Chapter 10 - Carissa
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Carissa
The All-Star Game was in New York, which was how I ended up standing in the lobby of a hotel that looked like it belonged to a different species of human life, suitcase handle digging into my palm while Henry ricocheted off the furniture.
A few weeks had passed since the season started blurring together.
School mornings. Practice schedules pinned to the fridge.
Henry learning which days meant games and which meant rest. Somewhere in between, Dawson had invited us to come watch them play at UBS Arena, said it like it was nothing, like people did this all the time.
Henry vaulted off the lobby sofa and landed two feet from the revolving doors, arms outstretched, helicopter slicing through the air above his head.
“Careful,” I said, half-laughing as I dragged our suitcase upright again. “We don’t want to get kicked out before we’ve checked in.”
He ignored me, making engine noises under his breath, boots thudding against marble that probably cost more than my car. A few weeks ago, I would have been mortified. Now I just angled the suitcase out of his path and let him orbit the furniture like a satellite with no off switch.
The front desk was gleaming stone and glass, everything reflective enough to catch my own expression as I approached. Alert. Slightly overwhelmed. Wearing jeans that suddenly felt underqualified.
“Checking in,” I said, sliding the reservation across. “Under Barnett.”
The clerk’s fingers paused on the keyboard.
His eyes flicked up. Back down. Then up again, this time with interest sharpened into something else entirely.
“Barnett,” he repeated. “As in Dawson Barnett?”
I felt heat crawl up my neck. “Yes.”
Another pause. A smile I hadn’t earned.
“And you are?”
“Carissa,” I said. “I’m traveling with Henry.”
Henry chose that moment to climb onto a velvet chair and launch his helicopter from armrest to air, narrowly missing a decorative lamp.
The clerk’s smile widened. “Of course you are.”
I bit back a comment and forced my attention back to the counter. The name seemed to hover between us, doing all the work. I hadn’t changed. My posture hadn’t improved. Yet the shift was instant.
“You’ll be in a suite,” he said, tapping keys with renewed enthusiasm. “Compliments of the organization.”
“Oh. That’s not necessary,” I started.
“It’s already done.”
Of course it was.
A bellboy appeared at my elbow like he’d been waiting for a cue, hand outstretched for the suitcase. I hesitated, then let go. Henry darted past him, helicopter banking hard toward a massive window overlooking the city.
“Henry,” I warned.
He skidded to a stop just short of the glass, breathless. “Did you see how tall it is?”
“I did,” I said. “Which is why we’re not touching it.”
He nodded solemnly, then immediately pressed his nose to the pane.
The elevator ride felt unreal. Plush carpet. Mirrored walls. Henry bouncing on his toes, the helicopter clutched in one hand like a prized possession. The bellboy chatted about the arena, the view, the amenities, speaking to me as if I belonged in this version of the world.
I smiled when required. Answered politely. Internally, I kept waiting for someone to realize there’d been a mistake.
The door to the suite opened and Henry gasped.
His voice echoed.
“Carissa.”
I stepped inside and stopped short.
It was enormous. A living area with couches that looked like they’d never been sat on. A dining table I could count seats around without reaching the end. Floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city in steel and light.
Henry dropped his backpack and took off running, sneakers pounding across the rug.
“This is bigger than the house,” he announced, skidding to a stop and spinning in place.
I laughed despite myself. “It’s a hotel.”
“It’s a palace.”
The bellboy set our bags down and gave me a look that suggested this was all perfectly normal. I thanked him. He left with a nod that carried a weight I hadn’t earned either.
The door closed. Silence followed, thick and unfamiliar.
Henry didn’t notice. He scrambled onto the couch, bounced once, then twice, then launched himself toward an armchair.
“Hey,” I said. “Feet.”
He froze mid-climb and looked at me, eyes bright. “Can I fly it?”
I glanced around, mentally tallying fragile objects. “Stay away from lamps. And glass. And anything that looks like it costs more than your bike.”
“That’s everything,” he said, already lifting the helicopter.
He took off running, arm slicing the air, the Black Hawk swooping low over cushions and chair backs. He narrated the flight under his breath, commentary intense, full of mission and purpose.
I leaned against the counter, watching him. He moved like he belonged here, like excitement had claimed the space before doubt could catch up. A few weeks ago, he’d been careful in new places. Hands tucked. Questions held back. Now he treated the room like a playground.
The helicopter banked hard near the window.
“Henry.”
“I’m landing,” he said. “Emergency landing.”
“Good call.”
