Page 153 of Slapshot Baby

"You're knitting based on hand placement?"

"I'm knitting based on thirty-five years of watching other women and my experience."

"There’s nothing to share. If Ava had something to tell me, she'd tell me."

"Would she?"

The question makes me tense up. I roll my neck, feel the tendons pull.

"Yes, she would." My voice comes out hard even though I don’t fully believe what I just said.

"Have you thought about what comes next for you two? Beyond the boyfriend and girlfriend stage?"

"I've thought about a lot of things. None of them involve baby booties."

She laughs, warm and knowing, the warm, knowing laugh she uses when she's already decided she's right.

"Okay, sweetheart. I'll drop it."

"Appreciated."

"But Kai? Ask her."

The call ends. I stand in my kitchen holding a mug of coffee that's gone lukewarm.

My mother sees pregnancy in every woman under forty who sits in her kitchen. She started knitting a blanket for our neighbor last spring. This is who she is.

But the image lodges behind my ribs. Ava's hand on her belly. The fast pullback. The exhaustion that isn't work.

I wonder if she’s truly pregnant.

No, she’s not.

We’ve been careful. We use protection every time.

I drink the cold coffee in two swallows and shove the thought deep in my mind.

Time to focus on practice. So I get ready and drive to the facility.

The facility is loud when I hit the ice.

Wyatt is already doing crossovers at full speed near the blue line, his copper hair escaping his helmet from separate angles. Theo stretches by the boards, so massive he makes the dasher look like it was built for a peewee rink.

I hit the ice hard.

Skating drills first, then transition work. My edges bite clean.

Every crossover is tight, every pivot sharp enough that the ice sprays in a line instead of a cloud. Every read I make is a half-second ahead of where it needs to be.

The scrimmage runs five-on-five, full contact. I win the opening faceoff clean, drive wide, pull two defenders with me before feeding Easton in the slot. His one-timer beats the goalie before the blocker even moves.

I skate back to center, breathing hard but controlled. My legs burn in the way that means they're working, not failing.

Brennan watches from behind the glass with his arms folded, expression flat. He makes a note on his clipboard and doesn't look up.

I run more shifts, win every draw, strip a defenseman on the backcheck and turn it into a breakaway I bury top corner, the crossbar singing behind the puck.

Wyatt pulls alongside me during a line change.