Chapter 6 #2
Her order is very intentional.
Faulker inclines his head slightly. “Very well.”
Hank walks over to a drawer and grabs a pack of markers, and we all pick a color. I’m not a pink girl per se, but I know she is, so that’s what I choose.
By the time the last signature dries, jackets are on, and keys are in hand. It’s nearly eight.
Lucy slides off the stool and stands beside Faulker, close but not too close.
“Good luck,” she says to both of them.
“Thank you,” Hank replies.
Faulker looks down at her. “We will return.”
She nods, satisfied.
“Our numbers and schedule, team, and what a game day looks like compared to the average day are listed on the counter,” Lenzin points to the counter. “If you need it.”
The door closes behind them, and the house is quieter again.
Lucy looks at me. “Are we going to the bookstore or your school?”
“Today, we aren’t on a schedule.” I walk over and show her the schedule. “Our roommates, Deacon and the others, they are.”
I read her their schedule.
Game day
8:30 am-Morning skate
10:15- 11 am- Cool down and treatments
11-12 pm- Meeting
12 pm - Dismissed
5:30 – 6 pm- Return for game
Regular practice
9 am- Focused workout.
10:30 am- Skills, drills, and scrimmage
11-12 pm- Stretch and recovery
12:30- 1:30 pm- Lunch
1:30- 3 pm- Skills work or films
“Do we have a schedule?” she asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“We do,” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips at the way she instinctively includes herself in our plans.
It feels good, this sense of partnership.
“We just need to align them. My school and yours will have similar hours, and when I’m working at the bookstore, we can figure out the details together.
Noelle, my friend and boss, mentioned you could tag along when you’re free. ”
“I’m not busy,” she asserts, her confidence shining through.
Grinning, I reach for a pad and pen, the paper crinkling under my fingers as I begin to jot down our plans.
“We’re on break from school for another ten days, and then from Monday to Friday, we’ll be at our schools until around three-thirty or four.
My shifts at the bookstore vary, but we’ll definitely be there on weekends. ”
Her little brows furrow a bit, and then she nods as she gets it, things changing, her life now different.
“We should start by listing things we need, a calendar so we can write down our schedule, and perhaps your favorite foods?” I ask.
Her excitement is palpable as she leans closer to see what I’m writing.
I’m watching Lucy sleep beside me as I confirm a doctor’s appointment for a follow-up and referral to an orthopedist, and I’ve added Lucy’s name to the list of childcare centers near the school since my college doesn’t offer childcare.
Then I called Maribel, told her what was happening, and asked her to put out feelers for someone to sublet my ‘space’. I don’t want to put out an ad because it wouldn’t be fair to them. With January paid, my emergency fund may cover February, but I hope that’s not the case.
Claudia texts me to ask if I can talk. I call her back immediately.
She answers, “Hi, Hildy, I’m just checking in to see how things are going, and if you need anything. I hope I’m not overstepping.”
“You’re not overstepping at all,” I assure her.
“How are you doing?” She asks softly.
“I’ve already made my first parenting blunder. I should have woken her, made her use the bathroom. Or at very least woke up when she stripped her bed and dragged the bedding upstairs, where the guys had told her the laundry was when they gave the tour.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. There will be plenty more moments you’ll second-guess yourself,” she laughs softly.
“I got up a million times to check on her, wondering if she needed Tylenol or food, a drink,” I sigh, “Which is probably why I crashed so hard. I’m going to sleep with her if she’s okay with that. She said she had a bad dream.”
We talk for several minutes before the app alert comes in that my items have arrived. Just days ago, I wouldn’t have dared waste money on delivery, but Lucy goes from hungry to tired to uncomfortable. Things she was hiding before, which Claudia says shows she trusts me.
There is nothing more I want than that trust.
I’m cross-legged on the braided rug in Lucy’s new bedroom, surrounded by the silent armies of her small list of possessions from Elmira, and her new things. I read Matilda to her tonight with a purpose, and she seemed to connect.
The light from my laptop glows across the ceiling, painting everything in a faint blue.
It’s past midnight, according to the digital clock at the corner of my screen.
Lucy’s breathing is even and oceanic in the bed behind me, and I’m supposed to be familiarizing myself with my professor’s lectures for next semester, but instead I’m scrolling through New York–area daycare reviews with a gnawing sense of urgency I haven’t felt since I was waiting for acceptance letters for PhD programs.
A muted thud reverberates through the hallway—the front door closing behind them.
I catch the low, familiar cadence of Hank’s voice, followed closely by Faulker’s, his tone barely above a whisper, as if they’re tiptoeing around the fragile tranquility of their home.
The shuffle of their shoes echoes softly, rubber soles gliding over the polished hardwood, followed by the distant clink of a water bottle landing on the kitchen counter.
I find myself holding my breath, an instinctive reaction to the realization that this is their space, and I’m merely a shadow in my own life.
I power down my laptop and slide it beneath the bed, taking care to tuck it away from any potential hazards that might come if Lucy or I get up.
The blue glow of the screen is replaced by the gentle, golden light of the nightlight, casting soft shadows around the room.
For a moment, I kneel beside the bed, my palms pressed against the mattress, gathering the scattered bits of courage I’ll need to re-enter the communal spaces.
The temptation to remain here, cocooned in this new environment where Lucy’s rhythmic breathing fills the air, is powerful.
Yet, I remind myself that this is my home now as well, and I’ve resolved to avoid making things awkward.
Counting to four, I inhale deeply and stand, slipping my feet into the warm slippers that have become a comforting presence. I pad quietly down the hallway, each step toward the kitchen and living room feeling like a crossing—not merely of physical space but of intention and readiness to be seen.
The guys don’t notice me at first, so I sneak into the kitchen and start rinsing out a mug at the sink, the rhythmic motion calming my nerves.
I tell myself that while this arrangement may be temporary, it needs to feel like home in the meantime.
Still, the instinct to blend into the background runs deep, a survival mechanism forged from years of being the girl who always held her own cup and never had a ride home.
When I finally venture back out, I find Hank sprawled on the couch, his head nearly upside down, a broad, unguarded smile lighting up his face.
“Look who’s still awake!” he exclaims. “Hildy! You missed the best game of my life.” Hank, the rookie goalie, has shown remarkable talent from what I’ve gathered about the sport.
I settle onto the arm of the sofa, crossing my legs and tucking one foot beneath me. “Congratulations,” I reply sincerely. “I watched the reels; that save in the first period really set the tone.”