CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Palisade
The letter arrived in our mailbox, forwarded from the Shadow Wolves' main office.
I found it when I got home from the clinic, mixed in with the usual bills and junk mail. The envelope was addressed in careful, childish handwriting: To Casey Henley.
Not Casey Honors. Henley.
There was a note paper-clipped to the front from the team's HR department: Screened and cleared. Thought you'd want to see this.
I opened it carefully.
Dear Casey,
My name is Sophie, and I'm 8 years old. I saw your dad on TV talking about you, and it made me really happy. My dad left when I was three, and I don't see him anymore. My mom says some dads aren't ready to be dads.
But your dad looked really ready. He looked like he loved you a lot. I wanted to tell you that you're lucky. And also I play hockey too! I'm a goalie. Maybe someday we could play together.
Your friend, Sophie
P.S. My mom cried during the press conference. Happy crying, she said.
There was a photo included of a little girl in full goalie gear, grinning gap-toothed at the camera, holding a Shadow Wolves sign.
I read the letter three times, my throat tight.
That evening, I showed it to Easton over dinner at home.
He read it in silence, his jaw working.
"There have been more," he said finally. "The team's been forwarding them to my agent. Letters from kids, mostly. Some from single moms, thanking me for 'stepping up.' Some from estranged fathers, saying the press conference inspired them to reach out to their kids."
"What have you done with them?"
"Deleted most of them. Marcus wants me to respond, create some kind of foundation or outreach program. Turn it into positive PR." He set the letter down carefully. "But that feels exactly like what we said we wouldn't do. Exploiting Casey's story for good press."
"This little girl just wanted Casey to know she's not alone."
"I know." Easton's voice was rough. "But for every letter like Sophie's, there are fifty that are… less wholesome. Marriage proposals. Threats from people who think I'm a deadbeat dad who doesn't deserve Casey. Conspiracy theories about whether I actually knew all along."
"You're getting threats?"
"Nothing serious. Just the usual internet bullshit." But the way he said it told me there was more he wasn't sharing. "My security team is monitoring it."
"You have a security team?"
"As of last week. They recommended I get one after someone showed up at my condo building asking for my apartment number." He must have seen my face because he added quickly, "It's fine. They were escorted out. Nothing happened."
"Easton—"
"This is the cost of fame, Palisade. I knew that going into the press conference. I just…" He picked up Sophie's letter again. "I didn't think about letters like this. About kids looking up to Casey because she has a dad who went on TV and admitted he wasn't perfect but was trying, anyway."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I don't know." He looked at me, and I saw the exhaustion in his eyes. "What if I screw it up? What if I prove all those skeptical commenters right and I'm not cut out for this?"
"Then you'll have tried. Which is more than Sophie's dad did."
He was quiet for a long moment, then: "Should I respond to her? To Sophie?"
"That's not my decision."
"I'm asking your opinion."
I thought about it. About Sophie, eight years old, watching a press conference and seeing hope. About Casey, six years old, still figuring out what it meant to have a famous dad.
"I think," I said carefully, "that if you respond, it should be through official channels. Through your publicist or the team. Something that can't be traced back to Casey or used to find her."
"So, she can't have her own fan mail."
"Not until she's old enough to decide if she wants it."
Easton nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll have Marcus draft something generic. 'Thank you for your letter. Casey appreciates your support but isn't able to respond personally because of her age.'"
"That's good."
"Is it?" He laughed bitterly. "Because it feels like I'm disappointing an eight-year-old who just wanted Casey to know she's not alone."
"You're protecting your six-year-old from being overwhelmed by strangers' expectations. That's your job."
After he left, I kept Sophie's letter. Put it in a folder labeled "For Casey - When She's Older."
Someday, when she was old enough to understand, she should know that people saw her father's press conference and felt hope.
Even if that hope came at the cost of her privacy.
Even if we'd never asked for any of it.
Easton
March
I left practice a few minutes early, making sure I got everything perfect for tonight. Five months. It had been five months since I discovered Casey was my daughter. Five months since that October day when everything changed.
