Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Claudia
We’re sitting in the media room watching the game, while Noelle and Sofie scroll through all the pictures Nalani, Paul, and I took of our trunk or treat experience, before it started downpouring.
“The ones before that are of Savannah at daycare.” Nalani beams. “Cutest little pumpkin ever.”
“I love that you bought matching outfits for the two of you.” Noelle says while I’m mid yawn.
“Please tell me working with them doesn’t make you hate hockey,” Sofie says as I yawn.
I shake my head, “Just tired.”
The truth is, I’m exhausted and I have no reason to be.
Savannah is very settled into her a routine since I started working and even more so over the past few days.
The three nights while at the hotel, even the two nights we went to the home games, in Sofies box.
I’d put her in her carrier, and she’d fall asleep at around seven and didn’t even wake when I put her in her bed.
She woke at one to eat and then she was back out, no longer waking after that feeding and acting fussy, so I get five hours of straight sleep.
Well, aside from the first night, when there was no game, and Deacon and I went round after round, I’ve slept for a couple hours before that one AM feeding and I haven’t exactly done it alone.
Deacon has slept in the bed with me every night.
“Didn’t sleep while you were at that fancy hotel?” Noelle asks.
“I slept very well.” I say and quickly change the subject. “Now when are we going dress shopping?”
She waves a finger through the air, “We just did Halloween, the wedding isn’t for—”
“Nine more games,” I say and yawn again.
“Any questions I had about your love of the game is now gone,” Sofie laughs and then looks at Noelle. “Nine games! This isn’t just an off the rack kind of dress. It’s your breakup with the twat dress.”
“You sure got a mouth on you, Sassy,” Paul grumbles from the recliner where we thought he was sleeping with Savannah on his chest.
“Hush up, Poppa pumpkin.” Sofie says to needle him.
Paul winks at me.
Yes, Deacon Moretti also bought Paul a matching cardigan, on it is, Poppa Pumpkin and matching hats for the girls, which I handed out, and they all thanked me. It feels wrong to have lied to them, well, not lie exactly, but to take credit for such a sweet thing that I did not do.
The game? A shit show.
I wish Johnson had not canceled our session. Because I needed to see him. Not to talk at him, not to pull out some textbook strategy. I needed to look at his face while I said certain things and see how he reacted, because his body language matters. His micro expressions matter.
The way he sits, the way he breathes, the way he avoids eye contact, the way he tries to move the conversation away from discomfort.
You can learn more from a person’s posture than from thirty minutes of rehearsed answers.
And now, watching him on the ice? I wish to God I had been in the room with him for just thirty minutes.
Something about the way he is playing tonight is not just bad like it has been. It’s not just sloppy or inconsistent. It feels intentional. It feels like someone doing the bare minimum to look like they are trying while ensuring the outcome is failure.
On screen, Johnson lets a puck slide past him like he is waving a taxi through traffic. The entire living room groans.
Sofie throws her head back. “That is not even a save attempt!”
“No,” Paul grumbles from the recliner, “that’s sabotage.”
That word strikes something in me. Hard.
I cannot diagnose someone through a television screen.
I cannot make professional calls from a couch with a pumpkin beer in my hand and a baby sleeping on Paul.
But I can feel my instincts humming. Something is wrong with him.
Not physically, mentally, emotionally, or behaviorally.
And I wish I had been able to read him in person instead of rescheduling like he insisted.
I hear my own voice in my head, the one I only use in clinical environments.
Withdrawal, avoidance, dissociation, intentional underperformance, possible burnout, possible resentment, possible external pressure.
Sofie stomps her foot. “He is looking the wrong way again! Who looks the wrong way! The puck is a bright little circle, Johnson, follow it!”
Noelle rubs her temples. “Can you fix him?”
I can’t tell them anything, so I just shrug.
“Maybe he knew he was going to play like this and did not want you to see his guilt.”
I swallow because that is exactly the part that is scaring me. The camera zooms in on Johnson’s face. Blank. Empty. Like someone unplugged him.
Paul whispers to me, “He does not want to be out there.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to calm the rising frustration. “I cannot tell if he is overwhelmed or….” Doing this on purpose.
Sofie jerks her head toward me. “Or what?”
Careful, Claudia, I remind myself, no professional lines crossed.
“Checking out,” Paul answers. “Emotionally. Athletically. You can feel it sometimes.”
