Chapter 22 Serena
"And this is Miss Serena!" Finn's voice rang with pride as he presented his family project to his second-grade class.
"She's our Inclusion Specialist but also she's teaching me about atmospheric pressure and she invented this breathing game where I'm a dragon and—oh!
She makes grilled cheese sandwiches that are basically magic. "
I pressed my back against the second-grade classroom's construction paper border, trying to shrink into the alphabet strips while twenty pairs of eyes dissected Finn's family project.
My official observation clipboard trembled in my hands—I was supposed to be monitoring his peer interactions, not becoming the subject of them.
His poster was chaos perfected: photos scattered like confetti, connected by yarn in a complex web only Finn understood.
There we were, flour-bombed from last week’s cookie disaster.
Brad hoisting Finn skyward at the lake, me caught mid-laugh, hair whipping like an auburn flag.
At the center, Finn had drawn us in aggressive crayon—Brad a giant stick figure with hockey stick arms, me a tangle of red spirals he insisted was "accurate," himself small but central, our cartoon hands linked in an unbreakable chain.
"Is she your mom?" Ashley asked with the surgical precision only seven-year-olds possess.
"She's Miss Serena," Finn answered simply, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
Mrs. Rachel caught my eye, smiling warmly. But I noticed other parents watching me with expressions ranging from curiosity to calculation. Brad Wilder's girlfriend. The woman playing mother to his son. The teacher who'd hit the jackpot.
After Finn's presentation, the PTA president cornered me in the parking lot as I was heading to my car.
"Ms. Voss! Or should I say Serena?" Her smile could have stripped paint. "Since you're so... close with Brad Wilder, we were hoping you might leverage that special relationship for our fundraiser. Signed jerseys? Maybe arrange a meet-and-greet? VIP box seats?"
The words slithered between us. I felt my professional identity evaporating, replaced by something smaller, transactional.
"I don't—that's not really—"
"Oh come on." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You landed Brad Wilder. Might as well make it work for the school, right? Unless you want people thinking you're just another puck bunny who got lucky."
The implication hung between us like a slap. I wasn't Serena Voss anymore—master's in Special Education, three years of experience. I was Brad Wilder's girlfriend , a title that apparently erased everything else.
"I'll mention it," I managed, though the words tasted like copper.
PTA president’s smile widened, shark-like. "Perfect!"
As she click-clacked away, I slumped against my car. Inside the school, I was Ms. Voss, professional educator. Out here, I'd become something else—an access point, a convenient bridge to celebrity.
At home, I found Brad torturing his recovering knee in the gym, each rep a small act of war against his own body. Sweat darkened his shirt, and the sound of his breathing—ragged, determined—made my teeth ache.
"You're going to destroy what's left of that joint," I said from the doorway.
He didn't even glance up. "Playoffs are coming. Weak gets you benched."
"You're not weak." I moved closer, cataloging the white-knuckled grip on the weight bar, the micro-tremor in his bad leg. "You're also not invincible."
"Pot, meet kettle," he ground out, grinding through another brutal set.
"The PTA wants me to ask you for donations."
The weights hit the floor with a crack that made me jump. Brad straightened slowly, toweling off sweat that kept coming anyway.
"Tell her to go to hell."
"Brad—"
"You're not my social secretary or the team's fundraising coordinator. You're—" He stopped, jaw tightening.
"What am I?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
He crossed the distance between us in two strides, hands bracketing my face with that strange gentleness he saved for fragile things. "Everything. You're goddamn everything. And I won't let those vultures shrink you down to 'Brad Wilder's girlfriend.'"
"People talk." My voice came out smaller than intended. "Someone called me a gold digger. Said I'm an opportunist who conveniently showed up when the famous hockey player needed childcare."
The air in the room shifted, became something arctic and dangerous. Brad went perfectly, terrifyingly still—the same stillness I'd seen before he'd dropped gloves on the ice.
"Who?"
"It doesn't—"
" Who ." Not a question anymore.
