Pucking the Single Dad (Hearts on Ice #5)

Chapter 1 Brad

The speedometer crept past sixty as I navigated another curve on the road towards Wrightwood General Hospital, my knuckles white against the steering wheel.

In the rearview mirror, Finn's small frame hunched forward in his booster seat, each wheeze cutting through the SUV's heated interior like a serrated knife.

"Almost there, buddy," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my chest. "Just keep using your breathing techniques. In through your nose, remember? Count with me. One... two..."

"Can't—" Finn's words dissolved into a coughing fit that made my foot press harder on the accelerator.

The familiar route to Wrightwood General Hospital blurred past my windows—the coffee shop where we grabbed hot chocolate on Saturdays, the park where Finn had taken his first steps, the intersection where I'd gotten the call about my late wife Sarah three years ago.

Not now. Focus on Finn.

"Dad, it's... getting worse." His voice came out thin, reedy, nothing like the excited chatter that usually filled our drives.

"I know, bud. Two more minutes." I took the hospital's entrance turn sharp enough to make the tires protest, muscle memory guiding me to the emergency entrance. The red EMERGENCY sign blazed through the snowy night like a beacon I'd followed too many times.

I barely remembered parking, just scooping Finn into my arms and running. His seven-year-old body felt impossibly light, bird-bones and labored breathing. The automatic doors whooshed open, releasing us into the controlled chaos of the ER.

"Severe asthma attack," I announced to the triage nurse, already rattling off the information they'd need. "Seven years old, forty-eight pounds, already administered rescue inhaler fifteen minutes ago with minimal improvement. No fever, no recent illness, triggered by cold air exposure during—"

"Room three," she interrupted, already waving us through. "Dr. Lisa is on tonight."

Thank God. Lisa knew Finn's history, understood the severity of his condition. I carried Finn through the familiar hallways, past crying babies and worried parents, into the small room that had become our second home.

"Hey there, Finn." Dr. Lisa appeared within seconds, her calm presence filling the space. "Having a rough night?"

Finn nodded, unable to speak through his breathing. I set him on the examination table, keeping one hand on his back, feeling each struggled breath through his thin pajama top.

"Vitals first," Lisa said to the nurse who'd materialized beside her. To me, she added, "Same trigger pattern?"

"Cold air at the evening hockey practice. He wanted to try again, and I thought—" I stopped, swallowing the guilt. "Peak flow was seventy percent before we left home, dropped to forty in the rink."

Lisa nodded, already listening to Finn's chest. "Significant wheezing bilateral. Let's start with a nebulizer treatment. Standard protocol—albuterol and ipratropium."

I watched her work with the efficiency of someone who'd done this thousands of times, but who still treated each child like they mattered.

The nurse hooked Finn up to monitors, numbers and waves painting a picture of his distress in green and blue lights.

Heart rate 145. Oxygen saturation 89%. Too high. Too low.

"You're being so brave," I told Finn as the nebulizer mask went over his face. His eyes, the same as Sarah's warm brown eyes, found mine above the plastic. A tear escaped down his cheek, and something inside me cracked.

He looked so small against the hospital bed. The mask seemed enormous on his face, the mist of medication fogging the clear plastic with each labored breath. His T-rex toy—the one he'd insisted on bringing—lay forgotten on the blanket beside him.

"Remember when we talked about being brave?" I asked, picking up the toy. "That sometimes being scared and doing what you must anyway is the bravest thing there is."

Finn gave a slight nod and found my hand. His fingers were cold—too cold.

Twenty minutes crawled by. The nebulizer hummed its mechanical rhythm while I memorized every beep from the monitors, every slight change in the wave patterns.

Around us, the ER continued its nightly drama—a woman sobbing in the next room, someone calling for more gauze, the distant wail of arriving ambulances.

"Oxygen's coming up," the nurse announced. "Ninety-two percent."

Better, but not enough. Lisa ordered a second treatment, then oral steroids. I knew this dance, had performed it so many times I could recite the medication dosages and protocols in my sleep:

Albuterol 2.5mg nebulized every twenty minutes times three. Ipratropium 500mcg with first treatment. Prednisolone 2mg per kilogram if not improving. Magnesium sulfate if severe. Admission if no improvement after three treatments.

"Brad." Dr. Lisa's voice pulled me from my mental recitation. "He's responding well. This one wasn't as severe as last month's."

Last month. The month before. The pattern that had become our life since Sarah died three years ago, since I became the only one standing between Finn and everything that could hurt him.

"Maybe we should adjust his daily controller medication," I suggested, already knowing what she'd say.

"We're at maximum dosage for his age and weight." She squeezed my shoulder gently. "You're doing everything right."

