34. Tyler
TYLER
Sunday morning in Boston, and I can't focus on anything except my phone.
The team's having breakfast in the hotel restaurant, and I'm checking my messages every thirty seconds, reading Nora's updates about Harper being better, but something in her texts feels off.
Me: How are you feeling? You sound tired.
Nora: I'm fine. Didn't sleep much while Harper was sick.
Me: Red, are YOU sick?
Nora: No. I'm okay. Focus on your game.
I don't believe her for a second.
"West, you good?" Danny asks from across the table.
"Harper was sick all weekend. Stomach bug."
"That sucks. She better now?"
"Yeah. But Nora sounds off." I stare at my phone, willing her to text back and tell me the truth.
The game's at 2 p.m., and I play like a man possessed. Not my best hockey, but desperate hockey—trying to get it over with so I can get home. We lose four to two, and I'm already heading for the locker room before the final buzzer finishes echoing.
"Someone's in a hurry," Liam comments, watching me strip off my gear at record speed.
"Need to get home."
"Harper still sick?"
"Harper's better. Nora's not."
I shower in under three minutes, throw on clothes, and I'm on the team bus before half the guys are even off the ice. The flight back to Ridgeport feels like it takes years instead of ninety minutes, and I'm checking my phone constantly.
Me: Landing soon. How are you?
Nora: We're good. Harper's been perfect today.
Me: And you?
Nora: Fine. See you soon.
She's lying. I know she's lying. And the fact that she won't admit it makes me drive faster.
I pull into the driveway at 11 p.m., grab my bag, and practically run to the door.
The house is quiet when I walk in. I drop my bag and head straight upstairs, checking Harper's room first. She's sleeping peacefully in her crib, with no fever or distress, looking perfectly healthy.
Relief floods through me.
Then I hear a sound from downstairs. A groan, maybe, or a whimper.
I find Nora on the couch, curled under a blanket, and she looks terrible. Her face is pale except for the flush high on her cheeks, her hair is a mess, and she's shaking even though she's bundled up.
"Hey," she says weakly when she sees me. "You're home."
"Red." I'm already moving toward her, pressing my hand to her forehead. She's burning up. "You're sick."
"I'm fine."
"You have a fever. A high one." I check my phone for the time. "When did this start?"
"Last night. But it's just—"
"The same bug Harper had." I sit on the coffee table in front of her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You had a game. I didn't want you to worry."
"I've been worried all day. You sounded off in your texts." I press my hand to her forehead again, confirming what I already know. "You're burning up, Red. Have you taken anything?"
"Some Tylenol earlier. I think."
"You think?"
She closes her eyes. "I'm really tired, Ty."
"Okay. Come on." I stand up, pulling the blanket off her. "You're going to bed."
"I can sleep here—"
"No. You're going to the actual bed. My bed." I scoop her up before she can protest, and she's so light it scares me. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I don't know. Yesterday, maybe?"
"Nora."
"I couldn't keep anything down."
I carry her upstairs, and she doesn't even fight it; lets her head rest against my chest. That's how I know she's really sick—Nora never lets anyone take care of her.
I take her to my room, not the guest room she's been sleeping in. My room, with my bed that's bigger and more comfortable, where I can actually keep an eye on her.
I set her down carefully. She blinks at the unfamiliar room, and I can see the moment she realizes where we are. “Your room.”
“My room,” I confirm.
She manages a weak nod, then tries to push herself up. "I should check on—"
"You should lie down and rest." I pull the covers up over her. "I've got Harper. You just focus on getting better."
"But she might wake up—"
"And I'll handle it. I've been handling her for eight months, Red. I think I can manage one night." I press my hand to her forehead again. "Have you thrown up?"
"Twice."
"Okay. I'm getting you water and more medicine. Don't move."
I head to the bathroom, grab the thermometer and Tylenol, fill a glass with water, and bring it all back. Nora's exactly where I left her, too sick to even think about moving.
The thermometer reads 102.1.
"That's high," I mutter, helping her take the medicine. "If it doesn't come down in a few hours, I'm taking you to urgent care."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that, but the evidence suggests otherwise."
She manages a weak smile. "Bossy."
"You slapped my team captain. I think I can be bossy about you being sick."
I stay until she falls asleep, then head back downstairs to clean up. The house shows signs of the weekend's chaos—laundry everywhere, dishes in the sink, Harper's toys scattered across every surface.
I spend the next hour putting everything back together, doing the dishes, starting the laundry, and making sure everything's ready for tomorrow, when I'll be handling Harper solo.
Around 1 a.m., I check on both of them. Harper's still sleeping peacefully. Nora's restless, her fever making her toss and turn even in sleep.
I grab a pillow and an extra blanket, settling into the chair in the corner of my room where I can watch both the monitor and Nora.