"Some blog. They posted photos from Finn's school, called me an 'opportunistic educator strategically inserting herself into a vulnerable athlete's life.'"
His phone materialized in his hand before I could blink. His first call was surgical—legal department, seventeen seconds, mostly threats. The second, to his agent, contained profanity in three languages. The third surprised me.
"Coach? Yeah, it's Wilder... I need that contact you mentioned. The one from your custody thing... Some bottom-feeder blog is going after Serena... Yeah, exactly like what happened to Bethany."
He listened, nodded, his free hand finding mine and squeezing hard enough to hurt.
"Understood. Yes, sir. I owe you one... No, sir, I owe you seven now."
When he hung up, I was gaping. "You called your coach?"
"Coach’s girlfriend got eviscerated online during his divorce. Character assassination via some shitty blog. He knows people who know people who make problems disappear." Brad pulled me against him, and I could feel his heart hammering against my chest. "Nobody comes for my family. Nobody."
My family.
The words landed like a punch, like a promise, like something I wasn't ready to name. His arms tightened around me, and I could feel the barely controlled fury vibrating through him—not at me, but for me. The enforcer protecting what was his.
"Brad—"
"They can write whatever trash they want about me. Been there, survived it. But you? Finn? That's a line." His voice dropped to something lethal. "They crossed it. Now they burn."
"You can't fight the entire internet."
"Watch me." He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, and what I saw there made my breath catch. "I've thrown gloves for less. Way less. You think I won't go scorched earth for you?"
The intensity of it—of him—should have scared me. Instead, something in my chest uncaged itself, wild and fierce and matching his energy exactly.
"Together then?" I asked, echoing our conversation from the mountain.
His smile was all teeth, all danger, all devotion. "Together."
That evening, Maria invaded our kitchen armed with lesson plans and the kind of best friend energy that meant interrogation disguised as casual conversation. She'd positioned herself at the breakfast bar like a judge, wielding her wine glass as a gavel.
"You're nauseating," she announced, jabbing her fork in my direction. "Look at you. You're literally luminous. It's offensive to those of us living in the real world."
"Theo says Dad's gone full marshmallow," Finn contributed from his spot next to Brad, where he was constructing a mashed potato volcano. "Says he smiles at his phone during practice like a teenager."
"I'm benching Theo tomorrow," Brad growled, but his fingers found mine under the table, thumb tracing secret patterns against my palm.
"So," Maria took a deliberate sip of wine, eyes glinting with mischief, "should I be shopping for a bridesmaid dress? I'm thinking autumn colors would be nice. October wedding, maybe?"
Brad choked on his water, coughing so hard that Finn had to pound his back while I sat frozen, my face burning.
"MARIA."
"What? You're playing house, doing the whole domestic bliss thing, having your little staring contests over breakfast—"
"Maria!" Brad and I said simultaneously, which only proved her point.
"—might as well slap a ring on it and make it official." She grinned wickedly. "Unless you're afraid of commitment?"
"Can I carry the rings?" Finn bounced in his seat, potato volcano forgotten. "I promise I won't lose them. I'll use my special pocket, the one with the zipper!"
"There's no—we haven't—nobody's getting—" I sputtered like a broken engine.
"Yet," Maria added helpfully. "Nobody's getting married yet."
The word 'wedding' hung in the air like a lit fuse, like a door we hadn't realized was there until someone pointed it out.
"Miss Serena's face is doing the tomato thing," Finn observed clinically. "That means she's thinking about kissing Dad."
"FINN."
"What? It's data. I'm being scientific like you taught me."
Maria cackled, raising her glass. "To scientific observation and inevitable matrimony."
The conversation lurched sideways after that, but the word—wedding—had taken root, spreading through the space between us like those time-lapse videos of flowers blooming. Every glance felt weighted with it. Every casual touch suddenly seemed to ask a question neither of us was ready to answer.
Yet.
At Finn's school concert, I sat in row G, seat 14—the parent section—surrounded by people who'd been reserving these exact seats since kindergarten orientation.
