14. Nora
NORA
Harper sits up.
Not propped against pillows or leaning on my hand for support, but actually sits up on her own, her tiny body balanced perfectly on the play mat in the living room.
"Tyler!" My voice comes out louder than I intend, urgent and excited. "Tyler, get in here!"
He emerges from the kitchen, where he's been stress-eating cereal straight from the box, his sandy hair still wet from his post-practice shower. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Look."
Harper's sitting there like it's the most natural thing in the world, her little hands resting on her thighs for balance, her blue eyes wide as she surveys her kingdom from this new height. She wobbles slightly, overcorrects, but stays upright.
"Holy shit." Tyler drops to his knees beside the mat, his phone already out. "Baby girl, look at you. When did you learn to do that?"
"Now. I put her down for tummy time, and she pushed herself up." I can't keep the grin off my face. "This is huge, Ty. Four months is early for unassisted sitting."
He's taking photos from every angle, his face lit up with pure pride and joy. "That's my girl. So smart. So strong. You're a genius, Harper Rose. An actual genius."
Harper grabs her foot, apparently unimpressed by our enthusiasm, and promptly tips over sideways.
Tyler catches her before she face-plants, laughing as he scoops her up. "Okay, maybe we need to practice that landing. But still. She sat up all by herself."
"She's hitting all her milestones," I say. “You're doing a great job with her developmental activities."
"We're doing a great job." He's holding Harper up, making her fly through the air while she squeals with delight. "I couldn't do any of this without you."
The doorbell rings before I can figure out how to respond to that.
Tyler's still flying Harper around like an airplane, so I head to the door. There’s a UPS driver holding a flat package.
"Package for West," he says, handing it over.
I sign for it and bring it inside, examining the return label. Hartford. Emma's address.
"You got a package from Emma," I call out.
Tyler appears immediately, Harper still in his arms. "What'd she send?"
I hand it to him, and he tears into it with one hand, awkward but determined. Inside is tissue paper wrapped around something small, and when he unfolds it, his entire face transforms.
It's a tiny Falcons jersey. Baby-sized. Green with white letters. WEST across the back with the number 17 below it.
Tyler goes very still, staring at it.
"Ty?" I move closer. "You okay?"
"Yeah." His voice is rough, thick with emotion he's not bothering to hide. "Emma got Harper a jersey. My jersey."
He holds it up to Harper's chest to check the size, and it's comically large on her. The shoulders hang off her tiny frame, the length nearly down to her knees. It's basically a dress.
But Tyler doesn't care. He's already stripping off Harper's current outfit, a onesie with ducks on it, and carefully pulling the jersey over her head. The sleeves swallow her arms completely, the neck hole so wide it slides off one shoulder, and Harper looks vaguely offended by the whole situation.
"Perfect," Tyler whispers, his eyes suspiciously bright. "You're perfect, baby girl. Look at you in Daddy's number."
There are approximately five hundred photos from every angle—Harper sitting, Harper lying down, close-ups of the WEST on the back, close-ups of the 17, and full-body shots where the jersey pools around her like a green tent.
"Emma's gonna die when she sees these," he mutters, scrolling through his camera roll. "She's gonna absolutely lose it."
I watch him with Harper, this six-foot-two professional athlete getting emotional over his four-month-old daughter wearing his jersey, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
This is what being a father looks like. Not the genetics or the biology, but this—the pride, the overwhelming love, the way he's treating a jersey like it's the most important piece of clothing that has ever existed because his daughter is wearing his name.
"I need to send these to her right now." Tyler's already texting, his thumbs flying across the screen while Harper tries to eat the jersey sleeve. “Everyone needs to see this."
His phone starts buzzing immediately with responses. I can hear Emma's voice through the speaker, screaming with excitement, and Tyler's laughing while Harper startles at the noise.
The afternoon passes in a blur of preparation. Tonight's the home opener, Tyler's first regular-season game, and the energy in the house is electric with nerves and anticipation.
Tyler's been quieter than usual all day, the weight of tonight settling over him. Training camp was brutal. I've seen the bruises on his back and heard the frustration in his voice during those midnight kitchen conversations.
But this is different. This is real. This counts.
Around four, he disappears upstairs to start his pre-game routine.
I can hear him moving around, the shower running, and drawers opening and closing.
When he comes back down at five, he's in his game day suit: navy with thin pinstripes, white shirt, and navy tie.
His sandy hair is styled back, his jaw freshly shaved, and he looks every inch the professional athlete he is.
He also looks terrified.
"You're gonna be fine," I tell him, bouncing Harper on my hip. "You know that, right?"
"I don't know anything." He's fidgeting with his tie, adjusting it for the third time. "What if I fuck up? What if Reaper won't pass to me during the game, and I look like an idiot in front of twenty thousand people? What if—"
"Ty." I wait until he looks at me. "You're an incredible hockey player. I've watched you on the ice during practice. You're so talented, it's ridiculous. Tonight, you're going to go out there and prove to everyone, including Reaper, exactly who Tyler West is."
Something shifts in his expression, softens. "You believe that?"
