Chapter 23 Tanner
TANNER
The arena is too bright.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long reflections over the scraped-up ice. Kids lace up their skates with trembling hands and hopeful eyes, the smell of rubber mats and cold metal thick in the air. Parents line the bleachers, coffee cups clutched like lifelines.
I might be as nervous as Davy.
He’s been practicing for weeks. Slept with his stick beside his bed. And now we’re here. Tryouts for the traveling team, the most elite hockey program in the region.
I’d never seen him want something this badly.
I’ve been trying to stay focused on it, and not the odd dynamic currently marinating between me and Des. Our own hockey playing has been off, and that’s been the least of our problems. I knew this fake marriage would be a bad idea, even if, for a short window, it was pure magic.
“Go, Davy!” I call when the coach waves him onto the ice.
He doesn’t look back. He’s all nerves and focus, his expression carved in stone.
I grip the edge of the bleacher so tight my knuckles ache, but Davy’s out there flying, and for a second I forget to breathe.
He’s got the puck on his stick, weaving past kids bigger than him, faster than him, like he was born out here.
My chest swells, pride and relief tangling together, and I catch myself grinning like an idiot.
He’s holding his own. Hell, he’s shining.
Then it happens.
A stumble, a tangle of skates, and the puck slides away like it never belonged to him.
He sprawls across the ice, arms flailing.
The moment lasts for years in my head, but in reality, he’s back up less than five seconds later.
And yet I can see how he’s begun to unravel, how everything he built in those first few minutes is slipping through his little hands.
He tries to get back his confidence, but his movements on the ice get jerky, desperate.
And then they get sluggish with resignation. It’s over. It’s all over.
I want to run down there, scoop him up, shield him from the eyes watching, judging. Tell him it doesn’t matter, that one screw-up doesn’t erase his brilliance. But I can’t. All I can do is sit here, heart breaking for my boy who’s fighting tears he won’t let fall.
Around me, the other parents keep clapping and cheering—encouraging murmurs and polite applause—but it feels miles away. My hands go numb. I want to storm down there and pull him off the ice, wrap him in a blanket and tell him he never has to try anything scary ever again.
But I can’t. This is his.
And I know the second he skates off the ice—head down, trying to stay tall but visibly crumbling—that he knows. He didn’t make it.
Coach confirms it gently after the last group finishes. "He’s got hustle," he tells me. “Good attitude. Just not quite ready this year.”
I thank him. I shake his hand. I nod like it doesn’t feel like someone kicked me in the chest.
Davy is sitting in the locker room, his helmet still on like he doesn’t want to face the world without it.
“Hey, bud,” I say, kneeling next to him.
He doesn’t answer.
“You were really brave out there. Most kids wouldn’t have gotten back up at all.”
Still nothing. He’s gripping his stick like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
My throat is tight. “I know this hurts.”
He shrugs, but his chin wobbles.
“We’ll work harder. Try again next season.”
His voice is so small I almost miss it. “Maybe I’m just not good at anything.”
God. Watching your kid hurt is worse than heartbreak, worse than loss. It’s helplessness in its rawest form. He is crushed; I am completely and utterly flattened.
I wrap my arm around his shoulders. “This doesn’t define you.”
He doesn’t answer.
We drive home in silence. I watch him in the rearview mirror the whole time. His face pressed against the window, eyes dry but far away. I want to fix this. I want to snap my fingers and make the pain disappear.
When we walk through the front door, Des is in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Even though the state of our fake marriage is in a weird place, he still insisted on making dinner tonight.
He sees our faces immediately.
“What happened?”
Davy just walks past him, straight out the sliding glass door into the backyard. Des looks at me.
“Didn’t make the team,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. “He’s barely said anything since we left the rink.”
Des sets the knife down. “I got this.”
He doesn’t ask. He just walks out the door.
I lean against the frame and watch.
Des approaches Davy slow, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. He says something I can’t hear. Davy doesn’t respond. Then Des goes into the shed, pulls out an old aluminum baseball bat, and hands it to him.
Points at the maple tree standing mightily by our back fence.
At first, Davy just stares at him like he doesn’t understand.
Des nods again. “Hit it.”
Davy takes a hesitant swing.
“This hurts. Let it out, Davy,” Des says, his voice calm, supportive, firm. Overflowing with love for my boy.
Davy pulls back the bat, then smashes it against the tree. A chunk of bark spews out. For the first time since tryouts, life returns to his face. He bashes the bat against the tree again. Then again. Then again. Harder and harder.
I hear the clang of metal on bark as he starts yelling with each swing. Not words. Just sound. All the rage and frustration of a ten-year-old with a broken dream. Tears pour down his cheeks.
And Des is right there, the whole time. Steady. Unmoving.
Until Davy drops the bat. He’s sobbing now, full-body heaves. He crumples into Des, who catches him instantly. Wraps him up tight.
And holds him.
I press my fist to my mouth.
It’s like something cracks open in me. Because I’ve always known Des was smart, funny, sharp as hell. I’ve always known he was a good friend.
But this?
This is something else.
He didn't hesitate. He knew exactly what my son needed. Not a speech. Not a fix. Just space to feel it and someone strong to catch him when it got too big.
I watch them from the doorway—my son, cradled in the arms of the man who was supposed to just be my friend. The man who’s become so much more without either of us saying it out loud.
And I think: I’m in love with him. God help me. I really, truly am.
But I’m in love with a man who ultimately doesn’t love me back, not in the way I want him to. I’m in love with a man who sees this marriage as what it is: fake. Soon, Des will find out about his promotion, and all this playing house will be over. Just like that.
Tears fall down my face as I watch Des comfort my son. The more Davy cries, the tighter Des holds him.
For today, though, we can pretend we’re a family.
A few nights later, after a final PTA meeting going over logistics for next week’s Halloween carnival, my phone rings as I pull into my driveway.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Ellen from MedTech” a bright voice says.
MedTech…MedTech. I filled out so many job applications, I can’t keep them straight.
“I got your resume from Elise Shyer. She’s a good friend, and when I told her I needed someone on my team, she raved about you.”
“Elise!” I loved working with her. Warm, friendly, always brought in the best home-baked treats.
She had a vast array of plants on her desk, and their branches would fall over my cubicle wall, making me feel like I was in a walled garden.
Elise was one of many people who asked for my resume and would keep their ear to the ground for me.
And she actually came through. “Elise is great. She makes the best chocolate chip cookies.”
“I know! Because of her, I gain ten pounds every Christmas. Anyway, MedTech is a medical device supply company, and I have an opening for a senior project manager on my team. You’d be liaising with our suppliers and keeping the trains on time as it were.
I can send you more about the company and the role. ”
“That sounds great. I’m very organized and meticulous…” I go into robot mode reciting my best qualities and experience highlights. I can feel my soul leave my body.
“Excellent,” Ellen says. “I need to hire for this role fast as we have a lot coming down the pike. Usually we do a screener interview first, but Elise’s word is good enough for me. I’d love to bring you in for an interview as soon as possible.”
“That’s…wonderful,” I manage, but my heart’s not in it.
I look toward the house. Through the window, I see Des on all fours being ridden by Lulu while Dean lifts a foam sword and chases them.
If I get this job…we won’t need to be married anymore. He’ll go back to his bachelor life. His sleek apartment. His late nights. His hookups.
He won’t be tied down by me. We can go back to how things used to be. We don’t have to worry about blurred lines, crossed boundaries, and scary questions about what this all means.
I wouldn’t have to worry about whether Des loves me or not.
I clear my throat. “Does Thursday work?”