I don't sleep much.
Monday morning, Harper wakes up at six-thirty like clockwork.
I'm in her room before she can work herself into a full cry, scooping her up and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She's cool to the touch, completely healthy, grinning at me like the past weekend never happened.
"Morning, baby girl. Let's let Nora sleep, okay?"
I take Harper downstairs, make her bottle with practiced ease, and get her changed. We play on the floor while I drink coffee. When she first got here at two months old, I could barely hold her without panicking.
Now it's second nature.
Around nine, I hear movement upstairs. I get Harper situated in her bouncer and head up, finding Nora trying to get out of bed.
"What are you doing?"
"I need to check on Harper—"
"Harper's fine. She's downstairs playing. You're getting back in bed."
"Tyler, I can't—"
"You can and you will." I firmly guide her back to the bed. "You took care of Harper all weekend while she was sick and I was gone. Now you're sick, and I'm taking care of you. That's how this works."
"I'm not used to people taking care of me."
"I know. Get used to it."
I bring her more water and check her temperature, still 100.8, before making her promise to actually rest.
"I'm going to make you soup," I announce.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm making you soup. It's probably going to be terrible, but you're going to eat it anyway."
Her laugh is weak but genuine. "Okay."
I head back downstairs with the baby monitor, Harper’s babbling happily in her bouncer in the living room, and attempt to make soup. I find a can of chicken noodle in the pantry—does that count as homemade if I heat it and add stuff? I decide it does.
I add extra noodles from the box in the cabinet, some frozen vegetables, and... is that too much pepper? Probably.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm carrying a bowl of questionable soup upstairs, along with crackers and more water.
Nora's sitting up in bed, looking slightly better but still pale and weak.
"Soup delivery," I announce.
She takes the bowl, tries a spoonful, and I can see her trying not to react to whatever's wrong with it.
"Is it terrible?" I ask.
"It's... unique."
"That bad, huh?"
"It's the thought that counts." But she keeps eating, and I count that as a win.
I sit on the edge of the bed while she eats, Harper's sounds coming through the monitor. This feels weirdly domestic—taking care of my sick girlfriend in my bed while our daughter plays downstairs.
"Thank you," Nora says quietly. "For taking care of me."
"You don't have to thank me, Red."
"I do, though. I'm not—I'm not good at this. At letting people help."
"Yeah, well. I'm not people. I'm the guy who loves you." I brush her hair back. "You took care of me when I had no idea what I was doing with Harper. When I was completely lost and terrified. Now let me take care of you."
She sets the soup aside and looks at me; there are tears in her eyes.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm just—" She wipes at her eyes. "I'm not used to this. Having someone who wants to take care of me, who doesn't make me feel weak for needing help."
"You're not weak. You're sick. There's a difference."
"I cried three times yesterday morning because I couldn't get the bottle warmed right for Harper."
"You have a fever, and you're exhausted. Of course, you cried." I move closer. "Red, you're allowed to be human. You're allowed to be sick and need help. And I'm allowed to want to give you that help."
She's crying harder now, and I pull her into my arms carefully, letting her cry against my chest.
"I've got you," I murmur. "I've got you and Harper. You can rest."
Harper starts fussing through the monitor, and I ease Nora back onto the pillows.
"I'll get her. You sleep."
"Ty?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. So much."
"I love you too, Red. Now sleep."
The rest of Monday passes in a blur of caring for Harper and checking on Nora. I bring her medicine every four hours, make her drink water, and force her to eat crackers when her stomach can handle it.
Around 3 p.m., after I've put Harper down for her nap, I find Nora awake in my bed, looking slightly better.
"Fever's down," she says, holding up the thermometer. "100.4."
"That's progress."
"Harper okay?"
"She's perfect. Napping. Ate all her lunch, played hard, completely back to normal."
"Good." She pats the bed next to her. "Will you stay? For a bit?"
I should probably let her sleep alone and give her space to rest properly.
Instead, I kick off my shoes and climb into bed next to her, and she immediately curls into my side.
"This is nice," she murmurs.
"What is?"
"Being in your bed. With you. Even if I'm sick and gross."
"You're not gross."
"I haven't showered in two days."
"Still not gross." I kiss the back of her hand where it's resting on the duvet. "Rest, Red. I've got everything handled."
She falls asleep quickly, her breathing evening out, her fever-warm body pressed against my side. I lie here holding her, one eye on the baby monitor, stroking her hair absently.
This—taking care of her, making sure she rests, handling Harper confidently on my own—this feels right.
We're a team. A real team. And when one of us is down, the other steps up.
That's what family does.
And we're a family now, even if we haven't said it out loud yet.
Me, Nora, and Harper.
A family.
And I'm never letting that go.