Afterward, we lie tangled together, sheet half on, half off, Harper's monitor a quiet rhythm between us. Nora's head is on my chest. I can feel her heartbeat through her ribs.
"Better than the laundry room?" she asks with a smile.
"So much better. Don't get me wrong, that was incredible. But this—" I kiss her softly. "This is what I've been dreaming about. Taking our time. No fear. No rushing. Just us."
"Tyler?"
"Yeah."
"This is the best day of my life."
"Yeah," I say. "Mine too."
She falls asleep first, but I lie there a while longer, listening to her breathe.
I think about Emma's voice on Thanksgiving.Let yourself have something good.
I have it.
I have all of it.
The morning after the verdict, I go to practice.
I don't have to. Coach already told me to take the week—whatever you need, West, the bench will hold—and I could've stayed home, lying in bed with Nora pressed against my side, watching Harper crawl across the living room rug for the rest of the day.
But I get up. Because the alternative is sitting in a quiet house with a quiet verdict and a quiet feeling I don't have a name for yet, and I've learned, in the last seven months, that the way through a quiet feeling is usually to put a body in motion.
Nora doesn't try to stop me. She kisses me at the door and says, “Come straight home.”
And I say, “I will.” And then I go.
The locker room is the same locker room. Same stalls, same smell. Carter's at the equipment rack, back in practice gear instead of yesterday's bad tie, pretending not to watch me come in. Williams nods. Liam looks up from his tape and says, "Morning, Brother." with a careful weight behind it. Neither of them says anything about yesterday. I knew they wouldn't. That's part of why they came.
I half-expect Reaper not to be here.
He's here.
In his stall, head down, lacing up. He doesn't look up or acknowledge me, same as he's done for two months, since the slap, since the locker-room conversation, sincewe're clear, West.He's been clean. He's been distant. We've co-existed.
I sit in my stall, tape my stick, and refuse to look at him.
Practice is normal. We run drills. The lines play well together. Reaper passes when he should pass. I score on a one-timer in a five-on-five rep, and Danny chirps at me about it, and Williams claps my shoulder, and Reaper says nothing.
We're heading to the showers at the end when Reaper speaks to me.
"West."
I stop. Turn.
He's by the bench, helmet under his arm, the way you stand when you've been waiting to say something and finally got the timing right.
"You got a minute?"
I look at him. The rest of the team is filtering out, gear bags slung, voices fading into the corridor. Danny glances back once and keeps walking. Liam doesn't even glance; he just keeps moving like he's decided this isn't his to witness.
"Yeah."
He doesn't lead me anywhere private. He just walks to the boards and leans against them, helmet still under his arm. I follow, and stand next to him, both of us looking at the empty ice rather than at each other, the way men do when they're about to say something hard.