Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Claudia
This morning, when Lydia texted to tell me she and Maya would be coming in for a short Thanksgiving visit and for a week for Christmas, I was so happy.
Their visit would allow me to step away from what in the actual hell my life had become, until I realized what that meant.
How will I explain to two women who have always seen me in a very focused and grounded state?
They’ve watched me tick off boxes as I made and met deadlines, pushed through obstacles, and met every goal I had set for myself.
They've seen my strength, my determination, and above all, my independence. It all feels like a lifetime ago.
There are moments where I feel like I'm giving up part of who I have worked so hard to become, but what I have gained is immeasurable. I ended the call with a promise to call them back at lunch and went to work.
I had morning sessions with Callahan and Foster.
Both were happy that the team was back on track, with Johnson gone, followed by Moretti’s return and the win in Philly.
Neither have contractual issues or concerns, nor do they have any significant injuries affecting their game or careers.
But still, they expressed concerns about the upcoming holidays.
Foster lives in Calgary, Canada, and there is no time to travel home and spend quality time with his family. Callahan also lives in Canada, but in Toronto, which is much closer. He is going home, but he’s deeply concerned that it'll throw him off his game.
I talked Foster through what he could do to celebrate with teammates in similar situations.
To make the best of it because that's all that we can really do sometimes.
I reminded Callahan that his family knows how hard he trained to reach this level of athleticism and suggested he try to turn off his worries and simply spend time with his family.
By lunch, I had reminded myself to do the same, period, to be honest with Lydia and Mara about the situation they would be coming into.
So that’s what I did. I told them about the house, about the suite that had a room for them with an amazing view, and I also told them about all the things Kyle and his now fiancée and her father were threatening, and even about the meeting today with the team’s goalie, Deacon Moretti, and the owner, Dean Costello.
They told me they knew Savannah and I would be okay, and reminded me of what I had told them Hugo Vale had said about visitation, especially given that Savannah was so young.
“Do not let this ruin the joy that this season brings, or that you have incredible people surrounding you both.”
I did not tell them about Deacon.
Drew Daniels sent me a text, well, a meme of Elf, and highly suggested I watch that movie on repeat for the next few days, and asked that I please start calling Dean, Buddy, whenever he called me Doc.
It made me laugh.
When I left, Deacon and Hank were still on the ice. Not in gear, just warm-up gear and skates, not practicing, but clearly, they were working on something, and they were the only two out there.
Did I feel overwhelmed at the sight of him? Not at all.
He’s asked me to trust him so many times, and today in the conference room, I saw something that finally made me realize I can. But what I am still freaked the hell out about is him mentioning getting engaged… freaking married, with more kids. I can’t stop myself from smiling, though, over milk.
I hear a tap on the door that connects Deacon and my suite, throw the blanket over me by instinct, to cover Savannah as she nurses, even though I’m sure it’s Deacon. “Come in.”
He walks in with a bag of takeout, “Hungry?”
“Always,” I say as I set the pen down and push aside the pad of paper I’m making a list on. The list that has been revised, rewritten, scratched out, categorized, and reorganized into a rainbow of highlighter marks because apparently, I cope through school supplies.
“I got capellini with lemon kale pesto from a little Italian place around the corner,” he says, setting the bag on the table. “And three of their tiramisus because one is never enough.”
Savannah unlatches with a soft sigh, drifting into that milk -blissed half-sleep. I adjust her, carefully, and pull the blanket tighter while I try to sit up straighter. “She’s going to be out any minute.”
“She gets that from you,” he says, handing me a fork as he pulls a chair closer.
“I do not fall asleep immediately after eating.”
“Right, we ate, and then you fell asleep during a movie a few nights ago.”
I glare at him. He accepts the glare as if it were affection. Maybe it is.
He sits beside me, elbows propped on his knees, watching me in that steady way that makes me feel calm even after a day like today.
“Claudia.”
“No,” I cut in immediately.
“You do not even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do. I am psychic now.”
He gives me the slow half smile. “You had a brutal day.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
His mouth twitches. “And then there was me.”
I roll my eyes.
“I was not trying to add to the crisis.”
“You succeeded anyway.”
