#gl92

February doesn’t feel like the start of anything.

You’d think it would, considering it’s around the point in the season where everything really starts to ramp up, but no. It feels like the middle. That awful stretch in the middle where you’ve already done the uphill part and think you’re done, but you actually have a massive uphill stretch still to go. 

It’s the stretch where the season stops being  new and starts being  heavy—where every single game matters just that little bit more, every single practice is run a little sharper than earlier in the season, and every conversation outside of the rink starts circling the same words.  Standings.  Positioning.  Momentum. You hear it from the commentators during the broadcasts while the game highlights play in the background as you make dinner. You hear it when strangers in jerseys talk about it a little too loudly in the cereal aisle. You see it in the way the calendar updates from Hayley come a lot faster now—small adjustments that make the weeks look more like a colourful brick wall than a schedule. 

And, most of all, you see it in Gabe. Not because he’s louder. It’s the opposite. He’s quieter, more controlled. Like he’s narrowed himself down to a version where he fits the expectations of everyone else—captain, leader, steady, strong, focused—the margins for anything else, almost non-existent. 

The rule, the same one he’d proposed at the beginning of your employment, and the same one he’d been using as a loose excuse, still exists. And since the last date you went on, and Christmas, it’s been different. 

Lately it’s felt less like a boundary and more like a lifeline he keeps white-knuckling in his grip.

_________________________

Monday morning arrives with a muted sky, and the kind of cold that makes the kitchen windows look frosted at the edges. 

Charlotte, ever the early bird, had woken you up slightly before your alarm was set to go off, and after a good 15 minutes of early morning snuggles, she demanded breakfast in her usual way—patting your cheek ‘gently’, pointing to her mouth and saying ‘nana’. Now, she’s perched in her high chair with a determined grip on her second chunk of banana, smearing it across the tray like she’s painting. 

Clara had joined you and her sister in the kitchen not too long after you came down, gave you a sleepy hug, and now she’s sitting in the breakfast nook in her sparkly pyjamas, book open, flipping through the pages slowly, finger tracing over the words with careful precision. 

Cato joined the three of you downstairs a little while later. After a brusque ‘good morning,’ he runs over to the living room, immediately grabbing his hockey stick and narrating to himself. You could hear it in the relatively quiet house.

“Okay, okay—pass—shoot—goal—”

You’re in the middle of whisking eggs when you hear his footsteps behind you. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just…early. Earlier than usual. You turn slightly. Gabe’s standing in the doorway, hair damp, sweatshirt in hand, phone in the other like it’s glued there. 

He doesn’t do the doorway pause in the same way he used to. He walks straight to the coffee pot, pours a mug, and takes a sip. Fuel. Then his gaze moves over the kitchen. First to Charlotte.

She squeals as soon as she spots him. “Da!”

He leans in, kisses the top of her head, and she immediately grabs his sleeve with banana-coated fingers like she couldn’t resist. 

Then he glances at Clara.

“Morning, Småglin,” He says softly.

Clara looks over at him, eyes calm.

“Hi,” she whispers, then goes back to her book.

Cato bursts through the entrance of the kitchen just minutes later, like he’d been waiting for his dad to enter.

“Dad! Watch—watch—” he lifts his hockey stick and demonstrates some overly dramatic wrist shot mid-air.”that’s my new move.”

Gabe’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile. “Looks dangerous, Busfrö.”

“It is,” Cato declares proudly.

Gabe nods once, taking another sip of coffee. Then his phone buzzes in his hand, lighting up. He looks down immediately. 

The tension’s been living in the little things like that, the way his focus snaps away. The way he never lets the day fully stop.

You slide the scrambled eggs onto plates and set them down. Charlotte bangs her hands on the highchair tray in approval. The minute you set Cato’s plate down in front of him, he’s got his fork in hand, and he’s inhaling the food like it’s a competitive sport. Clara eats slower, more careful, almost methodical. 

Gabe stays leaning against the kitchen counter—his seat in the nook noticeably empty for someone supposedly present—half-eating, half-reading something on his phone. 

Cato starts talking through a story about school—something about a math game on Friday and a kid who “didn’t know hockey teams,” horrified. Halfway through his story, Cato asks his dad a question.

“Dad, can I be captain one day?”

No answer.

It feels like the air stales, the kitchen moving to an almost-standstill.

Cato stares and asks again. "Dad?”

Gabe looks up, looking for the source of his name-calling.

“What?”

Cato’s face pinches for a second, the disappointment rising before he swallows it down fast. Too fast for a five-year-old.

“You didn’t hear me.”

Gabe’s jaw works once. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his tone soft. “What’d you say?”

Cato repeats his question, but it’s softer this time, a lot of the excited energy from the earlier question missing.

You watch Gabe’s expression change—the faint guilt, the way his shoulders tighten and his gaze flicks to the phone again like  it was the reason he missed the moment, like  it is the thing that stole him away.

“You can,” he says finally, walking over and bending down so he’s eye level with his son, resting his hand briefly on Cato’s shoulder. “If you work for it.”

Cato brightens back up immediately at his dad's encouraging words, like the moment just seconds earlier hadn’t happened at all. 

Clara’s eyes move from the book in front of her over to you. She noticed. Just like she always does. 

Charlotte drops a piece of banana on the floor and laughs, breaking the somewhat tense kitchen atmosphere. 

The house keeps moving. But the shift, that stays. 

Gabe puts his phone down—face down—on the counter, forcing himself to turn his attention to the people in front of him. Then he looks at you. Not fully. It’s just a brief glance. But you catch it anyway. There’s something quiet lingering in it, like he’s checking something, confirming the house is still steady. That you’re still steady. 

You don’t say anything. You don’t do anything. You just keep moving through breakfast. 

By the time backpacks are packed and shoes are on, Gabe’s tightened back up again. Bag by the door. Keys in hand. Phone in his other hand. He crouches down to zip Clara’s jacket, his movements gentle. 

Cato, not one to wait for anyone, shoves his backpack on and bounces in place, absolutely ready to see his friends. 

Charlotte reaches for her dad, whining. 

He lifts her, movements automatic, and kisses her cheek once. 

Then Charlotte twists in his hold, reaching for you too, grabbing at your sleeve like she doesn’t want the moment to end in anyone’s arms except the both of you.

Gabe notices. His eyes flick to Charlotte’s hands, one on him, one on you. The look that crosses his face is quick. Not frustration. Not even surprise anymore. Something softer. Something he doesn’t know where to put or what to do with. He hands Charlotte back to you carefully.

She settles instantly against your shoulder.

His shoulders ease like he’s been holding onto tension you weren’t seeing.

“You good today?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say. “Same routine as usual.”

He nods once. Then hesitates. It’s just a fraction of a pause at the door, but it’s not the old doorway pause. It’s something new. Like he wants to say something that doesn’t fit inside the schedule. But all he manages is a short ‘thanks’ before he’s gone out the door. 

The day runs exactly the same as pretty much all the rest of the Mondays have. 

Drop-offs. 

Pickups. 

Snacks. 

Homework. 

Clara playing with her Barbies quietly in the living room while Cato tries—to no avail—to convince you his math worksheet is “ruining his future.”

Charlotte stays clingy for an hour, then suddenly she’s fine the second you sit down on the floor with her and let her crawl into your lap like it’s the solution she’d been waiting for all along.

The house stays steady.

The kids stay okay.

You stay busy.

And still, your phone buzzed at 11:03 that morning with a text from Gabe.

Gabe

did Cato remember his reading log?

You stare at the screen. 