"Serena!" Mrs. Henderson descended with the efficiency of a military strike. "Asthma-friendly soccer camp. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Aiden's going. You'll register Finn?"
"I should check with—"
"Brad? Please." She waved dismissively. "He'd register that boy for moon camp if you suggested it."
Around me, mothers planned carpools and divided snack duties, folding me into their logistics like I'd always been there.
Someone handed me a sign-up sheet for summer reading program volunteers.
Another asked if I'd help chaperone the field trip.
Each assumption felt like stepping on ice—solid until it wasn't.
The lights dimmed. Twenty second-graders shuffled onto risers, Finn in the back row, recorder clutched like a tiny weapon. He spotted us and waved so enthusiastically his music teacher had to steady him.
"He's going to play it at double speed," Brad murmured beside me. "Watch. He's been practicing in the bathroom. Thinks the acoustics are better."
Sure enough, Finn launched into "Hot Cross Buns" like he was being chased, turning a thirty-second song into a twelve-second sprint. Several parents tried not to laugh. Brad's hand found mine.
"He's perfect," I whispered.
"He's ours," Brad corrected.
The word hit me sideways. I turned my face away, but tears were already falling, silent and mortifying.
"Serena?" Brad's voice went concerned. "What—"
"I can't do this here." I stood, edging past knees and purses, fleeing to the hallway.
I made it to the teacher's bathroom—my old sanctuary from my first weeks at the school. Brad followed, because of course he did, checking the hallway before shutting us both inside.
"Talk," he commanded.
"Three mothers just assumed I'd be here next year. Mrs. Patterson asked if I'm planning Finn's birthday party. The camp lady gave me medical forms." I pressed my palms against my eyes. "They all think I'm permanent."
"You are permanent."
"Am I? We've never actually discussed—"
"Serena." He pulled my hands down, held them. "You alphabetized my medicine cabinet."
"That's not—"
"You bought Finn constellation pajamas because he mentioned once that he likes stars. You leave notes in his lunch. You learned the entire Avalanche roster so you could follow our conversations." His voice roughened.
"Brad—"
"You think you're playing house, but you're not. You're living it. We're living it."
"I don't know how to be a mother." The words scraped out. "I research 'step-parenting' at 2 AM. I have seventeen books on childhood asthma hidden under my bed. I practice conversations about feelings with myself in the car."
"Sarah used to practice arguments with Finn's future teenage self in the shower," Brad said quietly. "She kept a journal of all the ways she was probably screwing him up. She once cried for an hour because she gave him non-organic strawberries."
I stared at him.
"Nobody knows how to be a parent, Serena. We're all just frantically searching for answers and hoping we don't raise serial killers." He touched my face. "But you? You're not trying to be his mother. You're just... loving him. That's all he needs."
"What if something happens—"
"Something will happen. Multiple somethings. He'll get sick. He'll get hurt. He'll probably get his heart broken by some kid named Madison in sixth grade." Brad's thumbs wiped my tears. "But he'll survive it all because he has you teaching him that broken doesn't mean ruined."
Through the door, we could hear the muffled sounds of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
"We should go back," I said.
"In a minute." He pulled me closer. "Just... let me hold you for a minute."
We stood there in the teacher's bathroom, surrounded by motivational posters and antibacterial soap, while 20 seven-year-olds played their hearts out.
"The camp registration is due Friday," I said against his chest.
"Already filled it out," he admitted. "I put you as the emergency contact. And the primary contact. And the person authorized to make medical decisions."
"Brad—"
"Too much?"
I pulled back, looked at him—this man who'd given me his son's heart to hold, his trust, his family.
"No," I said. "It's exactly right."
When we returned, Finn was taking his bow, recorder held high like a trophy. He found us in the crowd, his smile incandescent.
"Did you see?" he mouthed.
"We saw," I mouthed back.
And maybe that was enough. Maybe seeing was all any of us could promise—to see each other, to show up, to stay.
Even when the music was terrible.
Especially then.