stretching from a nap. I glide my hand over the movement, thumb rubbing instinctively just under my ribs.
She’s been quieter this afternoon, and maybe it's because she knows. Maybe she can feel that we’re in a house that’s saying goodbye.
The treehouse stands just beyond Reid’s shoulder, the ivy creeping over the bottom rungs of the ladder. There’s something comforting about it—this place, this man, this life that somehow kept growing even in the cracks.
I can’t do much physically anymore, not with the way my body’s been pulling all its energy inward, but I can be here. I can hold space and witness the closing of this chapter with him.
Because that’s what today is. The last sweep. The last clear-out.
The cleaners come this afternoon to start the removals, and Reid’s got an away game tomorrow—just one night away—but there’s something final about this. Like we’re standing at the edge of something, and the only way forward is through.
I glance down at my feet. Swollen again, so much for elevation. I let them fall onto the porch floor.
My brain still thinks in shifts, still divides the day into consults and scrubs and surgeries. But I’m still not working, not for now.
Officially, the Moreno Clinic signed off on my maternity leave two weeks ago. Unofficially, I’m still in limbo, caught between approval and investigation, between silence and consequence.
They’ve finished collating their evidence. Conducted their interviews and cross-checked timelines. They’ve spoken to Reid, of course. I was there when they called him to request it. But since then, there's been nothing. No updates, no timeline for a decision.
It’s strategic, I know that much. They know we’re together, and they know that after Reid’s outburst the day I was dismissed, anything they say to him won’t stay neatly contained in a boardroom.
So they’ve shut it down instead. Information on a need-to-know basis. Drag it out long enough and maybe I’ll stop pushing. Maybe I’ll quietly fold into maternity leave and let it become permanent.
It hasn’t consumed me, not fully. Not with Reid here, not with the baby kicking and the nursery painted and the storm of our life beginning to settle. But it hums in the background like white noise, just loud enough to keep me alert. Sharp enough to remind me that nothing is promised.
Still, I’m tired of waiting, and I want answers. I want closure. I want to know what kind of future I’m walking back into and what kind of woman I get to be on the other side of this.
The shed door creaks, and I hear heavy steps. Reid emerges, arms full of something boxy and old, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he maneuvers it up the porch steps.
He’s drenched in sweat, dirt streaked on his cheek, hair shoved back by the same blue headband he’s been wearing since training camp.
I don’t know how he still looks good. I want to blame the hormones, but I think he’s just always been this solid. An annoyingly magnetic blend of control and chaos.
He sets the box down, dusts off his hands, and immediately zeroes in on me.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, brow furrowing at the sight of my non-elevated feet.
“I am resting.”
“With your legs down.”
“I’m not dangling them off a cliff.”
“They’re supposed to be elevated.”
“Well… gravity exists.”
He mutters something that sounds like stubborn menace of a woman and crouches in front of me, large hands reaching for the laces of my sneakers.
I let him. Mostly because bending down feels like a battle right now, and also because he does this thing—this unbelievably soft, absurdly tender thing—where he unties my shoes like it’s a privilege.
“You gonna paint my toenails again, too?” I tease, nudging his shoulder with my foot once it’s free.
His eyes flick up to mine, mouth twitching. “Only if you want sparkles this time.”
“Absolutely not. You ruined two pairs of socks.”
“I regret nothing.”
I shake my head, but I don’t stop smiling, because this is us now.
This strange, sweet rhythm we’ve built over the past few weeks—him halfway feral with protection, while I learn how to let someone care for me without it feeling like control.
There’s been grief, yes. Gutting, impossible grief. But there’s been gentleness too. A tenderness in the aftermath.
And there’s been him.
Tying my laces every morning because my center of gravity is garbage.
Cooking like he thinks I’ll waste away if I’m not force-fed scrambled eggs or another goddamn bagel.
Bringing home burgers with ketchup word ideas written on the lid, which are way too detailed to ever fit on a burger bun—Mama Havoc, Doc + Tot, Can’t Stop the Bump.
Once, he wrote Gremlin’s Sister, and I nearly peed laughing.
He freaks out if I get even a little lightheaded. Drops everything to make me sit down, lie back, breathe. He’s militant about hydration and won’t let me climb the stairs without a full safety briefing.
And twice a week, without fail, he kneels at the edge of our bed with a little bottle of polish and painstakingly repaints my toenails like it’s some sacred ritual passed down through generations.
I think he likes doing it.
I know I like watching him do it.
And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I’m not carrying everything on my own.
I watch him now, this man I thought would never be mine, as he settles beside me and wipes the sweat from his brow with the edge of his shirt.
He catches me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say quietly, sipping my drink again. “Just appreciating the view.”
He huffs, then he nudges his shoulder into mine, and rests a hand over my belly like he can’t help himself.
The baby shifts again, stronger this time, and he smiles before disappearing back into the house, mumbling something about iced tea and the checklist he left on the counter.
He’s been clearing Harry’s house room by room for the past few weeks since the funeral. Quietly and methodically, like he’s preserving and letting go at the same time. I’ve watched the grief shift in him, and it’s not jagged anymore. Still raw, but steadier. Something he’s learning to carry.