You

yes

it’s in his backpack

The three dots appear, then disappear, then appear before a new text floats onto the screen.

Gabe

okay

good

thanks

That should’ve been nothing. But it’s not. Because it’s not a captain checking a schedule. It’s a father trying to anchor himself to home from wherever the day had dragged him. And for Gabe, you’re the anchor point.

He makes it home just before dinner. Not early by any means, but early enough that he walks into noise. Into life. Cato’s laughter. Clara’s soft humming. Charlotte’s babbling to her Burnie stuffy as she drags him around. He stops in the entryway and just listens for a second, letting it all wash over him. Like it was the only thing all day that didn’t demand something from him. 

When he steps into the kitchen, his eyes go straight to you. Not long. Not dramatic. Just immediate. Another check, same as this morning. Then he exhales, long and tired, almost too quiet to hear. And something in his shoulders loosens.

The change in Gabe isn’t super obvious at first. There aren’t any big conversations or moments where he says he needs help. No shift in tone or expectation. If anything, he gets even quieter than before. More controlled. More careful. But he starts staying. That’s the difference.

It begins in the kitchen. The same place where almost everything between you seems to materialize. Dinner’s halfway finished when he comes in, jacket already off, sleeves pushed up like he’d come straight from the car without stopping. 

Cato’s sitting at the table working on homework with the intensity of someone who believes that sighing loudly might make the work easier (or just disappear altogether). Clara sits in the seat next to him, colouring, tongue poking out slightly as she concentrates, her Barbies positioned carefully in front of her. Charlotte’s standing at your feet holding onto your leg and narrating the most serious story in toddler language.

Gabe pauses in the doorway. Again. The familiar movement almost a comfort. But instead of moving through, he steps in and leans against the counter, same as he did that morning. Watching. Not hovering. Just…there.

“Did it go okay today?” You ask without turning to look at him.

He nods.

“Yeah.” He pauses, just for a second, mulling it over before continuing. “Clara seemed tired this morning.”

You turn your head in his direction, glancing over. He’s looking toward the table, watching as she colours with slow, careful movements. 

“She didn’t sleep well,” you say. “Growth spurt, I think. She’ll probably crash early tonight.”

He nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t question you. He just trusts your judgment of the situation, trusts that you can handle it, and follows your lead.

You notice.

The next night, it happens again. He comes into the kitchen while you’re cutting fruit. And this time, he doesn’t even pretend he has a reason to be in the kitchen. He grabs a glass of water. Then stays.

“Cato seemed to be really frustrated after practice,” he says after a minute.

The knife hitting the cutting board echoes in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

“He’s been comparing himself to the older kids,” you reply, your focus not breaking. “He’ll settle. He just needs a few good shifts. A few successful drills.”

Gabe nods slowly. Then glances toward the living room where Cato had already picked up his stick-handling drill from the morning like the frustration had never existed.

“You’re right,” he says.

There’s relief in it. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there. 

By Thursday, it’d become routine. Gabe would come home, drop his bag (usually by the front door, sometimes in the laundry or mudroom), and then end up in the kitchen. Sometimes he asks you something. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he just stands there while you move through dinner prep, Charlotte orbiting your legs and Clara reading or colouring nearby. It isn’t a conversation. It’s presence. And the longer it goes on, the more you realize something you hadn’t thought about before.

Gabe doesn’t just come into the kitchen.

He looks for you.

Every single time.

Friday tests the routine. Not intentionally. Just one of those normal things that happens in any household. 

You have an appointment that afternoon—not anything major, just something that’d been rescheduled one too many times and really shouldn’t be put off any longer. It’ll be an hour max. Maybe two with bad traffic. Gabe knew. Hayley knew too, just in case anything went wrong. You made absolutely sure that the schedule would be covered while you’re out. And you left a detailed note, with instructions for the routines, just in case. Snacks were prepped. Homework packets laid out on the table. Dinner mostly prepped. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve had to step out on a workday. It probably won’t be the last. It really shouldn’t have mattered. 

When you come back, the house isn’t chaotic, but it doesn’t feel settled either. The difference is subtle. 

Clara is sitting on the couch with one of her books, but she keeps glancing toward the foyer. 

Cato’s in the living room too, but instead of his usual drills or games, he’s building something aggressive with his blocks. 

Charlotte is standing in the foyer when you come in. The second she sees you, her entire body relaxes. She toddles straight toward you, arms up. 

You lift her.

She presses her face into the crook of your neck and stays there. 

From the kitchen, you hear his voice drift out.

“You’re back.”

You turn and walk over to the kitchen with Charlotte still cradled in your hold.

He’s standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up again, a cutting board in front of him with fruit that looks…uneven. He isn’t really smiling. But the tightness in his shoulders seems to have eased once you’re in the room too.

“How’d it go?” You ask.

He shrugs.

“Fine.”

Cato appears beside you, giving you a side hug before separating again. 

“We did homework,” he reports immediately. “And Dad cut the apples weird.”

“I cut them normally,” Gabe interjects; you can hear the slight defensiveness in his tone.

“They’re squares,” Cato says, nose upturned in offence.

Clara slips her hand into your free one. “They’re crunchy.”

Apparently that’s approval. 

You turn your focus back to Gabe.

“Everything okay?”

He hesitates then nods. “Yeah. They were a little…off, though.”

You wait.

“Just the routine,” he continues. “They kept asking when you were coming back. Charlotte kept hurrying to the front door at every little sound outside.”

The words settle softly. But they still land. Charlotte’s arms tighten around you like she’s in agreement. Cato already drifted closer to you again. And Clara hasn’t let go of your hand.

You swallow.

“They’re used to the rhythm,” you say.

He nods. Then looks around the kitchen. At the lunches you’d prepped and the notes you’d left and the space that has felt slightly misaligned without you moving through it. 

After a moment, he says something so quietly you almost miss it:

“House feels really different when you’re not here.”

The sentence really isn’t much of anything. It’s not dramatic. Not emotional. Just honest.

You don’t answer right away, because you’re pretty sure the second you open your mouth, your voice would betray you. Your voice would probably waver more than it should, definitely carry more than it should.

Charlotte finally relaxes enough in your hold to reach for the counter. Clara carefully disentangles her hand from yours, going back to her book. Cato starts explaining to you why apple squares are “upsetting.” 

The house settles. And the rhythm returns. 

You look at Gabe.

He’s watching you again. Not intensely. Not the same charged way he had before. Something quieter. Something steadier. Like he’s not just looking at you as the nanny. But like he’s looking at you like the person who keeps everything balanced. The person the house leans toward. After a moment, he exhales. Almost imperceptible. Then he reaches for the knife resting against the cutting board again.

“Show me how you cut them,” he says. “Please.”

You lower Charlotte to the floor before stepping beside him. Closer than you’ve been to him all week. Your hand brushes his as you reposition the apple. Neither of you pulls away immediately. It’s not romantic nor is it dramatic, but it’s not nothing either. Because this time, maybe for the first time, the closeness doesn’t feel like a distraction. It feels like alignment. Like the house has finally shifted back into place.

—————————————————

The plan wasn’t to be out of the house long. Another appointment, same problem as before; you’d just been putting off too long because there was always going to be a better day for it. A less busy week, a time when the schedule wouldn’t be packed so tight.   And Gabe usually reminded you to take time for yourself, but lately he’s been distracted—knowing you had the household battened down—allowing himself to almost disappear into hockey. But Hayley, she’d noticed and took care to remind you—gently but firmly—that you are allowed to take time for yourself, even take a full day off.

There seemed to be a break in the schedule, a day where he would have more free time (a day where you feel less guilty taking the time off).  He would be home in the afternoon. It finally made sense. You’d told him the night before.

“Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to be out for a few hours,” you’d said while packing lunches. “I’ll make sure everything is ready before I go.” 

He’d nodded.

Said, “okay.”

Just a single word. No hesitation. No questions. But his eyes, they stayed on you a second longer than they usually would.  

The morning runs about as smooth as it usually does. Breakfast chaos. School drop-offs. Charlotte refusing her nap for twenty minutes before finally settling down. 

By early afternoon, you’d done every possible thing you could think of to make the rest of the day easier on them. Snacks were prepped. Homework packets and after-school activities laid out on the table. Dinner ingredients prepped. Schedule updated on the fridge in your usual neat writing.

You find him in the kitchen on your way out, reviewing something on his phone.

“I’m heading out,” you say.

Gabe looks up immediately. 

Too quickly.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

You nod.

“I prepped snacks and laid out all the after-school stuff. Dinner is also all prepped, just needs to be heated up. Charlotte needs to be up from her nap by two-thirty otherwise pickups will be a nightmare and she won’t sleep tonight.”

He listens. Really listens. Like he’s committing your voice to memory.

“Okay,” he says again.

You grab your bag.

Charlotte stirs on the monitor beside him.

He glances at it as soon as he registers the sound, then back over to you.

“How long?” He asks.

“I don’t know. A few hours. I should probably be back around dinner.”

He nods, but he doesn’t go back to his phone right away. He just stands there, the barstool he was sitting on moments ago now empty, watching as you walk to the door. 

——————————

The first hour you’re gone goes fine. Almost the same as last time. Charlotte wakes, he gets her up, changes her, manages a snack. Then school pick up. Cato and Clara come home, backpacks are hung up—not thrown carelessly on the floor, shoes  are kicked off wildly, then the kids run further into the house. It’s all routine. Normal. But the rhythm is off. Not wrong, just…uneven. Cato asked the three times what was for dinner before remembering you weren’t home—even though Gabe could’ve answered—and walking off to play. Clara frequently got up from the table, pausing her colouring, to stand in the kitchen entryway, hovering, and staring at the front door just waiting for you to appear. Charlotte fussing more than usual for her now, climbing up Gabe’s leg repeatedly looking for something she can’t quite find. 

Gabe moves through it. Handles everything with an ease that can only be developed in high-stress situations (being a single dad to 3 under 6, for example). Homework and after-school activity packets started. Snacks distributed. Charlotte on his hip, clinging to his sweatshirt while he tries to check Cato’s math. But it all feels like juggling. Like everything needs attention at once, and none of it stays settled for long.

By late afternoon, the house is louder. Not really louder in a good way. Cato is frustrated with an exercise on his worksheet. Clara asking questions, softly like she usually does, that he doesn’t quite hear. Charlotte crying every single time he tried to put her down. Gabe tries to keep his voice calm. Tries to keep the structure you’d laid out to him, the same structure that you keep for them every day. But the timing gets away from him. It splits. 

Snacks a little too late. 

Homework and worksheets dragging on a lot longer than usual. 

Charlotte super clingy and extremely overtired. 

When the timer for the oven dings, and he reaches to put dinner in, he realizes that he’d never preheated it. He stares at the controls for longer than necessary. Not fully overwhelmed. Definitely aware. Aware that the house hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Aware that the house usually runs a lot smoother. Quieter. Easier.

———————————

You make it back to the house just before six. 

Charlotte is the first to hear the door open. Her head snaps up, and she removes herself from clinging to Gabe’s leg, launching herself toward the hallway.

“Hi,” you call as you step further into the entryway.

Charlotte reaches you in seconds, arms up, relief immediate and overwhelming.

You lift her.

She buries her face in your neck like she’d been holding her breath the entire time you were gone.

“Hi, sweetpea,” you murmur softly into her downy locks, “I guess you missed me huh?”

She tries to nuzzle further into your hold—not that that’s really possible. 

Gabe ambles out of the kitchen into the foyer slowly, movements not rushed. He doesn’t look stressed or upset, but the moment his eyes land on you, you see the way his posture changes. See the way his shoulders drop, just a fraction, but noticeable enough.

“How’d it go?” You ask.

He shrugs, “fine.”

The word is barely out of his mouth when Cato runs out of the kitchen. 

“You were gone fooooreverrrrrrr…”

“Buddy,” you say, “it was one afternoon.”

“Was long,” Clara adds quietly, already slipping her hand into yours.

You glance at Gabe. 

He’s watching the three of them cluster around you. Charlotte still clinging. Clara pressed close. Cato talking over both of them—though that’s not hard. 

The house feels different already.

Quieter.

Settled.

Like the volume’s been adjusted without anyone touching a dial.

Dinner goes smoothly. The routine falls back into place almost immediately. Homework and activities finished faster. Charlotte calmer. Clara back to her quiet reading spot. Cato explaining something about his school day, without the edge that was present earlier. 

You’re clearing the last of the dinner plates when he comes into the kitchen. He stops beside the counter, not leaning this time, standing closer than last time. 

“They were fine,” he says, breaking the calm silence between you.

You nod. “I knew they would be.”

“…it was just…louder.”

You glance up at him.

His expression isn’t frustrated or critical, just thoughtful.

“Transitions are harder when the routine changes,” you say, adding on as an afterthought, “as I’m sure you know.”

He nods slowly. Then he looks around the kitchen. At the lunch bags you’ve laid out for tomorrow. At the newly updated schedule that you’d manage to print out at some point tonight, already posted up on the fridge. At Charlotte’s nighttime bottle, prepped and ready to go. Then back at you.

“They kept asking me when you were coming back,” he says.

The sentence tugs at something deep in your chest. You don’t quite know what to do with that, because honestly, you’ve been feeling it too. The pull back to the house. Back to them. Back to this.

Charlotte toddles into the kitchen, immediately latching onto your leg. Clara follows close behind her sister, and Cato hovers in the doorway, not quite as close as his siblings but still keeping you in his sights.

The same quiet.

Gabe watches it happen. He watches the way the room settles  around you. The way the noise levels out. The way the faint undercurrent of tension disappears without anyone saying anything or talking about it.

A long moment passes before he says anything.

“I thought I had your routine down,” he says.

“You did, Gabe,” you reply, your tone gentle.

He shakes his head once. 

“It’s not  just a routine.”

His eyes meet yours. This time, there’s no ‘Captain’ mask. No professional distance. Just quiet honesty.

“It’s you.”

The kitchen air stills. 

Not heavy. 

Not charged.

Real.

Gabe doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t turn it into something overly emotional.  But he doesn’t take it back either.

Charlotte tugs at your hand. Clara leans further into your side. Cato asks a question about tomorrow. 

The house keeps moving.

But the words, they stay. They linger. Because this is the first time he’d said it out loud—at least with anyone around to hear it. 

The house doesn’t just run smoothly because of the routine; it runs smoother because of you.

———————————————————

By the time mid-February actually rolls around, game nights have settled into their own unique rhythm.

Cato wears his jersey; it’s on before you can even ask him to get ready for the day. Clara insists on her sparkly clips, whichever shape she feels matches the day, in the team colours because  "it’s a special night.” Charlotte gets overwhelmed by the noise without fail, but refuses to miss anything as soon as she realizes her siblings are excited.

And you pack the bag the same way every time. Snacks. Water. Headphones for Charlotte. An extra sweater (or blanket) for Clara. 

The routine became automatic. The same exact way the house has.

