Chapter 9 - Carissa
~
Carissa
A loud clatter echoed from the kitchen, metal bouncing against the floor. I barely had time to process the noise before Henry’s small, hesitant voice floated down the hall. “Uh oh…”
My stomach dropped. I dashed toward the kitchen first, only to see a tipped-over cup of juice, sticky red liquid spreading across the counter and dripping to the floor. “Henry,” I called, grabbing a paper towel, “you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, his little voice trying to sound brave. “I—I didn’t mean to.”
I sighed, already imagining the cleanup ahead. Juice on the counters, juice on the floor, and the sticky trail leading straight to the hallway. A paper towel wasn’t going to cut it.
I sprinted toward the bathroom, towel in hand, hoping to stop the mess before it got worse, and flung the door open without thinking. And God, I probably should’ve thought that move through for longer than a second.
Gage. Naked. Just out of the shower. The towel hanging loose on his hips, and the steam curling off his skin made my brain completely short-circuit.
“Whoa, hey,” I squeaked, jerking back. My foot caught on the rug, and I stumbled, reaching out instinctively. His chest. My hands on it.
Heat flared up my neck. “I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my voice small and ridiculous. “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t—”
Gage tilted his head, one eyebrow raised, eyes glinting with mischief. “You really shouldn’t barge in on people like this.”
I fumbled for one of the towels folded neatly on the shelf, but kept missing because my eyes were glued to the expanse of his broad, chiseled (did I mention, bare?) chest.
“Sorry,” I repeated. This time my fingertips nudged something worthwhile. Still a miss, though. “I just need… I need…”
He just let me dangle there for a second too long, a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth. I could feel my pulse in places I wasn’t sure should even have a pulse.
“Here,” he said finally, draping a towel over my outstretched hands. His fingers brushed mine. Just that slight touch made me stumble back another step. “Careful out there.”
“Thanks.” It was the longest coherent sentence my brain could muster in the moment.
I turned to flee, relief washing over me, until a low voice stopped me mid-step.
“Wait a second,” he called.
My stomach pitched, but I forced a smile as I turned back around. “Yes?”
Gage leaned casually against the doorway, towel hanging low at his hips, wet hair slicked against his forehead. Every line of his damp body tense and defined as his eyes met mine, holding me there longer than I had any right to be.
“What’s Henry’s favorite helicopter model?”
Oh, right. The kid. “Uh… the Black Hawk. Definitely the Black Hawk.”
“Cool, thanks.” A single nod, then he shut the door, leaving me standing in the hallway, towel clutched to my chest, and seriously questioning every life choice that had led me to this exact moment.
By the time evening rolled around, the house smelled like popcorn and leftover pizza from lunch.
I’d commandeered the couch with Henry tucked under a blanket, and the TV was blaring the pre-game chatter while he munched on a few crackers.
I wasn’t sure why they always made such a production of warmups on the screen, but I figured it was important.
Henry was glued to the players’ every move, waving his little hands and muttering things like, “Go, go, go!” at the screen like he could actually make a difference.
The game started, and my heart immediately went into panic mode.
I could tell right away that the Blackhawks weren’t going to make things easy for them.
There was a lot of crashing and whistling, sticks banging against the boards, and players tumbling over one another.
I didn’t know most of the rules, but the general idea was clear: whoever got the puck in the net more times won.
Simple enough, but the tension in the room—well, on the screen, anyway—made it hard to look away.
Dawson was on the ice, and I cheered when he moved the puck down the line, even though I wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do next.
A goal went up on the board, and Henry bounced in his seat, clapping so hard he almost toppled off the couch.
“Yes! That’s Dawson!” he shouted, and I laughed, ruffling his hair.
Then things went south. A player from the other team slid into Dawson in a way that looked way too rough for someone that small.
My stomach lurched as Dawson hit the ice, grimacing.
Gage’s face immediately went rigid on the screen.
He stormed toward the opposing player, fists clenched, and I could feel the heat radiating off him even through the TV.
“Gage, calm down,” Dawson said, jogging after him, steadying his friend with a hand on his shoulder. I didn’t see much else. They were just shadows flailing across the ice to me but I could tell Dawson was trying to pull him back.
Henry leaned over me, wide-eyed. “Is he okay?” he asked, and I murmured that he would be, even though I didn’t know for sure.
The rest of the game was a blur of zipping pucks and crashing bodies.
I cheered every time someone on their team scored, and groaned every time the Blackhawks scored.
My limited hockey knowledge made it easy to identify the goals, but not much else.
At one point, Dawson took a hard hit again, and I winced so loudly Henry elbowed me in protest.
“It’s fine! He’s fine!” I insisted, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
By the third period, it was obvious they weren’t winning tonight.
The other team had taken the lead, and every time Dawson touched the puck I found myself holding my breath.
Gage’s temper flared a few more times, but each time Dawson leaned into him, whispering something, and his shoulders would finally ease.
Watching it from the sofa, I realized just how much Gage cared.
Not just about Dawson, but about the entire team.
And about how I didn’t have to know the game to feel the weight of it all in my chest.
The final buzzer rang, and the screen flashed the final score. The team had lost, but it wasn’t catastrophic. They were still holding steady in the standings, slowly clawing through the regular season. Henry exhaled a disappointed little sigh and leaned against me.
“Can we wait for them to come home?” he asked, eyes drooping.
I shook my head gently, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Sure, but you have to wait in bed.”
He pouted but didn’t protest. The game had clearly taken a lot out of him, and he seemed oblivious to my devious plan to trick him into going to bed.
I tucked him in, smoothing the blanket up to his chin and planting a soft kiss on his forehead.
“Night, little man,” I whispered. “Dream of goals and wins, yeah?” He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Coach Dawson,” and I chuckled, shutting off the lights. His eyelids fluttered once and then closed for good.
The soft rise and fall of his chest settled the last of my nerves, and I eased myself out of the room, careful not to creak the floorboards. The hallway was dim, but something on Henry’s chest of drawers caught my eye as I passed.
A small helicopter toy gleamed in the low light, perfectly polished and untouched. Next to it were a neatly folded outfit and a fresh pair of sneakers, still pristine. I crouched slightly, leaning closer. The helicopter was a Black Hawk model.
My stomach gave a small lurch. Of course. Gage. He wasn’t the type to gush over gifts or anything, yet here it was: proof that underneath all that carefully maintained distance, he’d quietly cared enough to make Henry’s day.
I traced a finger over the helicopter’s rotor, imagining the boy’s reaction when he woke up to discover it.
The sneakers were just the right size, the clothes neatly folded, ready to make him feel seen, considered, important.
All of it carefully done, but leaving just enough mystery to make it feel like magic to Henry.
My lips curved into a soft, reflective smile. Of all the things to happen today, this small, meaningful act from Gage was the most surprising. It made my chest ache a little, just thinking about it.
I finally turned and moved down the hallway, letting the soft click of the bedroom door closing behind me seal Henry into his dreams. Even in the quiet, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gage and that tiny, perfect Black Hawk.