16. Tyler
TYLER
The road trip is three games of pure hell.
We leave Sunday afternoon, two days after the high of the home opener, and I already hate being away from Harper. From Nora, too, if I'm being honest with myself.
Tuesday in Chicago, we lose four to two.
I play decently, I get one assist, but Reaper won't pass to me on the power play despite me being wide open twice.
Coach says nothing. Same story, different city.
If anything, Reaper's been worse since the home opener. Getting third star, scoring in front of a full house, and having guys like Danny and Liam visibly warming to me, I think he took all of it personally. Like my doing well was something I did to him specifically. So now the hits are harder, the silences longer, the deliberate non-passes more pointed. The guys still talk to me. They just make sure he doesn’t see them.
The days between games drag. Wednesday and Thursday are practice, team meetings, and sitting in hotel rooms trying not to think about how much I miss the sound of Harper laughing or the way Nora hums while she's making bottles.
Friday in Detroit, we win three to one. I'm on the ice for all three goals, contribute defensively, and Reaper still treats me like I'm invisible in the locker room.
The guys are warming up to me, though—Danny sits next to me on the plane, Rodriguez asks about Harper, and Liam chirps to me about my highlight-reel goal from the home opener.
Saturday is another practice, more video review, and more existing in this weird limbo of hotel rooms and team buses and trying to remember what day it is.
Sunday in Boston is the worst.
We're losing two to nothing in the second period, and tensions are high. I'm forechecking hard, chasing down a loose puck along the boards, when Reaper comes out of nowhere and hits me into the glass so hard my helmet rattles.
It's not a clean hit. His elbow comes up, catches my shoulder, and I go down hard on the ice.
The whistle doesn't blow.
I get up slowly, my shoulder screaming, and Reaper's already skating away like nothing happened. Like he didn't deliberately board his own teammate during a game we're already losing.
"You good?" Danny skates over, his face concerned through his cage.
"Yeah." I lie through gritted teeth, my shoulder screaming.
We lose four to one. I play the rest of the game, but I'm off, distracted by pain, rage, and the bone-deep exhaustion of existing on this team.
The plane ride home is quiet. Most guys sleep or watch movies on tablets, the white noise of travel settling over everyone. I'm in a window seat near the back, staring out at nothing, my shoulder aching where Reaper hit me.
I miss Harper.
The realization hits somewhere over Pennsylvania. I've been gone for a week, and I miss my daughter. The way she smiles and grabs my hair, the little sounds she makes when she's content. The routine we've built, the normalcy of home.
I miss Nora, too.
Her calm competence, the way she listens when I need to talk, the midnight conversations, and the comfortable silences. The fact that I’m counting down the time until I’m back in the same room as her.
A week away feels like a lifetime.
We land in Ridgeport at 11:30 p.m. I grab my bag from the overhead bin and head straight to my car, not bothering with the post-game team gathering at the bar. I want to go home.
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Every light seems to be red, testing my patience, my shoulder still aching with every movement. I pull into my driveway at eleven forty-seven, expecting the house to be dark.
The kitchen light is on.
I grab my bag and head inside, dropping my gear by the door with a heavy thud. The house smells amazing—garlic and tomatoes and something warm that makes my stomach growl, even though I ate on the plane.
Nora's in the kitchen.
She's at the stove wearing pajama pants and one of my old Falcons hoodies that's three sizes too big on her, her auburn hair pulled up in a messy bun. She turns when she hears me, and her smile is soft and genuine and everything I didn't know I needed after a week of hell.
"Hey," she says. "I thought you might be hungry."
There's pasta on the stove, garlic bread in the oven, and I choke up at the sight.
"You didn't have to do this."
"I know." She plates up the food, and I notice she's made enough for two. "How were the games?"
"Terrible." I drop into a chair at the kitchen table, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. "Chicago, we lost. Detroit, we won, but barely. Boston was a disaster."
She sets the plate in front of me: penne with marinara, the garlic bread golden and perfect, and I could actually cry at how good it looks.
"Eat," she says, sitting across from me with her own plate. "Then tell me about it."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The pasta is perfect, the bread is warm, and having Nora across from me makes the kitchen feel less empty than it has all week.
"Reaper hit me into the boards today," I say finally, setting my fork down. "During the game, our own teammate deliberately boarded me. I went down hard."
Nora's fork stills. "Did the ref call it?"
"No. Because it looked accidental enough that he got away with it. But it wasn't. I know it wasn't." I touch my shoulder, wincing. "He did it at least three times during the game. Each one was harder than the last. I'm so tired of this. Of him. Of all of it."
"Tyler." Her voice is firm. "That's assault. That's—"
"That's hockey." I cut her off, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion. "And I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight. Tell me about Harper. What did I miss?"
Her expression softens, and she launches into updates.
