We leave Sunday afternoon, two days after the high of the home opener, and I already hate being away from Harper. From Nora, too, if I'm being honest with myself.
Tuesday in Chicago, we lose four to two. I play decently, I get one assist, but Reaper won't pass to me on the power play despite me being wide open twice. Coach says nothing. Same story, different city. If anything, Reaper's been worse since the home opener. Getting third star, scoring in front of a full house, and having guys like Danny and Liam visibly warming to me, I think he took all of it personally. Like my doing well was something I did to him specifically. So now the hits are harder, the silences longer, the deliberate non-passes more pointed. The guys still talk to me. They just make sure he doesn’t see them.
The days between games drag. Wednesday and Thursday are practice, team meetings, and sitting in hotel rooms trying not to think about how much I miss the sound of Harper laughing or the way Nora hums while she's making bottles.
Friday in Detroit, we win three to one. I'm on the ice for all three goals, contribute defensively, and Reaper still treats me like I'm invisible in the locker room. The guys are warming up to me,though—Danny sits next to me on the plane, Rodriguez asks about Harper, and Liam chirps to me about my highlight-reel goal from the home opener.
Saturday is another practice, more video review, and more existing in this weird limbo of hotel rooms and team buses and trying to remember what day it is.
Sunday in Boston is the worst.
We're losing two to nothing in the second period, and tensions are high. I'm forechecking hard, chasing down a loose puck along the boards, when Reaper comes out of nowhere and hits me into the glass so hard my helmet rattles.
It's not a clean hit. His elbow comes up, catches my shoulder, and I go down hard on the ice.
The whistle doesn't blow.
I get up slowly, my shoulder screaming, and Reaper's already skating away like nothing happened. Like he didn't deliberately board his own teammate during a game we're already losing.
"You good?" Danny skates over, his face concerned through his cage.
"Yeah." I lie through gritted teeth, my shoulder screaming.
We lose four to one. I play the rest of the game, but I'm off, distracted by pain, rage, and the bone-deep exhaustion of existing on this team.
The plane ride home is quiet. Most guys sleep or watch movies on tablets, the white noise of travel settling over everyone. I'm in a window seat near the back, staring out at nothing, my shoulder aching where Reaper hit me.
I miss Harper.
The realization hits somewhere over Pennsylvania. I've been gone for a week, and I miss my daughter. The way she smiles and grabs my hair, the little sounds she makes when she's content. The routine we've built, the normalcy of home.
I miss Nora, too.
Her calm competence, the way she listens when I need to talk, the midnight conversations, and the comfortable silences. Thefact that I’m counting down the time until I’m back in the same room as her.
A week away feels like a lifetime.
We land in Ridgeport at 11:30 p.m. I grab my bag from the overhead bin and head straight to my car, not bothering with the post-game team gathering at the bar. I want to go home.
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Every light seems to be red, testing my patience, my shoulder still aching with every movement. I pull into my driveway at eleven forty-seven, expecting the house to be dark.
The kitchen light is on.
I grab my bag and head inside, dropping my gear by the door with a heavy thud. The house smells amazing—garlic and tomatoes and something warm that makes my stomach growl, even though I ate on the plane.
Nora's in the kitchen.
She's at the stove wearing pajama pants and one of my old Falcons hoodies that's three sizes too big on her, her auburn hair pulled up in a messy bun. She turns when she hears me, and her smile is soft and genuine and everything I didn't know I needed after a week of hell.
"Hey," she says. "I thought you might be hungry."
There's pasta on the stove, garlic bread in the oven, and I choke up at the sight.
"You didn't have to do this."
"I know." She plates up the food, and I notice she's made enough for two. "How were the games?"
"Terrible." I drop into a chair at the kitchen table, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. "Chicago, we lost. Detroit, we won, but barely. Boston was a disaster."