"I do."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and the air between us feels charged somehow. Heavy with something I don't want to examine too closely.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For being here. For bringing her tonight. For... everything."
Harper chooses this moment to grab his tie and yank hard, breaking the tension. Tyler laughs, carefully extracting his tie from her surprisingly strong grip.
"Alright, let me get her changed into her jersey properly," I say, needing to do something with my hands. "Can't have her showing up to her first game in a onesie."
We get Harper ready together, Tyler hovering while I change her diaper and wrestle her into the jersey again. I roll up the sleeves and use a hair tie to cinch the bottom so it doesn't drag on the ground. The number 17 is huge across her back, with WEST in bold white letters.
"She's gonna steal the show," Tyler says, taking more photos. "Forget the game. Everyone's just gonna be looking at her."
"As they should."
By 6 p.m., we're loading into Tyler's car.
He's got a team meeting at six thirty, and he needs to be at the arena early, so we're all going together.
The diaper bag is packed like we're preparing for a week-long expedition: bottles, diapers, wipes, extra clothes, toys, burp cloths; everything Harper could possibly need and then some.
Tyler's quiet in a way that's different from his usual quiet.
"They know about her?" I ask, adjusting Harper in her car seat.
"Some of them. Word gets around." He checks his mirrors twice before pulling out. "Danny asked me about it at camp. Said he'd heard I had a kid show up out of nowhere. I confirmed it; kept it short. Reaper didn't say anything, which probably means he's saving it."
"Saving it for what?"
"No idea. That's the part that's making me nervous."
Tyler drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping anxiously against his thigh. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. He's terrified and trying desperately not to show it.
"What's the worst that could happen?" I ask quietly, Harper dozing in her car seat between us.
"I could fuck up completely. Miss every shot. Take stupid penalties. Prove Reaper right that I don't belong on this team."
"Or you could play the best game of your life."
"Or that." He glances at me, then back to the road. "You really believe I'm good at this?"
"I've never seen you play a full game, but based on what I've watched and what Emma's told me? Yes. I think you're incredible."
His hand stops tapping. "You've been watching my highlights?"
Shit. I have, but admitting it feels like crossing a line I've been desperately trying not to cross.
"Emma sent them," I say, which is technically true. "She wanted me to understand what you do."
"And?"
"And you're really good, Ty. Fast, skilled, smart. The way you read the ice, the way you move... It's impressive."
I can see him processing, his expression shifting through several emotions I can't quite name. Pride, maybe. Relief. Something else underneath that makes my stomach flutter.
We pull into the arena parking lot, and suddenly it's real. The building is massive, lit up against the early evening sky, and people are already streaming toward the entrances. Tyler parks in the players' lot, and we both just sit here for a moment.
"I'm terrified," he admits quietly.
"I know."
"But you're gonna be there. In the stands. With Harper."
"Front row of the family section. We'll be cheering so loud you won't be able to miss us."
He turns to look at me, and there's something in his eyes that makes my heart stutter. "I'm glad you're here, Red. Both of you. I don't think I could do this without you."
Red. The nickname that started at 2 a.m. during a sleep regression, and has somehow become his default. I should correct him, remind him to call me Nora, and maintain that professional distance.
I don't.
"You could," I say instead. "But you don't have to."
He reaches over, his hand settling on mine where it's resting on the center console. The touch is brief, just a squeeze, but it sends electricity racing up my arm.
"Let's go," he says, pulling back. "Time to play some hockey."
We get out of the car, Tyler grabbing his massive equipment bag from the trunk while I get Harper's diaper bag and carrier. She's still sleeping, completely oblivious to the fact that she's about to attend her first professional hockey game wearing her father's number.
The arena is chaotic. Players arriving, families heading to their sections, staff running around with clipboards and headsets. Tyler walks us to the family entrance, his hand on my lower back guiding me through the crowd, and I'm hyperaware of every point where we're touching.
"Michelle should be here already," he says, scanning the crowd. "Liam's girlfriend. She'll help you find your seats."
"We'll be fine. Go. Do your pre-game stuff."
He hesitates, looking down at Harper, then at me. "I'll find you guys during warm-ups. Look for me."
"We will."
He leans down, pressing a kiss to Harper's forehead, his hand cradling her tiny head. "Be good for Nora, baby girl. Daddy's gonna make you proud."
Then he's gone, disappearing into the players' tunnel, and I'm standing in the arena concourse with a sleeping baby and a heart that's racing way too fast.
I miss him already.
The realization hits hard and suddenly. He's been gone for thirty seconds, and I already miss his presence, his nervous energy, the way he can't stop checking on Harper every five minutes like he's still half-convinced she might evaporate.
This is bad.
This is so bad.
Because I'm not supposed to miss him when he's gone.
I'm not supposed to feel emptier when he's not around.
I'm not supposed to be looking forward to this game, not just because Harper's first experience should be special, but because I want to watch Tyler play.
I want to see him in his element and support him.
Professional. This is supposed to be professional.
But standing here in the arena, Harper in her WEST jersey, my heart still racing from his hand on mine in the car, I can't pretend anymore.
Somewhere along the way, this stopped being just a job.
And I have no idea what to do about that.