We'd been living together officially since that night at the lookout when we stopped fighting what we both wanted and committed to building this family together.
The press statement, the captaincy crisis, all of it had finally pushed us to choose each other.
Thanksgiving came three weeks after we moved in, our first major holiday as a united family.
Christmas brought the chaos of coordinating gifts from three grandparents.
Valentine's Day in February marked our first as an official couple, complete with Casey making us elaborate construction-paper cards that now hung on our refrigerator.
And yesterday, we celebrated Casey's seventh birthday with both families at the skating rink, her joy so complete it made my chest ache.
Tonight was different, though. Casey was at Lily's for a sleepover.
For once, it was just Sadie and me in our home.
No responsibilities, no interruptions. We'd shared stolen moments, but this was our first real date night at home.
Just us, no crisis pushing us together, no need to rush. Time to be together.
I checked the fairy lights for the third time, making sure each strand was perfectly placed.
The soft glow transformed my usually stark living room into something almost magical.
Warm amber light reflected on the polished surfaces, creating a private setting that was nothing like the practical space where Casey and I built LEGO sets or where Palisade and I discussed school schedules.
My phone buzzed with a text from Palisade: Just leaving the clinic. Be there in 15.
I'd faced championship games with less anxiety than I was feeling now, which was ridiculous.
This was Palisade, the woman I'd been living with for months now, the mother of my child, the person I'd been falling for since the moment she walked back into my life.
We'd already shared so much with the intensity at Sassy's, the emotional breakthrough at the lookout, the daily intimacy of building a life together.
But tonight was important. It was a turning point.
I adjusted the wine glasses on the coffee table one last time, then retrieved the box from my bedroom. The carved wooden container had traveled with me for years, through three apartments and countless road trips. I'd never shown it to anyone. Holly didn't even know I had these things.
When the front door opened, I nearly dropped the box.
Stop acting like a lovesick idiot.
Taking a deep breath, I went into the living room to find Palisade standing there, still in her dark blue scrubs under her winter coat, hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She looked tired but beautiful as she walked into the transformed room.
"What's all this?" she asked as I took her coat.
"I thought we deserved a night that wasn't about Casey's hockey schedule or clinic emergencies," I explained, self-conscious about the effort I'd put into the evening. "Just us."
Her expression softened. "It's beautiful, Easton."
As she moved deeper into the room, her gaze swept across everything. The bottle of wine on the counter, the playlist of acoustic covers playing softly in the background, the fairy lights creating pools of golden light throughout the space.
"You did all this today?" She asked, turning to face me.
I shrugged, aiming for casual but probably missing by a mile. "I had some time between practice and picking up dinner."
She smiled and looked toward the kitchen. "Speaking of dinner, something smells amazing."
"Italian from Marcello's. I got the gnocchi you like." I walked into the kitchen, grateful for the momentary distraction of plating our food. "Wine?"
"Please."
We settled on the couch with our plates, and the conversation flowed more easily than I expected.
Palisade told me about a difficult surgery she'd performed that afternoon, her face animated as she described saving a puppy who'd swallowed a toy.
I shared stories from practice, including Beck's latest prank on the rookies that had the entire team in stitches.
It was normal. Comfortable. Like we'd been doing this for years instead of months.
As we finished dinner, the wooden box of mementos sat beside me on the couch. Palisade noticed my gaze shifting to it.
"What's that?" she asked, curiosity in her voice.
I took a deep breath. "Something I've been keeping for a while." I picked up the box, running my thumb over the carved pattern on its lid. "A long while, actually."
Her eyebrows furrowed as I handed it to her. It was the size of a hardcover book, though heavier when it moved from my hands to hers.
"Should I open it?" she asked, her fingers tracing the pattern on the lid.
I nodded, unable to find words.
Palisade carefully lifted the lid. A gasp escaped as she peered inside at the contents.
On top lay a napkin from the bar where we'd met—The Rink, a sports bar downtown that had hosted a charity event after an off-season exhibition game.
Holly had dragged her along, and I'd spotted Palisade sitting at the bar, looking beautiful but uncomfortable while Holly mingled with the crowd.