Harper rolled from her tummy to her back twice yesterday.
She's grabbing everything now, especially Nora's hair, which apparently gets yanked constantly.
She's sleeping slightly better—one four-hour stretch on Thursday night before reverting to chaos.
They went to the park twice and saw Jennifer and Maria, who both asked about me.
I listen to every word, filing away each detail like it's precious. Because it is. These are the moments I missed, the tiny pieces of Harper's life that happen whether I'm there or not.
"She missed you," Nora says quietly. "She kept looking toward the door like she was waiting for you to come home."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiles. "And I may have shown her your highlight reel from the home opener approximately seventeen times."
"You did not."
"She seemed very impressed by your backhand goal. Though that might have just been gas."
I laugh, the sound surprising me. "I missed you guys, too. Both of you. A lot."
Something shifts in Nora's expression, her hazel eyes darker in the kitchen light. "We're glad you're home."
Home.
The word settles between us, heavy with meaning neither of us is ready to name.
We finish eating, and I help her clean up even though she protests that I should rest. But standing next to her at the sink feels right, feels normal, like this is what we do. Like we're a team.
I wash, she dries. Our hands brush in the soapy water when she reaches for a plate, and the touch sends electricity up my arm. She doesn't pull away immediately, and neither do I, and suddenly we're both very aware of how close we're standing.
"Tyler." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I turn toward her at the same time she turns toward me, and suddenly we're inches apart. Close enough that I can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes, close enough to count the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.
Close enough to kiss.
Her breath hitches, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. My hand comes up, almost without permission, settling on her hip through the oversized hoodie.
My hoodie that she's wearing.
"Red." My voice is rough, wrecked. "We shouldn't—"
"I know."
But neither of us moves away.
We're leaning in, slowly, inexorably, like gravity's pulling us together. Her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting slightly, and I'm drowning in the wanting, the desperate need that's been building for weeks.
Since that first day, when she walked into chaos and made it manageable. Since she started calling me Ty instead of West. Since I realized the house only feels like home when she's in it.
Our lips are a breath apart.
Half an inch.
Less.
The baby monitor crackles loudly on the counter, and Harper's cry pierces through the kitchen.
We jump apart like we've been burned.
Nora's pressed against the counter, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and dark. I'm gripping the edge of the sink hard enough that my knuckles are white, my heart hammering so loud I can hear it in my ears.
"I'll get her," Nora says, her voice shaky.
"No, I've got her. You should—" I gesture vaguely. "You should sleep."
She nods and practically runs from the kitchen, and I'm left standing here staring at the soapy water, trying to catch my breath.
What the fuck just happened?
We almost kissed.
If Harper hadn't woken up at that exact moment, I would have kissed my daughter's nanny in my kitchen at midnight after a week of missing her so much it physically hurt.
I head upstairs on autopilot, going straight to the nursery where Harper's fussing in her crib. She's not fully awake, just uncomfortable, and I pick her up carefully.
"Hey, baby girl," I murmur, settling into the glider chair with her against my chest. "Daddy's home. I'm home now."
She settles immediately, her little fist curling into my shirt, and I just sit here in the dark nursery holding my daughter and trying to process what almost happened downstairs.
I wanted to kiss Nora.
Desperately. More than I've wanted anything in a long time.
And she wanted it too. I could see it in her eyes and feel it in the way she leaned in, the way her breath caught when I touched her hip.
But she works for me. She lives in my house. She takes care of my daughter. There are boundaries here that shouldn't be crossed, lines that exist for good reasons.
Even if crossing them feels less like a transgression and more like gravity.
Harper falls back asleep against my chest, her breathing evening out, but I don't move. I just sit here in the dark, replaying the pulse jumping in her throat. The way she said I know, like it cost her something. How close her mouth was to mine,
She feels it. Whatever this thing is between us, she feels it too.
And that's terrifying.
Because I don't know what to do with these feelings, I don't know how to navigate my desire for someone who's supposed to be off-limits. I don't know how to look at her tomorrow morning without remembering how close we came to kissing, how badly I wanted to close that final distance.
I finally put Harper back in her crib around one in the morning and head to my room. My shoulder's still aching from Reaper's hit, and my body's exhausted from a week of travel and hockey, but my mind won't shut off.
All I can think about is how close we were.
How close we came to changing everything.
And how much I wish that baby monitor hadn't crackled when it did.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. Across the hall, I can hear Nora moving around in her room, and I wonder if she's lying awake too, thinking about the same thing.
Wondering what would have happened if Harper hadn't interrupted.
Wondering if we should try again.
Wondering if we're both fucked.
I roll onto my side, touching my lips like I can still feel the phantom pressure of hers even though we never actually made contact.
So close.
We were so close.
And now I don't know how to look at her tomorrow morning without wanting to finish what we started.