And through all of it, through the loss and the noise and the baby kicking my bladder at two a.m., he’s been anchored.
The Storm are on a win streak, and Reid’s stats are through the roof. More saves than anyone else in the league this month, and two shutouts in the last five games.
He’s beautiful like this. Focused and grounded. Absolutely feral about looking after the people he loves.
I’ve never known someone who gives so much without making it feel like I owe him something back. Never known someone so quietly devoted to the daily, unglamorous act of care.
The door creaks again, and I hear him muttering to himself as he sets something down inside the shed.
“Hey,” I call out, angling toward the sun. “You almost done in there?”
“Almost.” There’s a pause. “Harry had six hammers.”
I smile. “Obviously.”
“Three of them were the same.”
“Backup hammers. In case the first two failed.”
Another pause.“Why does that sound like something he’d say?”
Because it is, and we both know it.
A few minutes pass before he emerges again, shirt now completely gone, skin streaked with dirt, and a small scrape on one bicep.
He looks like the cover of a firefighter calendar, except the calendar would be entirely made up of images of him loading dishwashers and carrying babies in the crease of his forearm.
He drops beside me again on the step, breathes out hard, eyes scanning the garden.
“Getting there,” he says. “Couple more things to sort.”
I rest my hand on his thigh. “You know, this place doesn’t have to be the end of something.”
He keeps his gaze fixed on the treehouse, where a new spray of ivy is creeping up the far slat.
“I keep thinking about Levi,” I say softly. “About how many families out there are still trying to get access to trials, or specialists, or second opinions. How lucky he was, and how much harder it could’ve been.”
His jaw flexes, but I press gently. “What if you used the sale of Harry’s place as seed money? Start something that actually made it easier for those kids… Something that lasted.”
He’s still quiet, but his thumb grazes my knee, and I take that as permission to keep going.
“You’ve got the platform. The pull. You could get every team in the league involved. Players, foundations, media. Mascots. Hell, Zoe would have the whole thing trending in an hour.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose, then falls quiet again. I let the silence stretch and let him have the time to feel it. To visualize it.
“You have a name for this idea?”
I smile. “Harry’s House.”
He stills, then leans over and presses a kiss to my temple, then another one to my belly, murmuring against the cotton of the hoodie. “Your mom is full of good ideas.”
My throat tightens, and I want to tell him it’s him. He’s the one who’s cracked me open. But we’re not the kind of people who say things like that out loud—at least not today. Not with the cleaners due in an hour and his overnight bag ready by the door.
The sun’s starting to dip now, the October chill creeping in around the edges. Reid stands and dusts off his jeans, then reaches for my hands, pulling me gently to my feet. His hands linger at my hips, then at my face. Eyes scanning me like he’s cataloging every inch.
“You sure you’re okay if I go?”
“Yes.”
“Cleaner’s coming at four?”
“Yes.”
“You promise you’ll rest?”
I place my palms against his chest, right over the spot where I know his heart kicks hardest. “I promise.”
His thumbs brush my jaw. “Call me the second you need anything.”
“I always do.”
He kisses me once slowly, then drops to one knee and presses his mouth to my bump.
“Stop kicking your mom in the ribs.”
“She says make me.”
“Menace.”
I grin. “Takes after you.”
He lets out a breath and kisses me again—my mouth, my cheek, my forehead—then heads for the truck, his duffel swinging low in one hand, keys in the other.
I watch from the step as he drives away and then move slowly through the house, running one hand along the wood panel in the hallway as I pass. The walls creak a little, and the air smells like lemon and soil.
In the living room, I sink down onto the couch, and one hand slides to my belly. The other cradles a throw pillow that smells like the lavender oil Harry used to keep in his sock drawer.
Outside the window, the garden is bathed in amber light. The treehouse still stands—rooted by memory and love and time.
“We’re okay.” The baby kicks once, and I smile. “He’s just gone for a night.”
Eventually, I get up and drift toward the back door, stepping barefoot out onto the porch again. The light’s faded now, but there’s a hush to it. Like the garden’s holding its breath.
The treehouse is still visible through the light, and I stare at it, hands braced on the porch railing.
I know Reid built that thing with Harry when he was nine.
That they spent an entire summer hammering planks and sanding railings and debating what kind of rope ladder was most structurally sound.
That it started as just a project, but turned into something else.
That he’d share it one day, with someone he loved.
He hadn’t meant me when he was nine, but he means me now. Me and this baby and whatever the hell we’re building together. The weird, stubborn, beautiful fact of it all.
That treehouse was never just wood and nails; it was a promise. And the thought of it staying here, rotting beneath a For Sale sign and a quarterly mowing contract, kills me, so I can only imagine how Reid feels.
The breeze catches a wind chime still hanging from the eaves. I don’t remember seeing it before, but I guess Harry put it up.
I watch the chimes sway and clink against one another, glass twinkling slightly against the dusky light.
And there it is—a rainbow. Pale and sudden and achingly quiet, arching faintly in the sky behind the sight of the chimes.
I swallow, the sting instant in my eyes.
And then I reach for my phone.