Breathe With Me By Becka Mack - 32

O NE THING ABOUT ME? I know exactly who I am, and I own it proudly.

Sometimes—especially at this time of year, during the Stanley Cup Finals—they call us WAGs. Wives and girlfriends. But we know that’s not the official title. That WAGs is too simple to fully encompass all that we are, all that we’ve fought for, all that we strive to be.

Every day of the year, I’m proud of the woman who went from knowing nothing about a sport played on frozen water with knives strapped to hideous, smelly boots of some sort, to the woman slapping her hands against the plexiglass, shouting obscenities at the other team, at the refs when they forget what sport they’re officiating, all while wearing my husband’s number on my back, and, if I’m lucky, his handprint on my ass.

My name is Cara Nicole Brodie, and I am proud to be a puck slut.

“Hey, ref! You wanna screw my boys, you better take them for dinner first!” I point aggressively at my eyes, then jab them toward the referee in question, the one who keeps conveniently missing every important infraction Tampa’s intent on making. This one happens to be a missed offside, a play that should’ve been blown dead as soon as their left-winger crossed the blue line into our end an entire five feet ahead of the centerman with the puck.

“Yeah!” Abel screams, jumping up and down at my side. He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in his custom embroidered denim jacket, Brodie on his back above Emmett’s number. “And my Emmett, he-he… he likes steak and mashed taters!”

“You tell him!” I ruffle his hair, watching the way Emmett grins, dropping his shaking head as he glides to the bench when the play is finally stopped after Adam catches the puck and decides to hold on to it, giving his team a well-deserved break. They’re playing incredibly, all but standing on their heads for game six of the Stanley Cup Finals, but one of the officials has decided, apparently, that he wants to cry on TV today, video evidence that will never, ever be deleted from the internet. I assume so, anyway, because he’s either got a clear preference for Tampa, or all his money riding on them, based on the number of calls against them he’s apparently “not seen,” and he’s willing to risk me handing him his ass over his inability to do his job properly.

We’re in the final two minutes of the second period, and we’re up by one, a single goal scored by Jaxon just moments after he jumped out of the penalty box, finished serving a two-minute penalty for a bullshit roughing call, even though he wasn’t the one doing the roughing.

The thing is, we can take this tonight. Bring home the Stanley Cup for the third time in the last four years. It’s a best-of-seven series, and we’re leading it 3–2. If we win tonight, the Cup is ours. But if we lose? If we lose, we have one more chance to take it, two days from now in Tampa. Tonight isn’t the be-all and end-all, but these boys of ours love to play like it is. So summer vacation with my two favorite people can start two days earlier , is what Emmett said to the newscaster who asked him, before he stepped on the ice, why it was important for them to take charge tonight. I swear to fuck, the man knows just what to say to ensure I’ll be dropping to my knees for him tonight.

Emmett hops back onto the ice with forty seconds left in the period. Garrett steals the puck off a defenseman before passing it up the ice to Carter, who soars toward Tampa’s end.

“Right here, baby!” Emmett shouts, and Carter sends the puck right through the legs of a defenseman. Before Emmett can grab it, Tampa’s right-winger lifts his stick, hooks it around Emmett’s waist, and tugs, yanking him backward, sending him sprawling across the ice on his belly.

Olivia leaps to her feet, slapping her hands against the glass. “ Hooking! That’s fucking hooking! ” She tosses a feral, wide-eyed look over her shoulder at the kids, and covers baby Brodie’s ears, even though he’s fast asleep on her chest. “Sorry! Earmuffs!”

Ireland crushes a handful of popcorn in each of her teensy, powerful fists, baring her teeth. “He huwt my unca Em!”

“Hey, ref! Wanna borrow my phone?” I scream as Emmett pulls himself to his feet, flying after Carter and Garrett, the three of them soaring down the ice to protect Adam as the defensemen are caught in the middle of a line change. “Maybe then you’ll finally make a f—”

“ Phone call! ” Abel finishes for me, slapping his teensy hands on the plexiglass, grinning up at me.

“So close, buddy. So close. Just a call.” Fucking call was what I was gonna say, but it is what it is.

“Oh. Hey, ref! Wanna borrow my Cara’s phone? You can finally make a call!”

I grin, holding my fist up to Abel, winking when he knocks it with his. “Nailed it.”

Hank jabs the end of his cane against the plexiglass. “I could call this game better than you are!”