Noelle leans forward. “You think he’s giving up.”
“I think he is not playing like he once did.”
They all stare at the screen as Johnson misreads another shot by a full two seconds. Two seconds in hockey might as well be a lifetime.
And when the game ends, so does the winning streak.
“You’re going to get busier,” Paul shakes his head.
It’s after midnight when my phone vibrates as I’m feeding Savannah, and I hesitate for half a second because I don’t want to keep her up, but I see Deacon’s name, so I answer. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “You still up?”
“Feeding Savannah. How are you?”
He avoids answering. “Thank you for the pictures, you two looked amazing.”
“How are you?” I ask again
“Doing okay,” he says simply.
Neither of us speaks for a moment.
“They sent Johnson down.” He sighs. “Kid just lost millions, and I hate that I feel bad for him.”
“You’re human, Deacon.” I remind him. “And a good one.”
“Mentored him,” he says. “He was really good once.”
When I don’t say anything, he chuckles, “I know you can’t talk about this but—”
“I can talk about how it makes you feel,” I say softly.
“Felt good until I watched them walk him to a car, he looked scared.” He clears his throat. “You ever get scared?”
He’s changing the subject, and that’s okay, he hasn’t processed it all. “Scared?”
He exhales softly. “It’s Halloween. Not everything is about hockey.”
A quiet laugh slips out of me, but it’s small, tired as I look down at Savannah. “I was terrified,” I say before I can think better of it. “I walked across the stage on Graduation day. May tenth. Everyone had flowers and families. I had my cap, my gown, and a baby that wouldn’t wait much longer.”
“You were alone?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. I mean, Lydia and Maya were there.”
“When will you see them again?” He asks quietly.
“I think they’re coming to New York for the Holidays.”
“My folks are too. Tell me about that night.”
My throat tightens, and I clear it. “I went home that night and started getting cramps. I thought it was false labor — stress or dehydration. But then the contractions came fast, and I realized it wasn’t. I called 911 and then dropped the phone and couldn’t get it together to call Lydia.”
There’s a pause, long enough that I wonder if the call dropped. Then his voice comes through, low and steady. “You did that by yourself?”
“Yeah.” I press a hand to my chest, remembering. “So, my answer, yes, I’ve been scared. I was scared I’d die before I even saw her. Scared she wouldn’t cry. But she did, and the second I heard her little voice, it was like everything that ever hurt me just—stopped.”
The silence on the other end isn’t empty.
“She was born on Mother’s Day,” I whisper. “The world’s weirdest gift.”
“Claudia…” Deacon says my name like it’s something fragile in that way that makes me believe I don’t always have to be the strongest person in the room.
“After that, everything shifted. Nothing else mattered. Not my degree, not my plans, not even the fear. Just her. Everything I am now—every decision I make—is because of her.”
He exhales, a deep, quiet sound that feels like it’s been trapped in his chest for a long time. “You talk about it like it broke you and built you at the same time.”
“Yeah” I think for a moment and wonder how it is he does that, sees things no one else does, explain feelings I can’t explain to myself, but that’s it exactly. “It did.”
“You’re stronger than anyone I know. You have no idea how incredibly attractive that is.”
I laugh softly. “You say that like you’ve seen me do more than survive nap time.”
He doesn’t laugh. “I mean it. I’ve never met a person who’s walked through fire who’s heart was stronger than one that has never been hurt.”
The words hit something deep in me — that quiet place I don’t let anyone touch. “That’s only because the fire gave me her.”
He’s quiet again and when he finally speaks, his voice is different — softer. “Wish I could’ve been there.”
My heart catches. “For the birth?”
“For the birth and the parts after,” he murmurs. “The quiet. The holding you while you held her and all those parts I could still have if you let me.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” he says. “But it’s the best kind of not.”
For a long time, neither of us says anything and then finally, he says, “Get some sleep, Doc.”
“You, too.”
“Trying,” he mutters, but I hear the smile in it before the line clicks quiet.
I set my phone down and look toward Savannah’s crib, and whisper, “Yeah, me too.”
Savannah and I slip into the house quietly, the way you do when you already feel like you might be intruding even though you have every reason to be here.
I unlock the door with the code Nalani insisted I use whenever I needed.
The lights are dim, the kitchen spotless the way she always leaves it before bed, and I exhale with this tiny puff of guilt that sits permanent in my chest now.