Ball Arena is loud before you even make it fully inside the building, the excited crowd noise flooding well around the building. By the time you wrangle the kids through security and through the crowd to your section, the noise levels have only increased. 

Cato insists on watching warm-ups so you herd them down to the glass. As soon as  it’s within your sights—and more importantly, Cato’s—he plasters himself as close to the boards as he can get, hands pressed against the plexiglass, eyes wide, waiting excitedly like it still amazes him every time.

Clara stays close to your side, taking in everything quietly, observantly, the same way she usually is at the games. 

Charlotte is in your arms, back to your chest, small fingers gripping onto the arm secured around her middle as she takes in the ice. 

Once the players start skating onto the ice, the volume goes up again. And when Gabe skates out onto the ice, the crowd volume spikes exponentially. 

Cato immediately starts waving, and you have to remind him to watch his hands and be mindful of other people around him. He nods at you once, then continues waving, slightly more restrained.

“Dad! Dad! Over here!”

It takes a moment. And you doubt he is actually able to hear Cato’s calls over the arena noise, but he turns his head. Finds the section. Spots Cato first, who lights up under his Father’s gaze. Then Clara. Then Charlotte. Then you. He skates over, taps his stick against the glass—once in front of each kid—then turns his focus back to the drills, still on the ice in front of where you’re standing with the kids. Cato practically explodes.

“He saw me! He saw me!”

“I saw that buddy. How exciting,” you say with a gentle smile.

Clara waves back carefully when Gabe catches her eye. 

Charlotte slaps her hands against the glass, like she thought maybe if she hit it hard enough she’d be able to reach him.

He turns around again. This time, his eyes linger longer than before. Not dramatic. Not obvious—unless someone was really looking for it. But definitely longer than a quick acknowledgment, or a quick thanks. 

Then he pushes off and joins the rest of the team warmup.

The game itself is fast and extremely physical. Close score. A taste of playoff energy, with the possible matchup, even if it’s not technically close to playoffs yet.

Cato stands for half of it. Clara follows her brother, and the crowd cues, for when to cheer and clap. Charlotte falls asleep against your shoulder midway through the second period, the weight of her body warm and steady against yours. 

During a timeout, the arena camera does a sweep through the family section, paying specific tribute to another WAG, and you don’t notice it’s landed on you and the kids until the crowd cheers louder and Tracy discreetly nudges you in the ribs. Then the big screen flashes, momentarily, and there you are. Charlotte asleep against you, Clara tucked close to your side, and Cato waving both arms proudly like he’d been preparing his whole life for this moment in particular. The shot holds for a few seconds. It’s more than long enough. Then it cuts back to the ice. You try not to think about just how much that looked like an actual  family shot.

The guys win the game. 

As expected, the arena erupts with noise.

Cato shouts himself hoarse. 

Clara claps, smiling, mirroring her brother's excitement the best she can.

Charlotte wakes up with a start as the horn goes off, looks around, then slowly starts clapping because everyone else is too.

You let the crowd thin out a little bit before heading down to the family room; Hayley meets you there not long after.

“Gabe will be down in a few,” she says, smiling slightly at the kids. “He just has a few post-games to finish.”

The hallway is buzzing with other kids, partners, and staff. By the time he actually makes it down to where you’re waiting with the kids, the majority of the people have left.  The energy in the hall shifts the same way it tends to when he walks into a room—people notice. The reminder of them notice; they nod, clap his shoulder, call his name. 

Captain.

Leader.

But the  moment, the moment he sees the kids, his focus shifts. 

Cato runs to him first.

“We won!”

“We did, Busfrö,” Gabe says, crouching to catch him in his arms.

Clara follows close behind her brother, pressing into her dad's side.

And Charlotte twists in your arms, reaching for her dad. 

You pass her over.

This time, she stays, curling into his shoulder.

His eyes rest on Cato, then Clara, then Charlotte. 

Then he lifts his gaze. 

To you.

“Thanks for bringing them tonight,” he says, holding your gaze.

The words themselves are simple. Ones he’s said to you probably more than a dozen times since you’d started working with the family. But the look that accompanies them this time is steady. 

Grounded. 

Like seeing them—seeing  you there with them—mattered to him more than the win.

Barely a moment later, Nate walks by with Cale. He slows down, glancing at your group.

“Good game, Cap,” Nate says, a lilt in his voice that you can’t quite decipher. And as he looks at you and the kids, his expression changes just slightly enough that the guys catch it and Cale gives him a well-placed elbow to the ribs. “Nice to see the  whole family  out tonight.”

The word hangs in the stale arena air. 

Family. 

You wait for the correction. Or a clarification. Or even just an easy, professional explanation. But it never comes. He just nods. Once.

“Yeah,” he says.

The conversation moves along, but you feel like you’re still stuck in that moment.

On the walk back to the car, the kids are loud and energized. Pre-bedtime zooms coming in full force. Cato is recounting the game with all the muster of a colour commentator. Clara’s small hand clutching onto her dad’s larger one, hands swinging between them. Charlotte is resting against his shoulder, sticky hand patting his cheek as she enthusiastically relays something in her playful toddler babble.

You’re walking behind them, slightly delayed.

A staff member walks by, smiling warmly. 

“Great atmosphere tonight,” she says. Then she turns to look at you, “you must be proud.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Gabe beats you to it.

“They keep me grounded,” he says.

The words aren’t directed at the staff member. You can tell. They’re directed at you.

You feel the look without even turning.

The parking lot air is cold. Slightly colder than the arena air, not unlike the usual for a late February night. The lot is mostly empty by now, just a smattering of cars remaining.

Cato runs ahead, still careful, and making sure to stay in view. 

Clara stays close to you and Gabe. 

Charlotte has since fallen back asleep. Gabe shifts her carefully in his arms, then glances over at you.

“Cold?” He asks.

“I’m okay.”

He doesn’t say anything, but if you were to look over at his face, you’d see by his expression that he doesn’t fully believe you. 

Then he moves slightly closer as you walk to the car. Not touching. Just closing the space between you. Instinctive. Protective. Easy.

When you get back to the house, the routine settles quickly.

Shoes off.

Kids changed.

Charlotte changed and transferred to her crib.

Cato still narrating the game and the final goal, even though you’d all been there to see it.

Clara, yawning wide as her mouth would open, feet shuffling across the floor in slow tired movements.

You move through the kitchen filling water bottles for the night and packing lunches for the next day, with what could only be described as comfortable ease.

Gabe comes in a few minutes later and stops at the counter, just watching you for a moment. 

“She assumed you were family,” he says. “Nate called you family too.”

You look up.

“It happens sometimes. Does that bother you?”

He pauses.

“Does it bother you?”

His echoing of your question is more a deflection than an actual answer. 

You don’t say anything else; neither does Gabe. He nods slowly. Lingers in the kitchen just a few seconds longer. Then leaves to check on the kids. 

Later that night, after the house had gone quiet, Gabe walks through the hallway the way he always does. 

Checks all the doors.

Nightlights.

Charlotte’s monitor.

All routine.

At the end of the hall, he pauses in front of your door. 

Closed. 

Quiet. 

Temporary.

All still part of the plan. Still the agreement. Still the safer version of  this. But earlier—at the arena, in the hallway, with the kids clustered around you, it hadn’t felt temporary the same way. 

It felt right.

And for the first time since whatever this is had started, the word  family  didn't feel like something that needed to be corrected.

It felt  right.

And nothing about it feels temporary anymore.

taglist: @embluesky, @lo-bells, @dreamovs, @wonderfullyhiddensaga, @shanehollandersautism, @puckitup86, @renegadebirch, @chiblackhawks

sunday.

tuesday.

wednesday.

thursday.

friday.