Jennie cups her hands around her mouth. “The unemployment office can help you with your resume! You’re gonna be looking for a new job after tonight! ”

“Your mother would be very disappointed in you right now!”

We all pause, turning slowly to look at Rosie, cheeks flushed, covering up Iris’s ears as she bounces her on her chest, like she doesn’t want her four-month-old baby to think those words were directed at her.

“I’ve never been very good at insults,” she explains softly.

“Oh, honey.” I reach out, squeezing her hand gently. “We know.”

“I wanted to be involved.”

I smile. “Of course.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but her eyes widen over my shoulder. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! ”

I follow her gaze back to the ice. Jaxon is hopping off the bench and over the boards, his partner right behind him. The boys are just a step too far behind Tampa after their head start, and Adam is surrounded.

The arena isn’t silent. It’s filled with the angry screams of outraged fans who want justice, who want these Tampa players serving penalties for their actions, officials who are going to call the game fairly.

And when Tampa manages to slip the puck past Adam, just beneath his arm, three seconds before the period ends, it’s Jaxon’s gran of all people who starts the chant that has every fan climbing to their feet, uniting some fifteen thousand people in blue and green.

“Refs, you suck! Refs, you suck! Refs, you suck!”

I stare down the row, taking in these people I’m here with, surrounded by. Olivia, Brodie strapped to her chest. Jennie, with Ireland on her shoulders. Holly, bouncing Hunter. Rosie, who’s handed off Iris to Bev, and Connor, who rides on Deacon’s shoulders, Adam’s parents. Hank, his hand tucked into Lily’s, Jaxon’s gran on his other side, the two of them in crocheted hockey vests for their favorite players. Lennon, snapping pictures, enjoying every moment and getting paid to do so, her family in the row behind us, with more of Jaxon’s family, Olivia’s, Garrett’s.

Maybe that’s why, as the boys file off the ice for a break before the last period, they don’t look as dejected as one might expect. Maybe that’s why they all pause at the door, the five of them looking up at us with a smile, like they’re taking it all in. Because they’re surrounded. With endless love, support, no matter what.

And I imagine that kind of feeling makes a person feel pretty unstoppable.

We make our way upstairs to use the suite bathrooms, because bypassing the overflowing lines is a privilege I’ll always humbly accept. The halls up here are filled with press, trying to find a celebrity or family member of a player to run a quick interview with between periods. They zone in on Deacon, always happy when he makes it to a game, because he’s not just Adam’s dad, but a retired NFL quarterback.

“Cara.” Abel releases my hand, stepping in front of the bathroom door. He looks up at me, brows raised. “I can go potty by myself, okay? Because I’m a big boy, okay?”

“Oh, really?” I cross my arms over my chest, smiling. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, because I’m almost four.” He holds up four fingers, then shrugs. “I guess I will not need you to take me potty anymore when I is four.” He steps forward, hand on my arm. “But don’t be sad, ’kay? I still need you for other stuff. I just need some privacy, ’cause I is a big boy now. That’s all.”

“Okay, big boy.” I push the door open, taking a quick peek around the bathroom to make sure it’s all clear before I gesture him inside. “I’ll wait right here. Holler if you need me.”

I pull out my phone while I wait, shooting off a text to Emmett first. It’s a video of me with the audio removed. I’m naked, but largely blurred by the water from the shower raining down on the glass. It’s hard to see, but if you’ve got a keen eye for details like my man does, you won’t miss me, one hand playing with my clit, the other with my boobs, while I’m bouncing on the suction cup dildo Emmett had made for me as part of our wedding gift. It’s a replica of his own cock.

Me: Bring that Cup home tonight and I’ll send you the version with sound so you can hear whose name I was moaning when I fucked myself.

Cackling to myself, I navigate to the team’s Instagram page. Lennon does the most amazing job with it. I’m not even just saying that because the most recent video, uploaded only five minutes ago, is a montage of me pounding on the glass while hurling insults at the other team and the refs, and perhaps a smidge of inappropriate gestures directed at my husband, like when I was eating my hot dog and took too big a bite, then licked the mayo off my lips in slow motion, while winking. And the title scrawled across that video?

Stanley Cup Finals

Game 6 vs Vancouver’s Fiercest WAG

2nd Period

She’s been making these for every home game this round, and apparently the internet really likes me. I mean, I knew that, but it’s nice that everyone else knows too, ya know?