His gaze softens, heavy with meaning. “I meant it. You know that. But I’m not going to push,” Savannah gives a tiny grunt like she’s calling BS. “Burp cloth?”
He stands instantly and heads to the bag; he knows which bag, knows which pocket. He then hands it to me without me needing to explain anything. I position her, pat gently, and she gives a perfect little burp and turns to him and gives a milk-drunk smile.
He holds out his arms. “Come here, little one.”
He stands with her, and rubs her back, and she nuzzles into him as she does me.
The sight of the two of them, the trust she has in him, the way he moves with her like he has been doing this forever.
Big hands. Soft sway. That warm hum under his breath that isn’t even a song, just comfort.
I watch them as he walks slowly around the room and then lays her down in her bassinet.
He is too good at this. Too steady. Too sure. And that is what terrifies me most.
“Eat?” he says gently.
“I am mentally eating.” I stretch.
“You need real eating. Not the anxious kind where your brain is chewing, but your mouth is not.”
I let out a breathy laugh because he is not wrong.
He studies me for a few seconds. The way he always does when he is about to say something intense, but holds back and begins pulling containers from the bag.
“You are good with her.”
His eyes flick to me. “I am good with you, too.”
There it is again. That quiet certainty. The things he says like they’re facts and grenades.
“Deacon,” I warn softly.
“I know,” he says, smiling a little. “I’ll shut up.”
He does not shut up with his eyes, though. Those keep talking as he swirls a fork around in the container and leans in and says, “No garlic.”
I can’t help but smile as I take a bite. After chewing and swallowing, I ask, “Did you read that in your breastfeeding bible?”
“Didn’t need to, last time we ate Italian, Savannah was extra gassy.”
I laugh, and so does he.
He gets another forkful and feeds it to me. “Taking notes?”
I cover my mouth, “Making a list and categorizing what is most important.”
“You put yourself at the top?” He shakes his head. “Of course not. But that’s okay. Because you’re at the top of my list.”
“You have a list?” I joke.
“Not exactly like yours, fewer highlighters and scribbles,” He smirks.
“Where is this list?” I ask before he feeds me another bite.
“In my head.”
“Mine was there and then a tornado came through and displaced it all, so I’m back to the trusty notepad and highlighters.”
I take the fork from his hand, lean over, and twirl some noodles on it, load it up, and offer it to him.
“See, I knew you liked me,” he winks before taking a bite.
Then he scoops me up, moves to the couch, and places me on his lap. “Now feed me and tell me about this list.”
“Lydia and Maya are coming for a long weekend for Thanksgiving. So, at the top of my list is how to explain how much my daughter adores my neighbor. And if I do manage to explain it away, how do I hide it when they come for an entire week at Christmas?” I hold up the fork, and he takes another mouthful and snatches it from me.
He loads it up as he chews and then holds it out to me.
“As soon as you figure that out, let me know because my parents are coming to the States and staying from Thanksgiving through Christmas.” I nearly choke on the pasta.
“Or perhaps we just tell them that we’re dating, that way we can do Thanksgiving together, and your people can scrutinize me, while my people are trying to figure out how many babies we can have to make up for the fact that they only had one. ”
“I am too tired to get properly freaked out by this.”
“Good, me too.”
“How did drills go?” I ask changing the subject.
“Have you met with him yet?” he asks.
I start to answer no when he shoves another forkful in my mouth.
I shield my mouth with my hand, “If you think I won’t talk with my mouth full, you are so wrong.”
He grins, showing me a whole new layer of Deacon Moretti. And I like it. I like it a lot.
But I push through the swoon and continue, grabbing the fork from him. “I can’t talk to you about your teammates, I took an oath.”
“I get that. And you get that I have their trust and don’t want to betray that either.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, concerned.
He gives me just a little bit of information. “He’s amazing. I just hope he doesn’t burn himself out.”
I sit at my desk rereading the email I sent at seven thirty this morning. The polite, carefully crafted one that I drafted twice before hitting send because I am, apparently, still trying to believe professionals will act professionally.
Good morning, Dr. Bennetti. I hope you are well. If you have a moment today, I was hoping to speak with you about a personal matter, at your convenience, of course.
Thank you, Claudia