Playoff talks don’t start at the end of the season, end of March/beginning of April. 

Not really. 

You know that, but you didn’t really know that until taking this job.

And they certainly don’t for the teams that are expected to make it. It starts so much earlier than that—earlier than people admit out loud. Presumptions and theoreticals in pre- and post-game broadcasts. Expectations slipped into interviews with careful language, and post-game coverage in a way that sounds casual but definitely isn’t. And it shows up in the way the analysts linger a few seconds too long on certain plays, certain mistakes, and certain names. 

It creeps in, quiet at first, then constant. Until it stops feeling like something ahead of you and starts feeling like something already pressing down. 

You hear it in the background of your life. In the broadcast clips, murmuring from the TV while you stand, stirring dinner on the stove, commentators’ voices rising and falling like distant weather. In the way you’ve come across fan comments on social media, the comments are less joking, more dissecting and critical. In the way Hayley’s calendar updates have shifted from organized to a relentless barrage of changes. Blocks stacked so much more tightly. Travel squeezed closer. Margins being erased.

And you can see it in Gabe. Not in obvious ways—not in speeches or frustration or anything that would make sense from the outside. You see it in the small, quiet ways. The ways no one else would notice unless they were seeing him the same way you do. 

The first thing is the way he stops lingering. The way he used pause in doorways—not always, not long, but enough that it felt like he’d started to allow himself to actually arrive somewhere before moving on. A breath. A second. Now, he moves like he’s already late. Always moving like something is pulling him forward, like there’s somewhere to be, even when he’s home.

His phone’s stopped leaving his hands completely. That’s the second thing. He’s not glued to it—but he never really sets it aside either. It’s always within reach, within sight, like something that might demand his attention at any given second. 

And then when he comes home—from a roadie or just the training facility or home game—he doesn’t land. He walks through the front door, but some part of him stays somewhere else. At the rink. In a meeting. At a game that hasn’t even happened yet. 

The season had been demanding from the start. And you knew, at the beginning, it was only going to get more intense. But now, it feels like it’s all sharpening. Like everything extraneous is being stripped away. Like all the noise is narrowing to a single point, and everything that doesn’t belong to that point is getting harder for him to hold onto, and you’re not even halfway into the season. 

And that rule he’d made—the one he’d been so strict about, no distractions—sits between you heavier than ever. 

Not spoken or repeated, but present for it all.

Monday starts with a schedule change. Mornings always seem to start that way lately. They don’t really start as mornings anymore; they begin with updates, adjustments and revisions. 

Hayley’s text comes through before the sun is fully up, the faint blue-grey of an early winter morning just starting to creep through the kitchen windows.

Hayley

morning skate added

media after

late practice

You read it once, then you set your phone down beside the cutting board. You don’t forward it. You know you don’t need to remind him. He already knows. He always does. 

The house is still half asleep.

Coffee lingering in the air from the cup you’d brewed yourself a little while ago, the soft mechanical drip of the water hitting the bottom of the sink, filling the quiet kitchen. 

You’re stirring the oatmeal slowly, spoon tracing the same pattern over and over, more out of habit than thought.

Upstairs, you hear movement. A door. Footsteps. The steady, unassuming rhythm of someone already in motion. 

By the time Gabe comes downstairs, he’s dressed. Fully ready. Compression gear layered under his team-issued athletic clothes. Hair damp at the edges, combed back just neat enough for the messy look to look intentional. 

He doesn’t pause in the doorway.

Doesn’t take a moment to take in the room.

He just crosses straight over to the coffee maker, makes himself a cup, and takes a sip immediately—like it’s not something to enjoy but something necessary, routine. 

“Morning,” you say.

He nods once, briefly. “Morning.”

His voice is even. Not cold but controlled, already somewhere else. 

When his eyes flick over to where Charlotte sits in her highchair, she lights up instantly. Her whole body reacts before her brain probably registers why—hands slapping against the tray of the chair, a bright and delighted sound breaking through the quiet.

“Da!”

He walks over to her, leans in, and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. Soft. Automatic. Then, as quick as it had happened, he was gone. Charlotte stares in his direction, watching him go. Not upset or confused. Just…watching. As soon as he’s out of her sightline, she turns back to you, twisting in her seat so she can make sure you’re still where she left you. Still steady. And still where you’re supposed to be.

Clara shuffles into the kitchen next, carrying one of her favourite books open in front of her face like she’d woken up mid-story. The hair atop her head is still in tangles from sleep, one sock missing, eyes half-focused as she sleepily shuffles into the kitchen, trying to divide her attention between the pages in front of her and the room. She just narrowly misses tripping over the leg of her sister’s highchair.

You reach for her spare hairbrush from over beside the fridge. 

“Come here sweetheart,” you murmur softly.

She obeys without protest, leaning slightly into your touch as you gently brush through her hair.

Cato comes in louder. Faster. Like he’d chugged a five-hour-energy just before coming downstairs. As usual, energy first, awareness second. 

In the moments between Clara coming downstairs and Cato rushing into the kitchen, Gabe had come back. You hadn’t noticed. But he’s the first person Cato greets.

“Dad, can you come to practice today?”

The question comes out hopeful and with as much casualness as a five-year-old can muster—but in the same way they do when a question has been asked enough times that you can basically predict the answer.

Gabe doesn’t look away from his phone, obviously enthralled by whatever is on the screen.

“I can’t,” he says. “I’ve got mine.”

There’s no hesitation in the answer. No pause to soften it, or soften his tone like he usually does with the kids. Just straight truth, delivered efficiently.

Cato’s face drops. Just for a second, so swiftly that it would’ve been easy to miss. Then it snaps back into the happier expression that’d been there before.

“Okay,” he says, too fast. “Maybe next time.”

Cato rushes out to the living room before the moment can stretch any further. Before any of you really have to linger in it, and before it turns into something heavier.

Gabe nods once, still fully absorbed in his phone.

Clara tilts her head slightly, watching him in that quiet way you’ve come to expect, like she notices more than she ever says—at least you.

Charlotte drops a puff onto the floor and laughs like it's the funniest thing she’s ever seen. 

Normal morning stuff.

Everything looks normal. But underneath, you can feel the shift. The shift of a house, trying to stay soft while something inside slowly turns rigid.

By 7:12am, he’s gone. No lingering at the door. No long good-byes. No extra check-ins. No “see you later” stretching into something warmer than it has any right to. 

Just keys.

Coffee.

Bag.

Door.

The sound of the latch clicking into place echoes a little longer than it used to.

Charlotte fusses for a second at the noise. Clara doesn’t look up. Cato’s already halfway through a made-up drill and ignoring the world around him. Life keeps moving. Because it always does. 

You follow the same routine you always do. Shoes tied. Backpacks zipped. Hair brushed, even when Cato complains softly and flinches away from the light mist of water like a feral cat. Charlotte cleaned up and lifted from her chair. Doing your best to keep everything steady and consistent, because if the house doesn’t stay steady, everything else will start to wobble.

And right now, he can’t afford to wobble. Which means, you can’t either.

The first real sign of the day shows up at 10:38am. 

Clara at preschool and Cato at kindergarten. 

Charlotte is upstairs napping.

You’re in the middle of switching the laundry over to the dryer, the low hum of the machine filling the space, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

Finishing up what you’re doing, you wipe your hands on a towel quickly and grab the device, glancing down at the screen.

His name. 

Not Hayley.

Him.

You pause, just for a second, then read the message carefully.

