Chapter 3 Brad
"I swear on my grandmother's grave, if you don't show up tonight, I'm driving to your fortress of solitude and dragging you out by your skates," Theo's voice boomed through my phone as I stood in my kitchen, already formulating excuses.
"Your grandmother is alive and lives in Florida," I pointed out, watching Finn carefully arrange his inhaler collection on the counter—rescue, preventative, and backup.
"Irrelevant. Team family skate night, Brad. FAMILY. That includes you and the little man. No excuses about air quality or crowd exposure or whatever paranoid parent thing you've got brewing."
I wanted to argue, to explain that "paranoid parent things" had kept Finn out of the hospital for nearly a week—a record since winter started. But Theo had been my teammate for six years and my best friend for five. He'd earned the right to call me on my self-imposed isolation.
"Dad, is that Uncle Theo?" Finn appeared at my elbow, eyes bright with hope. "Are we going to the skate tonight?"
Trapped. Theo had clearly timed his call for maximum manipulation.
"Tell my favorite nephew I'll teach him my signature move," Theo said loudly enough for Finn to hear.
"I'm your only nephew!" Finn giggled, already bouncing on his toes. "Dad, please? I promise I'll tell you if I feel tight."
And there it was—the negotiation my seven-year-old had perfected. Acknowledging his condition while refusing to let it define him. Sarah would have been proud. Sarah also would have already had us in the car.
"Fine," I surrendered. "But we're bringing—"
"Three inhalers, I know," Finn finished, already racing upstairs to get his coat.
The Wrightwood Community Ice Center was packed when we arrived, the parking lot full of minivans and SUVs with stick figure family decals.
I'd pre-medicated Finn with his preventative inhaler in the car, checking his peak flow twice before we even left the house. One-twenty. Good numbers. Safe numbers.
Inside, the familiar sounds of blades on ice and pucks hitting boards created a symphony I usually found comforting. Tonight, though—with what felt like half the town’s children screaming and playing—my anxiety ratcheted up with every breath Finn drew in the cold air.
"Brad! You actually came!" Theo's voice rang across the lobby. "Finn, my man! Ready to learn some moves?"
I handed Finn his skates, watching his fingers fumble with the laces. His hands were steady—no tremors that might signal breathing trouble—just the clumsy coordination of a seven-year-old. I was about to step in when a warm voice interrupted.
"Need some help with those?"
A woman knelt beside Finn, her auburn hair escaping from under a knit hat that had seen better days.
Her eyes were brown with gold flecks, the kind of eyes that suggested she actually listened when people talked.
She wore jeans and a fleece jacket—no designer labels or careful styling, just comfortable clothes on a comfortable person.
"Yes, please," Finn said immediately, charming smile in full effect. "Dad always makes them too tight."
"I do not—" I started to protest, then caught the woman's amused glance and felt heat creep up my neck.
"The trick," she told Finn conspiratorially, "is to make them snug but not restrictive. Like a good hug, not a python squeeze."
Finn giggled. "Are you a hockey player too?"
"No, I'm actually a teacher. I just moved to town from San Antonio." She finished tying his laces, then stood and offered me her hand. "Serena Voss. I'm the new Inclusion Specialist at Wrightwood Primary School."
Her handshake was firm, warm despite the cold rink. "Brad Wilder. And you've just made a friend for life—Finn goes to Wrightwood Primary."
"Wait, really? You're going to be at my school?" Finn's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Do you know Mrs. Rachel? She helps kids like me and everyone likes her."
"Kids like you?" Serena tilted her head, genuinely curious rather than carefully sympathetic like most adults when they noticed Finn's medical alert bracelet.
"Kids with asthma and stuff. Dad says I'm special needs, but I don't like that term 'cause I'm not special—I just need different things sometimes." The words tumbled out in typical Finn fashion, no filter between brain and mouth.
"You know what? You're absolutely right," Serena said, and I could tell she meant it. "Everyone needs different things. Some people need glasses to see, some people need medicine to breathe easier, some people need extra time to understand math. It's all just different ways of being human."
Something in my chest loosened slightly. Most people either treated Finn like glass or ignored his condition entirely. This woman had found the middle ground in thirty seconds.
"I've actually been watching the Avalanche games," she admitted, a blush rising in her cheeks as she glanced at me. "Trying to understand hockey culture since so many kids are obsessed with it. You play for them, right?"
"When I'm not injured," I said, absently rotating my still-stiff knee.
“Oh. That must be hard—especially during the season.”
Before I could respond, Finn tugged on my hand. "Dad, can we skate now? Miss Serena, do you want to skate with us?"
