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A picture comes through.

Darcy is sitting in the middle of the kitchen island beside one of the grocery bags, looking like an angry Victorian child posing for a portrait.

Baby Becks: Look at that face.

Me: Get him off the counter.

Baby Backs: He lives here too.

I stop.

Lives here.

Two words shouldn’t do anything. But, they do. I glance out the window again. Temporary, I remind myself. Laney is staying until she finds somewhere she’d rather be.

That’s the deal.

My phone buzzes again.

Baby Becks: Also, he says thank you for the salmon.

The fuck?

Me: That’s mine.

Baby Becks: Not anymore.

I shake my head.

Across the aisle, Jax is watching me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m starting to hate that word.” His grin widens.

I flip him off and go back to my phone… waiting. For what? I don’t really know.

The first regular-season game always feels different.

Preseason gets you close. Opening night flips the switch.

The arena in Lauderdale is so loud I feel the bass from the pregame music vibrate through my skates as I circle our end. Cold air burns against the back of my throat. The ice is clean beneath my blades, smooth and hard, and the familiar smell of sharpened steel, sweat, and fresh ice settles the tension inside me.

This is the part I know. I tap my stick against the ice and glance down the bench. Deacon’s knee is bouncing. Rookie’s trying to hide his anxiety. Badly.

I lean over the boards. “Deacon.”

His head turns. “Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Not like a normal fucking person.”

Whylde laughs beside him. “Leave him alone, Cap. Maybe he’s trying to pass out before puck drop.”