Gabe L.

did Cato finish the worksheet he brought home on Friday 

the science one

I did the math with him

You blink. Not because it’s strange for him to care—though it is, at least like this—because a lot of the time he checks in more indirectly. Less specific. This isn’t that. 

Leaning back against the counter slightly, rereading the message like there might be some hidden message behind it. Then you respond, wording it carefully.

You

not yet

we’re doing it after school today

he wanted to ask his teacher some questions before we get started

The reply comes quickly. Three dots appear, disappear, appear, disappear, before the response finally comes through.

Gabe L.

okay

You set your phone down, then pick it back up again. Because something about it lingers. And a minute later, the device buzzes again.

Gabe L.

he’s been more distracted lately

You stare at that message longer because it’s not just information, it’s not even really a question, but it feels like one. Like he’s trying to reach for something—confirmation, maybe, or reassurance, or control. Something that he can’t quite grab onto where he is. You’re careful with your words, trying to make sure they’re not too dismissive or over-explaining. 

You

he’s fine

just excited and a little tired

we’ll keep him on track

There’s a pause this time. Longer. You can almost picture him reading your texts. Standing somewhere loud, chaotic and fast-moving, and trying to anchor himself to the small piece of something manageable.

Gabe L.

thanks

That’s it. One word. Simple. But the word lands heavier than it should because it’s not just about the worksheet. And it’s not about homework or schedules or any of the other possible things he could’ve used as an excuse. It’s about the fact that his mind doesn’t stop. That even when he’s somewhere else, he’s still tethered here, to the house. Split between roles, he can’t fully hold on to at the same time.

And without meaning to—he’s started to hand you the parts he can’t carry. And you can’t find it in yourself to mind.

_______________________

That afternoon, the house stays loud in the way it always does after school. Backpacks just barely dropped into their cubbies in the mudroom, like they’d been abandoned mid-thought. Shoes kicked off in different directions, one landing by his cubby at the wall and one in the middle of the room—a Cato special.

The kids follow you inside the same way they always do. 

Cato comes in talking, almost at warp speed. The same way he always does. Words spilling out ahead of him, bouncing from subject to subject without warnings—school, practice, some things someone said at recess, a complaint about math that turned into a story about lunch halfway through.

You let it happen, the same way it had in the car after pick-up and on the way home. Doing your best to follow his stories, answering where it mattered, and nodding where it didn’t.

Clara’s quieter, her book from this morning already back in her hands like she’d been eating all day long to return to it. She slides into her usual spot in the kitchen nook—with a little help from you—curling one leg underneath her, humming something you vaguely recognize as a song from a Barbie movie softly to herself as she flips the pages.

Charlotte toddles around behind you, unsteady but determined, her small feet making soft, uneven sounds against the floor. She bumps into the side of a kitchen chair still pulled out from this morning, catches herself, and keeps going as if nothing happened.

The house fills itself back up.

Sound.

Movement.

Life.

You do your best to keep it light. To keep it moving.

Cato’s worksheet comes out after a snack. There’s dramatic sighing. An unnecessary amount of pencil tapping. At one point, he flops forward onto the kitchen table like the weight of kindergarten science has finally broken him. 

You nudge his shoulder gently. “Sit up.”

“I am sitting,” he mutters into the wood, with a level of sass you just know he inherited from his dad.

“Buddy,” you say deadpan, “you’re melting.”

He huffs, pushes himself into an upright position, and goes back to work with all the exaggerated effort of a drama queen.

Clara, now switched to colouring books, sits beside him. Careful and precise, switching between crayon colours with a quiet concentration.

Charlotte wanders between rooms—the kitchen, living room, and hallway mostly—occasionally appearing just to check that you’re still where she expects you to be before disappearing again.

Normal.

It all feels normal.

Then your phone buzzes again.

You glance at it instinctively.

Gabe L.

how’d he do?

You look at Cato, who’s now chewing the end of his pencil like it might help him think faster, and type back.

You

he’s finishing up now

needed a little pushing but he got it done

spelling is up next

A minute later, your phone buzzes again.

Gabe L.

Charlotte been napping okay?

You don’t see the message until you come back from putting Charlotte in her playpen, hopefully to nap, maybe to settle. You smile faintly and reply.

You

this morning yes

now? no

she fought it but she’s down now

You set your phone aside and return your attention to the two kids in front of you, cheering Cato on when he finishes his worksheet, reacting appropriately when Clara shows you the abstract colouring she’d done in her colouring book. Then dinner and then bedtime routine. And even though you’d set your phone to the side, the pattern had slowly settled into place.

Gabe was checking in. Not once. Not occasionally. Consistently. Not like a watching over your shoulder kind of way. And not through Hayley. Directly through you.  It’s not just about the kids. It’s about connection. About knowing. About holding on to something that feels stable while everything else tightens around him. Making you the point of that stability—whether he means to or not.

He comes home late. Later than usual on a non-game night. Late enough that the rest of the house had already shifted into night mode—lights dimmed, noise gone, and the kind of quiet that feels earned after a full day. 

The kitchen stove light is still on. You’d left it on. You always do now. A small, warm pocket of light in an otherwise dark room.

You hear the front door open. Quiet. Careful. Like’s trying not to disturb something. Footsteps follow, slower than they’d been this morning.

He appears in the kitchen a second later, shoulders tight, hair damp again, duffel bag (which needs to go to the laundry room) slipping from his hand to the floor with a soft thud. He stops in his tracks when he sees you. 

Not the old pause. 

Not soft.

Surprised.

Like he wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here, to still be awake.

“You’re still up,” he says.

“Charlotte had trouble settling tonight,” you reply. “She’s down now.”

He nods, movement quick and brief, gaze flicking to the baby monitor on the counter like it’s second nature. 

The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable, just…unfilled. 

Then he speaks again. “Thanks for the updates today.”

You meet his eyes briefly, “no problem.”

He hesitates. It’s small. Almost nothing. But you see it. Like something pushing up against the surface, and he’s not sure if he should let it out. Then it slips out anyway.

“I feel like I’m missing everything.”

The words come out low.

Flat.

Not dramatic.

Not asking for reassurance.

Just..true.

Defeated.

You don’t rush to respond or try to fill the silence with empty reassurances you know wouldn’t help. You don’t soften it with something easy. Because it’s not easy.

“You’re doing what you have to do Gabe,” you say quietly. “And the kids, they’re okay.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his jaw. “I know.” Then, softer, “Still.”

It’s just one word. But it carries everything he didn’t say. The weight of it. The guilt. The awareness that being where he needs to be means not being where he wants to be. That the same thing that makes him succeed, helping him live his dreams, is also pulling him away.

You watch him stand there, the tension in his shoulders not easing even in the quiet, with the words out there.

And the instinct you’ve been doing your best to tamp down rises again. To step closer. To close the space. To offer something that goes beyond schedules and routines and careful distances. But you don’t.

You stay where you are.

Because the rules still exist. Because you know that he needs the control more than he needs comfort right now. Because you’re not sure what would happen if you were to blur that line even a little more. 

But you do let your voice soften as you speak to him.

“They don’t need you to be perfect,” you say. “They love you, they know you love them. They just need you to keep coming back.”

He holds your gaze. And for a moment, the mask slips. Not completely. But enough. Enough that you can see the exhaustion beneath it. The doubt. The quiet fear that he’s getting something wrong in a way he won’t be able to fix. Then he nods once.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

He moves to the fridge after that, pulling out the plate of dinner you’d left for him. 

You didn’t mention it. 

You never do.

He doesn’t thank you for it directly.

He doesn’t need to.

The routine says enough.

The microwave hums softly as he leans back against the counter, one hand braced behind him, eyes closing briefly as the sound fills the room.

