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. Thiscounts.
Around four, he disappears upstairs to start his pre-gameroutine. 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?"