"Oh, I'm not very good—"
"That's okay!" Finn was already pulling us both toward the ice, his enthusiasm infectious.
On the ice, I noticed how Serena moved—tentative but determined, arms out for balance but not flailing. She'd clearly skated before but not recently. Finn immediately appointed himself her assistant coach, demonstrating his "perfect" hockey stop that sent ice shavings everywhere.
"Show off," I called to him, but I was smiling. He was breathing well, cheeks pink from cold but not exertion, movements fluid and confident.
"He's wonderful," Serena said, looking at me while steadying herself against the boards. "So confident."
"When he's feeling good, yeah." I stayed close enough to catch her if she fell, telling myself it was just common courtesy. "Bad days are... different."
"I imagine they're scary. For both of you."
The simple acknowledgment hit harder than expected. No platitudes about God's plan or everything happening for a reason. Just recognition that sometimes life was scary.
Finn skated back to us, slightly breathless but not concerningly so. "Miss Serena, watch this!" He attempted a crossover, wobbled, but stayed upright.
"That's amazing! I can barely go straight without falling."
"Dad could teach you," Finn offered. "He taught me, and he's really good at teaching. He's patient even when I mess up a lot."
"Buddy, Miss Serena might not want—"
"I'd love that," she interrupted, smiling at Finn before glancing at me. "If it's okay with your dad."
And somehow, I found myself teaching this stranger—this teacher with kind eyes and an easy laugh—how to skate backward while Finn provided commentary that mostly involved telling embarrassing stories about my failed attempts to fix anything beyond changing lightbulbs and unclogging drains.
"So you're not exactly the handyman type?" Serena asked, executing a wobbly but successful backward glide.
“Dad says he’s good at tools, but last time we needed a bookshelf he used so many nails it looked like a porcupine,” Finn announced, selling me out completely.
"Traitor," I muttered, but I was watching how naturally Serena interacted with him, never talking down or over-explaining.
We'd made maybe three laps when I noticed Finn's breathing change. Subtle—just a slight wheeze on exhale—but I was already steering him toward the boards before his hand went to his chest.
"Time for a break, bud."
"I'm okay—" he started, then saw my worried expression and nodded. "Maybe just a little break."
Serena didn't panic, didn't make a fuss. She simply said, "Perfect timing. I need to rest these ankles anyway."
We sat on the players' bench, Finn between us, while I monitored his breathing. Without making it obvious, Serena engaged him in quiet conversation about his favorite subjects, keeping him calm and distracted while his airways relaxed.
"You know," she said to him, "I had a student once who loved soccer but had asthma too. We figured out that if he played in intervals—short bursts with breaks—he could play whole games."
"Really?" Finn's eyes widened. “Dad hardly ever lets me play hockey anymore.”
I felt the accusation in his words, the weight of every restriction I'd placed on his life. "Finn—"
"It's hard to find the balance," Serena said, looking at me with understanding rather than judgment. "Keeping kids safe while letting them be kids. There's no perfect answer."
"DAD!" Theo's voice boomed across the ice. "Stop monopolizing the pretty lady! Other people want to meet her too!"
I wanted to strangle him. Serena laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Pretty lady? Is that my official title now?"
"According to Theo, apparently." I stood, checking Finn's color. Better. "We should probably go. It's getting late and—"
"Dad, it's only seven-thirty," Finn protested.
"One more lap?" Serena suggested. "I think I'm getting the hang of this backward thing."
So we did one more lap, then another, until the zamboni driver kicked everyone off for resurfacing. Finn chattered the entire drive home about Miss Serena, how she was going to be at his school, how she understood about his breathing, how she smelled nice "like cookies or something."
"You like her," he announced as I tucked him into bed, his various medications arranged on the nightstand.
"She seems nice," I said carefully.
"Mom would like her too," he said matter-of-factly, then yawned. "She laughs at your jokes even when they're not funny."
"My jokes are hilarious."
"Dad. No."
I ruffled his hair, checked that his rescue inhaler was within reach, and headed for the door.
"Dad?" His voice was sleepy but serious. "Can we go skating again? With Miss Serena?"
"We'll see, buddy."
But as I stood in my home gym later, trying to work off the restless energy thrumming through my veins, I knew we would. Because for two hours tonight, I'd remembered what it felt like to be just Brad, not Brad-the-widower or Brad-the-paranoid-parent or Brad-the-injured-player.
And that was dangerous. Because the last time I'd let someone in, I'd ended up with a heart so broken I'd built walls even Finn could barely scale.
But Serena's laugh echoed in my memory, along with the way she'd helped my son without making him feel helpless.
Maybe dangerous was exactly what we needed.