You watch him for a second longer than you mean to. The way he exhales slowly. The way his shoulders finally drop, just a fraction, but enough. The way the house—this space—seems to pull something out of him that the rest of the world doesn’t allow for. And it hits you, quietly, and maybe it should’ve come earlier, but the conclusion is the same. He isn’t just stressed, he’s scared. Not of losing games, not really, though that really sucks. But of losing control. Of letting something slip—on the ice, at home, in himself. Of not being able to hold all the pieces in the same way he’s used to. And of needing something he’d already decided he can’t afford.

_______________________

Friday is a school event. Not a big one—just one of those “family reading afternoons” where parents show up for twenty minutes to read with their kids, eat stale donuts and drink lukewarm coffee, and smile politely at teachers.

Since you’d found the flier in Cato’s backpack, he’s been talking your ear off about it, asking if you’d come.

And when Clara learned it was on a Friday—which means no preschool—she latched onto the begging too.

You were planning to go regardless. It obviously mattered to Cato, and to Clara. And Gabe had a practice scheduled for the day, so you knew he probably wouldn’t make it. Cato knew it too; he was trying not to care. Clara didn’t ask once if Dad was coming too. 

You show up anyway. Clara sits in your lap, book open, small finger tracing over the words lining the bottom of the pages—the ones she doesn’t know yet. Cato sits close against your side, calmer than usual, leaning into you and pretending he’s too old for it but still listening. Charlotte is crawling on the carpet in front of you, entertaining herself. 

You read slowly, letting them turn the pages and point out pictures.

For a moment, it feels peaceful. Normal. Then you hear it. The ripple. The shift in the room. The way the adults turn their heads in the direction of the door. A familiar presence walking into a space.

You look up.

Gabe’s standing just inside the classroom door, beside the cubbies. Still in compression gear—tight black shirt and joggers with a tiny avalanche logo stitched by the pocket. Hair damp at the edges, with sweat or water you don’t know, sticking to his temples. One hand on the frame like he paused before stepping inside, unsure if he is interrupting. 

The minute Cato spots him lingering in the doorway, his entire face lights up. “Dad!”

The teacher smiles. 

“Oh!” She says warmly. “We weren’t sure you’d be able to make it.”

You don’t miss the way her gaze dips down to his mouth before looking away quickly, or the way her eyes linger on his broad frame as he walks into the room. You do look away before you can be caught staring at the way the teacher stares at him.

Gabe nods once, stepping closer. “Schedule changed.”

His eyes find Cato—though he could be more accurately described as a blur rushing at him at Mach speed. Then Clara. Then you. His gaze on you lingers—but only for a beat. But it was definitely there. Present. Grounded. Like it steadied the room for him the same way it did for you.

He crouches down in front of Cato, letting him shove a new book into his hands immediately.

“Read,” Cato demands.

Gabe blinks at his son once, then huffs out a breath that sounds a lot like a laugh.

“Bossy,” he murmurs.

Cato grins, delighted. “Yes.”

Clara leans into his shoulder cautiously, then settles, finally comfortable, while Cato settles himself against his dad's other side. Charlotte—who’d been too busy entertaining herself- finally noticed Gabe and reached for him at once.

He lifts her into his lap without really thinking about it. 

Book in hand.

Kids settled on/around him.

And for the first time in days, he looks…here. Not halfway gone or tight with pressure. Just present. 

The wave of relief the sight sends through you is enough to make your chest ache.

Once the event starts winding down, families start filtering out of the classroom. Parents litter the hallway in clusters, chatting with each other, akin to the way they usually do at school pickup. Kids run in circles around the adults, noise levels steadily rising as they get more riled up by their friends. 

Cato had dragged Gabe over to the class bulletin board, showing him all the artwork he’d done over the past week. 

Clara is tucked against your side, holding onto your sleeve.

Charlotte, comfortably nestled in her dad's arms, looks at you from across the classroom before snuggling in further.

You’re gathering your things when Jordan approaches you again—Miles’ dad, polite smile, a much more careful distance this time. 

“Hey,” he says to you. “Just wanted to make sure—are we still on for a park day this weekend? Miles keeps asking me.”

You nod. “Yeah, if that’s what Gabe told you, it should be fine.”

Gabe steps over from the bulletin board in your direction. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel the shift. “I’ll handle it. I already confirmed with you, Jordan. We’ll see you Sunday at 10.”

Jordan blinks, then laughs lightly in a way that sounds nervous. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” He nods at you apologetically and steps away.

The moment Jordan leaves, you turn your focus to Gabe.

He’s already watching you. Jaw tight. Shoulders set. 

The soft presence from inside the classroom is now long gone, replaced with something sharper. 

Protective.

Too sharp.

When you speak, you make sure to keep your voice low and tone calm. “It’s just a playdate, Gabe.”

“I know,” he says.

But his tone doesn’t match the words.

You hold his gaze, not flinching at the way his eyes bore into yours. 

“Then why—”

He cuts you off. “I said I’ll handle that.”

The edge when he speaks makes Clara flinch beside you and tuck her face further into your sleeve. 

Your chest tightens at the sight. Because now, it’s not just tension between the two of you. And now it’s starting to affect the kids.

“Okay,” you say, tone softening instinctively. “We can talk later.”

Gabe’s eyes flick to Clara, then to Cato, who’s still lamenting about the lunchtime drama, then back to you. For a second, there’s a shift in his expression—maybe regret—then the captain mask snaps back into place.

“Yeah,” he says. “Later.”

On the ride home, the car is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful. Cato regales everyone with more tales of his school day. Clara is clutching onto the hand she demanded you stretch behind your seat. Charlotte is snoozing away in her car seat. And you’re sitting in the passenger seat, staring at the window—like you’re in some sort of music video montage—feeling the tension in the car taking up space like it’s another living, breathing thing. 

Because this whole thing isn’t about Jordan. 

It’s about control. 

And it’s slipping.

The tension doesn’t explode. That would’ve been so much easier. 

Clean. 

Contained.

Something you’d be able to point to and say that’s the moment it all went wrong.

Instead, it follows you. Quiet. Persistent. Like something that had settled in and refused to leave without being acknowledged.

By the time you’re back at the house, Cato hasn’t stopped talking once. And he continues with his tales as he runs inside, kicking his shoes off and hurrying to the living room—most likely to set up a drill.

Clara stays close to you. Not unusually so, but closer than she’d been earlier. Her hand brushes against your sleeve and arm more often, her shoulder leaning into your side whenever she passes you in a room.

Charlotte toddles between you and him with small, unsteady steps, drawn in both directions. She reaches for him every time he passes her, then twists back in your direction only seconds later, like she can’t quite settle on where the steadiness is.

Gabe moves through the routine the best he can, erring on the side of normalcy so much so that it feels fake—forced. Shoes off. Keys down. Jackets hung. Charlotte picked up every single time she reached for him. 

All of the motions are automatic. All of them are correct. But something has shifted. The warmth from the classroom—the brief, real presence—already faded. Replaced by something tighter, more controlled.

Dinner is normal in the same way the routine is, so normal that it almost feels forced.

Sitting around the table, Cato regales you all with the same story, this time with exaggerated sound effects and hand gestures.

“You should’ve seen it,” he says halfway through chewing. “It was like—” his arms gesticulating something that doesn’t resemble anything you’ve ever seen before.

“You were reading,” you remind him. “And we don’t talk with our mouths full buddy.”

He nods. 

“I was winning story time,” he corrects you.

