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My eyes linger on the small crowd of girls huddled around Casey and their other coach.

Each little person stares up at them, listening to every single word, soaking up all the advice before heading out there.

Sutton and her team have got a game. From what I’ve heard, it’s against their closest rivals. But, and I quote, “Sutton isn’t worried.”

I shake my head as I imagine her saying those exact words.

I’m pretty sure she could be about to go out there against the entire team, and she’d still be saying that.

That kid doesn’t seem fazed by a single thing.

It’s hard to remember what that was like now. Being that young and innocent. Thinking that hockey was the only important thing in the world and having a one-track mind.

It’s how Huxley and Ryker should be.

But they’ve been through too much to have that cloud of innocence around them.

Sure, they’re obsessed with hockey just like Sutton is. But…it’s different.

Sutton has stars in her eyes. My brothers? Theirs are clouded by grief and pain.

My chest tightens as I think of them. They had a game this morning as well.

They won. I spoke to Huxley before I left the house to come here. He proudly described his winning goal and that Ryker was the one who got the assist. He was proud of himself, sure. But he was happier for Ryker, who’s been struggling this season.

I wish I could have been there to see their game. It’s been far too long since I saw them play.

I’m dragged out of my thoughts when a loud shout fills the air and Sutton’s team moves.

Six of them take to the ice, Sutton front and center, of course, before their opponents join them, having had their own pep talk.

I watch in amusement as Sutton tries to stare down the other center.

“She’s terrifying. Fletch, you could learn a thing or two from this,” I tease our captain, who’s sitting behind me.

“I already have, don’t worry,” he deadpans, sending a ripple of laughter through our group.

I kinda expected just a couple of the guys to come to this game, but there are loads of us. Not quite the full roster, but a good chunk of it, all here to support a girls’ under-ten game.

I can only imagine how Sutton feels about that.

Sure, I had an NHL player father and uncle when I was growing up. For a while there, I idolized both of them. I followed their teams religiously, and I’d have given anything for them and their teammates to come and watch one of my games.

My dad never cared enough, though. Even if he was home and didn’t have a game, Mom was always the one in the stands watching me. I want to say that I’m relieved my brothers are experiencing that a little differently than I am, but it’s nowhere near a consolation prize. Not when we all know he doesn’t actually want to be there.

The whistle blows, and the game starts.

Just like I expected, Sutton wins the faceoff and she’s off, shooting the puck over to her left winger before demanding it right back the second she has an inch of space.

Clearly, knowing better than to ignore her, the puck ends up back on Sutton’s stick in a beautiful pass and then⁠—

“Yes.”

“Goal.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

“That’s my girl.”