17. Lucy #2
Thane looked as though he had arrived from a different level of the sport entirely.
A black jacket from Chicago’s minor-league affiliate fit neatly across his shoulders.
His hair was shorter than Ty’s, his posture more controlled.
Even seated among his family, he carried the contained stillness of someone who had already learned that professional hockey meant being watched when you were not playing.
Several people had recognized him on our way down the aisle. Thane had acknowledged none of them.
In the row below, Ruth Burns had claimed the aisle seat beside an insulated tote large enough to hold medical supplies. She wore a navy cardigan beneath her winter coat and had folded two thick blankets across the seats she had preserved for us.
“There she is,” Ruth announced as soon as she saw me. “I told Marion you’d get here before the boys came out. Sit down before someone tries taking your spot.”
Nobody appeared brave enough to attempt that.
Ruth pulled me into a firm one-armed hug, kissed my cheek, then tucked one of the blankets across my lap despite the fact that the arena was nearly warm from the crowd.
“I’m not cold,” I chortled as her tiny fingers kneaded the soft fabric under my thighs.
“You will be.”
“I’m wearing three layers.”
“You’re five feet tall and all skin and bones. That doesn’t count as insulation.”
Naomi covered a laugh with one gloved hand.
Ruth pointed at her. “You too.”
Within seconds, both of us had been seated beneath heavy plaid blankets like children attending an outdoor parade.
Marion settled on Ruth’s other side and began unscrewing the top from her thermos. Behind us, Kendrick leaned forward between the seats.
“Whole family rearranged their lives to watch the youngest one skate in circles,” Ty’s oldest brother said. “Nice to know where we rank.”
“You came voluntarily,” Marion reminded Kendrick.
“Under protest.”
“You left work early.”
“The customer’s furnace was fixed.”
Fraser did not look away from the ice. “Eventually.”
Kendrick’s mouth twitched. “Come on, Dad. We were outta there in record time. Got here in time for your lucky seats, didn’t we?”
Ruth handed him a foil-wrapped oatmeal bar over the back of her seat without looking. “Eat something and stop acting neglected.”
That was the Burns family in its purest form. Complaint. Correction. Food.
Nobody said anything affectionate, yet somehow affection occupied every inch of the space between them.
Arlo twisted around from the row directly in front of us. He sat between two friends from school, already holding nachos and a soft pretzel. “Took you long enough.”
“You have cheese on your sleeve,” I teased my brother.
He glanced down. “That happened fast.”
One of his friends lifted a hand in greeting. The other shouted something toward the Eden Prairie student section that hurriedly earned him a warning look from an usher.
Arlo pointed his pretzel toward the back row. “Thane scared two people out of our section.”
“I did not,” Thane hollered back quickly.
“They asked if the seats were taken and you looked at them.”
Thane’s expression did not change. “They were taken.”
Naomi leaned closer to me. “Your future family is deeply alarming.”
My heart caught on the word future. She had said it lightly. Almost carelessly. But when I looked around the rows of Burnses surrounding me, the idea did not feel careless at all.
It felt obvious.
Ruth had covered my knees with the same blanket she had probably used at Ty’s games since he was eight.
Marion was pouring coffee into the thermos lid and passing it toward me before filling her own.
Kendrick was complaining because that was how Kendrick participated in joy.
Hal had already written the date across the top of his roster and drawn three precise columns beside Northbend’s lineup to record shots by period.
Fraser had chosen the back row because he would stand through the entire third period and refused to block anyone else’s view.
Thane had traveled between professional games to be here.
Ty’s entire family, spanning three generations, had shown up.
Not halfway. Not when it became convenient. Completely.
I could see myself sitting inside this noise years from now.
Different arena. Different version of Ty.
Ruth still carrying food nobody had requested.
Marion still remembering how everyone took their coffee.
Kendrick finding new reasons to complain while fixing whatever went wrong before anyone else noticed.
I could see Christmas mornings and summer cookouts and long drives to wherever hockey took Ty next.
The thought should have frightened me. Instead, it felt like stepping into a room I had not realized I was looking for.
Marion handed me the coffee. “How are your folks, sweetheart?”
The warmth inside me vanished so quickly I nearly dropped the cup. “Fine,” I answered.
The word emerged automatically.
Marion’s eyes stayed on mine.
Behind her shoulder, Naomi shifted beneath the blanket. “Is this coffee,” she asked, reaching toward the thermos, “or something Fraser uses to remove rust from air-conditioning units?”
Marion blinked, then laughed.
Fraser finally looked away from the ice. “Coffee shouldn’t need milk.”
“Coffee should not dissolve metal,” Naomi replied.
“It builds character,” Ty’s old man snickered, offering the smallest smirk.
“So does lead exposure. We still discourage it.”
Kendrick coughed into his fist.
The moment passed.