Clara asks for more milk in a soft voice, eyes flicking between you and Gabe like she’s trying to track something she doesn’t have a name for yet.

Charlotte drops her spoon. Laughs when you pick it up. Drops it again. Laughs even harder when you pick it up again.

Gabe engages when they pull him in. Answers Cato’s questions. Smiles—real enough—when Clara leans into his side, pressing a brief kiss to her hair without thinking. But every time his attention drifts, it lands back on you. And every time your eyes meet, something in his expression tightens. Just slightly. Like a muscle bracing, preparing for an impact that hadn’t come yet.

You don’t bring it up.

Not here, at the table with the kids watching, absorbing more than they understand. 

But the silence between you isn’t empty.

It’s heavy.

Waiting.

Full of all the things you haven’t said.

After bedtime, the house exhales. The shift is immediate. 

Noise gone. 

Lights dimmed. 

The kind of quiet that amplifies everything x100. 

You move through the kitchen slowly, cleaning up the remnants of a day you kinda wish would just end. 

Stacking dishes. 

Rinsing plates. 

Loading the dishwasher with careful, practiced motions. The easy rhythm helps to soothe you, giving your hands something to do while your mind stays too full.

Footsteps come down the hallway, slow, unhurried. He stops just inside the kitchen. You feel his presence before you even turn. The weight of him standing there is heavy in the silence. For a second, neither of you speaks, then you dry your hands and turn to fully face him.

“We should talk,” you say, voice calm. Gentle. Steady enough that it really doesn’t leave room to avoid it.

His jaw ticks.

“About what?”

The words are defensive. Not sharp. But guarded—more than he usually is with you.

You hold his gaze. 

“About earlier. At the school.”

He leans back against the counter, arms crossing automatically, his body settling into the position before his mind has even decided to.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Holding your tongue, you restrain yourself from scoffing. There’s no way that you’re going to let him shut you down like that. That’s definitely not the end of the discussion.

“You stepped in like I was doing something wrong, Gabe.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You really didn’t have to.”

A flicker of irritation paints his features.

“You weren’t doing anything wrong.”

You tilt your head. “Then why did it feel like that?”

Silence settles between you. It stretches just long enough to matter.

His eyes drop briefly—just a flick—then come back to you.

“I just don’t want the other parents bothering you,” he says.

The answer comes too quickly. Too clean. Like he’d had the excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue since the afternoon.

“Well, that’s part of the job, Gabe,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Playdates. School events. Talking to people. We talked about this all when you were hiring me. And I really don’t think you want me just handing out your phone number to all the parents at school.”

“I’ll handle the coordination. Like I said before.”

There it is again.

The same line as before. This time, it lands differently. Before, it sounded supportive; now, it just sounds like a means of control.

You take a slow breath. “That’s not really the issue.”

His shoulders tense.

“Then what is?”

You hesitate for a second. Not because you don’t know how to answer him, but because saying out loud will make it real in a way that neither of you can ignore anymore.

“It feels like you don’t want anyone talking to me,” you say carefully.

The shift in him is immediate. Subtle but sharp.

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s how it came across.”

His jaw flexes.

“They don’t need your number.”

“He wasn’t asking for my number, certainly not after last time.”

“That guy’s always around you.”

The words come out faster this time. Sharper. A lot less controlled. The room stills around them.

There it is. 

Not logistics.

Not professionalism.

Something else.

You keep your voice even, trying not to take offence. “He’s Cato’s friends dad.”

“I know who he is.”

“Then you know it’s harmless.”

A silence settles between you again, but this time, it’s not empty. It’s full of something he isn’t saying.

His gaze holds yours. Too steady. Too intense.

“You don’t have to be that friendly,” he says finally.

And that—that crosses the line. You force yourself to keep your mouth closed at the insinuation. It’s not loud or explosive, but it’s unmistakable. He’s stopped making about the job or logistics or any of the number of rational things it could be about. Now it’s about you. About what you do. About how you act. About who you’re allowed to be in spaces that aren’t his.

You straighten slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough to ground yourself.

“I’m polite to the parents,” you say. “Because I take care of your kids.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t tell me how friendly I’m allowed to be with people outside of this household.”

He stiffens again. “I’m not trying to do that.”

“Well, it’s happening anyways.”

The tension in the kitchen shifts. Not louder. Heavier. 

Gabe pushed off the counter, pacing once—two steps forward, two steps back—before stopping again, the movement solving nothing. 

“This is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear it.

You frown.

“What does that mean?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, the control slipping just enough to show frustration underneath as he tugs on the already messy strands.

“It means things are getting…” he exhales sharply before forcing the last word out. “Complicated.”

The words hang in the air between you.

Too vague.

Too loaded.

Your stomach drops slightly at the words and at the look on his face. “Complicated how?”

His eyes meet yours. And for a second, just a second, the truth is there. Clear. Unfiltered. Too close. Something unspoken but undeniable. Then the wall goes back up. Fast.

“I can’t have distractions right now,” he says.

The sentence lands so much harder this time. Not cause the words are new—he’s already said them to you before—but because of the way he says them. Flat. Final. Controlled. Like the decisions already made. And you’re just another thing to manage, something that needs to be kept in place.

Your body stills at that.

“I’m not a distraction,” you say quietly, voice wavering with undisguised anger.

“I didn’t say that you are.”

“You literally just did.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Gabe?”

It’s just silence. A real silence this time. Because there is not a single version of the truth he’d be able to say out loud without breaking something. Because the distraction isn’t the job. It’s not the house. Or the kids. It’s this. 

The way the air changes when you’re in the same room. 

The way his focus slips for a half second when someone else speaks to you.

The way he notices things he definitely shouldn’t be noticing.

The way the line between you has already been blurred, and the way that neither of you stopped it.

But instead of saying any of that, he steps back. Emotionally first, then physically.

“I need things to stay professional,” he says.

And there it is. Like a reset button to be pressed. The line, redrawn. Clear. Sharp. Deliberate.

Every single thing that had shifted between you and Gabe over these past weeks—the quiet conversations and the late nights and the easy rhythm of the house and the way he’d started to look at you like you belonged in it—all pushed back behind something colder. Safer. 

You nod once. Professional. Controlled.

“Okay.”

The word comes out steady and even; you’re not even really sure how you managed that.

He nods too. A small movement. Almost relief. Or maybe just an acknowledgment that the conversation is reaching its end. 

Neither of you moves. But the kitchen feels bigger now. Like, there’s too much space between you.

Finally, he speaks again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were doing something wrong.”

The apology is careful. Measured. But it doesn’t undo anything. Because he didn’t take any of it back, and he didn’t step forward again.

You give a small nod and take a step back, putting more space between you. “I understand.”

This time, you mean something different by it.

Turning back to the sink, you pick up a glass that doesn’t need rinsing, but you let the water run anyway. 

The conversation is done.

He stays in the kitchen for a little longer. You can feel it. Hovering like he might say something else. Like he wants to say something else, something just sitting there on the tip of his tongue. Then, nothing. Footsteps fading as they get further away. He walks away. Upstairs. Out of sight, but unfortunately, not out of mind.

The house feels different as you get ready for bed. Not in the way things look, it all looks the same. Not in the routine, it went the same as it always does. But in the space between moments. The line is back. Clear. Intentional. Like it’d been drawn in Sharpie this time. But this time, it’s not just about professionalism, it’s about protection. For him. From you. From whatever has been building without either of you naming it. 

Standing there at the sink, staring into the dark backyard at the night sky, hands running under water that no longer feels warm, you come to a realization that you really don’t want to. 

You can’t say with certainty which one of you the distance is actually protecting.

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