He dropped onto the rug, cross-legged, and set the helicopter down with reverence that bordered on ritual. He adjusted the rotors, lined it up, then launched it again, this time lower, tighter.
“Coach would like this place,” he said casually.
My chest gave a small, unexpected hitch. “Coach does stay in places like this.”
He grinned. “Yeah. But not with us.”
I didn’t answer. There was something about the way he said it. Matter-of-fact. Certain.
He sent the helicopter skimming past my shoulder. I ducked instinctively.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s fast.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I pushed off the counter and wandered toward the window, city lights flickering below. Somewhere out there was an arena packed with noise and bodies and expectation. Somewhere out there, Dawson was preparing for a weekend that mattered. Gage too. Boone, no doubt, already making friends.
And here I was. In a suite. Under someone else’s name. Watching a kid who’d found his footing faster than I had.
Henry climbed onto the couch again, helicopter held aloft, engine noises returning with full conviction.
“This is the best place ever,” he declared.
I smiled, unable to argue.
*
We found our seats near the glass, Henry bouncing on the edge like he was about to launch himself onto the ice.
The arena smelled of popcorn, hot chocolate, and something faintly metallic that made my stomach turn.
Henry was jabbering about how fast the players were moving, and I tried to focus, reminding myself I knew barely enough to tell when someone scored.
The game started, and it was clear the Blackhawks weren’t going to go easy.
Every time the puck skidded across the ice, my stomach lurched with it.
Henry yelped whenever the Golden Knights touched the puck, and I gripped the armrest a little tighter each time.
Dawson was already on my radar, moving like a predator.
Gage looked tense, coiled in a way that made my chest clench.
And then it happened.
Somebody from Chicago shoved Gage into the boards, and Gage’s hands went up.
His face hardened in that way I’d learned meant trouble.
My heart jumped. He skated toward the guy, elbows out, and I could see Dawson immediately reacting, skating over in long, powerful strides.
My hands gripped Henry’s jacket, fingers threading through his hair as the two of them collided at the edge of the rink.
Dawson’s voice carried over the rink noise, but I couldn’t hear the words.
I only saw the effect. Gage froze, jaw tight, and Dawson steadying him before punches could fly.
I swallowed hard. Tensions ran so high I could practically feel the heat from the ice.
Every time the puck moved toward Chicago, Gage flinched.
Dawson skated back and forth between him and the other team, breaking up a scuffle and keeping both players from getting thrown off.
My stomach felt hollow, but I couldn’t look away.
Henry clutched my hand so tightly I winced. “Coach Dawson,” he whispered, eyes wide, following every move. I pressed my lips together. Coach Dawson, indeed.
Minutes stretched, and the scoreboard was tight.
Each goal for the Golden Knights was a tiny eruption of cheers from us, and every time the Blackhawks scored, I winced.
Boone, who’d been quietly moving through the chaos of the ice, suddenly became central.
He intercepted passes, skated like someone possessed, and somehow set up the perfect play in the final period that got them just enough points to pull ahead.
I didn’t know the names of all the moves, but the last one was beautiful.
He slid the puck through a gap I didn’t even know existed, and the Golden Knights scored.
The crowd went wild. Henry screamed into my shoulder, and I caught him before he toppled over the glass.
Even with the win, the energy between Gage and Dawson was a living thing in the rink. They avoided each other after the fight, but I could feel it. Gage’s fists still clenched, Dawson’s shoulders stiff. Boone kept sliding by, oblivious to it, grinning like nothing could touch him.
The clock ticked down, and the final buzzer sounded. The Golden Knights had won by the skin of their teeth. The arena roared. Henry hopped in my lap, bouncing up and down, and I laughed, half in relief, half in exhaustion from my own nerves.
As we made our way toward the exit tunnels, I tried to calm Henry, who was still chirping about every move on the ice. Boone appeared beside us, leaning casually against the wall, his eyes sparkling.
“Hey, you two,” he said, nodding toward Henry. “How about I take you out for a little victory lap around the city? Give Dawson and Gage some time to hash things out?”
I blinked at him, caught off guard, and Henry’s grin only widened at the suggestion.
Boone held up his hands. “Nothing crazy. Just a little fresh air, maybe some food. You in?”
I glanced back toward the locker room tunnel, imagining Dawson and Gage inside, still stewing over the fight and the game. My stomach tightened, but the idea of a small escape with Boone and Henry felt like a lifeline.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, and Henry whooped. Boone grinned, looping an arm lightly around Henry’s shoulder, and gestured for us to follow.