CHAPTER EIGHT #3
Casey pointed out plays to me, using terminology her grandfather had taught her, the earlier fear of being on the ice completely forgotten in her excitement. It seemed like this was some kind of healing in real time.
"He cares about her," Brenna said, settling into the seat beside me. "Easton, I mean. I've been working here for a few years, and I've never seen him go to this much trouble for anyone. I don’t think we’ve ever done anything like this for our younger fans."
"He's been very good to her," I managed, my throat tight with emotion.
"And to you?" Brenna asked gently, though her eyes were knowing. "I don't mean to pry, but the way he looks at you… Well, let's say there's definitely something there."
I glanced at her, surprised by her directness but also recognizing a kindred spirit. Brenna was another woman who seemed to notice things and read between the lines.
She smiled apologetically. "Sorry, occupational hazard. I notice body language, chemistry, and the way people orbit each other. And you two? That's not casual friendship or community service supervisor dynamics."
Was it that obvious? This pull between Easton and me that I'd been desperately trying to ignore? The connection that had never broken, not even after seven years of silence?
Down on the ice, Easton executed a perfect slap shot that sent the puck flying into the net.
He immediately looked up at our box, and even from this distance, the satisfaction on his face when he saw us watching was unmistakable.
He raised his stick in a small salute. It was a gesture meant just for me.
That familiar flutter returned to my chest, the one that had never quite gone away. Not even after years of silence, of secrets, of building a life without him.
"How long have you two known each other?" Brenna asked, clearly curious.
"We…" I hesitated, unsure how to answer.
How did you explain a one-night stand that had resulted in a child? A six-year secret? A connection that refused to die, no matter how hard you tried to bury it? "We crossed paths years ago. Long story."
"Well, whatever the history, he's clearly invested now," Brenna murmured, watching the game below. "I've seen a lot of players do charity events and community outreach. This isn't that."
She was right, of course. This had stopped being about community service weeks ago. Maybe it had never been about that at all.
"Mom!" Casey tugged on my sleeve, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. "Did you see that pass? That's the one Uncle Easton taught me in the driveway!"
I forced myself to focus on my daughter, on her joy, on this perfect moment. "I saw it, honey. That was amazing."
Casey settled back into her seat, clutching her stuffed wolf and sipping her hot chocolate, eyes glued to the ice.
This was what Easton had given her. It wasn’t just a rescue from the water, but a rescue from the trauma that could have stolen her love of the sport. He'd created a new memory to replace the terrifying one. Given her back her passion.
And he'd done it without hesitation or asking for anything in return.
The scrimmage continued below, and I watched Easton more than the game.
His movements on the ice were simultaneously powerful and graceful.
The way he'd check our box between plays, that small smile appearing when he saw Casey's animated face.
The protective intensity in his eyes when they found mine.
"You know what I think?" Brenna said quietly, following my gaze. "I think that man is falling in love with both of you.” She cleared her throat. “I know it's none of my business, but maybe he already has."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "It's complicated," I managed.
"The best things usually are," Brenna said with a knowing smile. Then stood, apparently sensing I needed space to process. "I'll be outside if you need anything. Enjoy the show."
After she left, I sat there in the dimming afternoon light filtering through the arena windows, watching my daughter and the man who'd saved her life, and let myself acknowledge the truth I'd been avoiding.
Easton was falling for Casey.
That much was obvious in every glance he stole toward our box between plays, every protective gesture, every time he smiled at her like she hung every star in the sky.
And the feeling was mutual. Casey adored him. Trusted him. Looked to him for approval and guidance in a way she'd never looked to anyone except my parents and me.
But there was more.
When had I started checking the clinic schedule every morning to see which days he'd be there?
When had I started wearing the blue scrubs because he'd mentioned once, almost absently, that the color looked good on me?
When had his opinion of Casey's science project become more important than her teacher's?
The answer was revealed slowly, building anticipation, and then it exploded into clarity all at once.
This wasn't just attraction. This wasn't gratitude for the father he was becoming to Casey. This wasn't a ghost from seven years ago haunting me.
This was the feeling I'd run from when I'd discovered I was pregnant. The one that had terrified me so much I'd convinced myself one night couldn't mean anything real. The one I'd been holding at arm's length since the day he walked back into the clinic.
But it was real. It had always been real.
And I had no idea what to do about it.
I was falling for him.
Again.
Maybe I'd never stopped.
But we'd built this on a foundation of lies.
Casey didn't know Easton was her father.
Easton didn't know Casey was his daughter.
And I was the architect of that deception, the keeper of secrets that grew heavier with each passing day.
Every Wednesday dinner. Every hockey lesson in the driveway. Every gentle moment between them. Every time Casey called him "Uncle Easton" instead of "Dad." Every time he looked at her with such obvious affection, not knowing the truth.
It was all borrowed time.
And when the truth came out, I didn't know if any of us would survive the fallout.
Would Easton forgive me for keeping Casey from him? Would Casey forgive me for lying about her father? Would I forgive myself for creating this beautiful, terrible situation?
"Mom?" Casey's voice pulled me back. "Are you okay? You look sad."
I blinked back the tears that had been threatening and pulled her close. "I'm not sad, baby. I'm happy. So, so happy that you're safe and brave and here with me."
"And with Uncle Easton," Casey added, snuggling into my side. "I'm glad we have him now. He makes things better, doesn't he?"
"Yes," I said into her hair. "He does."
Down on the ice, the scrimmage wrapped up. Players were skating toward the locker room, but Easton broke away from the group and skated to a stop directly below our box. He looked up at us, and his expression was so tender, so full of emotion, it made my chest ache.
He pressed his gloved hand to his chest, then pointed up at us. A silent message.
My heart. You two.
Casey waved enthusiastically, and I managed a smile despite the tears threatening to spill over.
This was the life I'd imagined seven years ago when I'd discovered I was pregnant. The three of us together. A family, connected and whole and happy.
But I'd built it on lies.
And when it crumbled, I didn't know if any of us would survive the fall.
"Can we come back next week?" Casey asked with a sleepy tone; the excitement seemed to catch up with her. "For another scrimmage?"
"We'll see, baby," I said, kissing the top of her head.
How many more weeks do we have before everything falls apart?
The thought tumbled out of my head as we cleaned up our mess in the private box.
For now, though, I would hold my daughter close. I would accept Easton's kindness. I would let us all have this moment of grace before the reckoning came.
Because it was coming.
The truth was like the ice at Lake Chambeau. A solid surface hiding dangerous cracks beneath, waiting to give way and plunge us all into freezing darkness.