"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."