But it didn't feel right. It felt like drowning in slow motion, watching my son struggle for each breath while I stood helplessly by. Other parents in the ER prayed to God. I prayed to peak flow meters and preventive medications, to HEPA filters and emergency action plans.

By the third treatment, Finn's breathing had steadied enough for him to speak. "Dad? Can we go home?"

"Soon, buddy. The doctors just want to make sure you're all better."

"I'm sorry I scared you."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Hey, no. Don't ever apologize for this. This isn't your fault."

But whose fault was it? Mine, for letting him try hockey again? The universe's, for taking Sarah and leaving me to navigate this alone?

"Mr. Wilder?" A different voice. I looked up to find a young resident hovering in the doorway. "Dr. Lisa asked me to mention our pediatric anxiety support group. For parents dealing with chronic conditions—"

"We're fine," I said, the words automatic. "Thank you."

The resident retreated, and I caught Lisa's knowing look. She'd tried this before, gently suggesting that my hypervigilance might be affecting Finn. But hypervigilance kept him breathing. Hypervigilance meant catching attacks before they became emergencies.

Two hours later, we were cleared to leave. Finn dozed against my shoulder as I carried him through the now-quiet ER, past families just beginning their own medical nightmares. The SUV waited where I'd abandoned it, accumulating a light dusting of snow.

I buckled Finn into his booster seat with extra care, tucking his T-rex toy into his arms. His breathing was steady now, the treatments having done their job, but I still found myself counting his respirations as I drove.

Sixteen per minute. Normal.

The roads home were empty, Wrightwood sleeping peacefully while we made our too-familiar return journey. In the backseat, Finn stirred.

"Dad? Do you think Mom watches us?"

The question caught me off guard, my hands tightening on the wheel. "I... yeah, buddy. I think she does."

"Do you think she's sad when I have attacks?"

I had to pull over, my vision blurring too much to drive safely. On the shoulder of the road, with snow beginning to fall harder, I turned to face my son.

“I think,” I said carefully, “that Mom would be proud of how brave you are and of how bravely you face your asthma attacks.”

His voice came out small. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” I said simply. “She loves you. She’s proud of you.”

By the time we pulled into our driveway, dawn was breaking over the mountains, pink and gold painting the peaks.

Our house stood like a modern fortress—all clean lines and large windows—but I knew what really mattered was invisible.

The medical-grade air filtration system.

The backup generators. The temperature and humidity controls.

The arsenal of medications in every room.

I carried Finn inside, his weight nothing compared to the responsibility of keeping him safe.

His room was exactly as we'd left it—nebulizer on the nightstand, peak flow meter on the dresser, emergency inhaler within arm's reach.

I tucked him into bed, pulling his cosmic-print comforter up to his chin.

"Love you, Dad," he mumbled, already drifting back to sleep.

"Love you too, Finn."

I stood in his doorway for a long moment, watching his chest rise and fall with blessed ease. Sarah's photo on his dresser caught the morning light, her smile frozen in a moment when our biggest worry was what to make for dinner.

"I'm trying," I whispered to her image. "I'm trying so hard."

But trying felt like running on a treadmill that kept speeding up. I retreated to my home gym, needing to channel the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

The weights were cold in my hands as I began my routine, my recovering knee protesting the first set of squats.

Six weeks since the hit that tore my MCL.

Six weeks of being sidelined while my team fought for a playoff spot.

But hockey seemed insignificant compared to the battles happening in my own home.

I pushed through the pain, adding weight until my muscles screamed. Physical pain I could control, could measure and overcome. It was the other kind—the constant fear, the crushing weight of being Finn's only shield—that threatened to break me.

By the time I finished, sweat soaking through my shirt, the sun was fully up. I could hear Finn stirring upstairs, probably hungry for breakfast. Another day in our carefully controlled life was beginning.

I showered quickly, then started on Finn's favorite pancakes, shaping them like hockey pucks out of habit. He appeared in the kitchen doorway, already dressed for school, his inhaler tucked in his pocket.

"Feeling better?" I asked, studying his color. Pink cheeks, clear eyes. Good signs.

"Yeah. Can we practice my slapshot later?"

"We'll see how you're feeling."

We both knew that meant no, but Finn didn't argue. He'd learned to read my fears as clearly as I read his symptoms.

As he ate, chattering about a science project on Mars, I watched him and made silent promises. To keep him safe. To be enough. To somehow fill the space Sarah left behind.

Outside, snow blanketed our mountain town in pristine white, but I knew better than to trust pretty surfaces. Danger lurked everywhere—in cold air, in exercise, in anything that pushed his fragile lungs too hard.

I was preparing for battles I could control because I couldn't control the ones that mattered—where breath became the enemy, where my son's body betrayed him, where all my preparation might not be enough.

But I'd keep fighting anyway. It's what Sarah would have wanted. It's all I knew how to do.