I scroll through my feed, 99 percent of it game-related from various sports news outlets, and anything else Lennon catches on camera and graces the world with. I laugh at a video of the boys pregame, playing keep-up with a soccer ball. Garrett hoofs the ball into the rafters, which turns into Jaxon on Emmett’s shoulders with a hockey stick, trying to poke it free, which turns into Garrett on Carter’s shoulders doing the same because we can do it better , which turns into a chicken fight, sans the required pool, meanwhile Adam is setting up a ladder in the background, quietly scaling the rafters, and dislodging the soccer ball, which he then uses to bounce off Jaxon’s head in such a strategic way, it ricochets off and hits Garrett’s too.

10/10 , I comment on the video. Give your social media manager a raise. She never misses.

My phone pings, and I switch back to my messages, grinning as Emmett’s start piling up.

Emmett (sports, huge dick, exquisite taste in women, *tongue emoji*): Baby, we all know whose name you moan when you come. You’re sending me the audio even if we lose. Baby, send me the video, plz. Now. Firefly, the audio. Please??? *prayer emoji* Nah, that’s cool. For sure. Quick question though: you ever had a boner while wearing a jock? Guess what, it’s not fucking fun. You know what? I don’t need the audio. Gonna fuck you so hard tonight you’ll be singing in my ear for hours. That’ll be enough for me. Cara, baby, please. The audio. Now.

Me: Sorry babe. Gotta go!

Snickering to myself, I knock on the bathroom door. “You okay in there, Abes?”

“Yeah!” my sweet guy hollers back as I hear the toilet flush. “I was just poopin’!”

“Right on, dude.” I head back to Instagram, flipping mindlessly through more posts while I wait. There are a handful of pictures I’ve been tagged in today, with Abel always by my side, and I untag myself as I go. I get that as long as he’s with us at events like these, there will be pictures, but it bothers me to no end that people can’t respect that he’s a little boy, that they have no idea what the circumstances of his care are, and feel so comfortable posting his face online.

I move past another picture, then quickly flip back to it. Abel’s standing off to the side in it, on the verge of tears, while I have my hand over my stomach, looking a little like I’m going to vomit. He’d dropped his ice cream cone, hence the tears, and I’d told him he couldn’t have it despite Uncle Carter’s five-second rule, because he’d dropped it straight onto the ground, and somebody’s hair was smooshed into the blue and green ice cream, hence my extremely justified I’m gonna puke reaction. But the picture doesn’t show the ice cream. And the caption?

Are Emmett and Cara Brodie finally expecting? Cara arrived to the game tonight looking to be proudly sporting a visible baby bump, and it looks like their foster child is already getting shafted as the mom-to-be keeps him at arm’s length.

It’s a horrible caption for an equally horrible post. Sure, I’m pissed that a girl can’t have a fucking tummy these days without somebody feeling like they have the right or authority to comment on it, but insinuating that a baby could or would replace Abel is what disgusts me right down to my bones. It’s true that, beyond wanting to give Abel a place he felt safe, a place to call home during this time of his life, I longed to fill a space in my heart. It’s true that it might not have happened, that we might not have connected the way we did, if it weren’t for years of negative pregnancy tests. But it did happen. The negative tests, and bringing him home. Connections forged as we built a relationship, a new and healing kind of love formed when I wasn’t sure I deserved it, all because we found one more piece of our family.

Truthfully, though? It’s the comments. Comments from thoughtless, inconsiderate keyboard warriors.

She’s sooo pregnant. Look at that tummy!!!

Oh she’s got that first trimester morning sickness!!!

Wow she got big fast *surprised emoji*

I’m surprised they didn’t just pay someone to have the baby for them. Then she wouldn’t have to ruin her body. It was perfect before, now it’s gonna be saggy and gross. *sick emoji*

How long you think until they send the kid back??? Lol everyone’s thinking it!!!

I’d put her at 25 weeks. That’s a prominent belly!

She’s def prego, but probably only 10ish weeks. She’s tiny!

Baby where?? She’s so skinny, it’s gross. Gain some weight, please!

I feel like they only fostered him for publicity anyways.

There are those comments, and if I’ve learned anything in my years with Emmett, it’s that there always will be, because those types of people will always exist. But you know who else will always exist?

@oliviabeckett: FAKE NEWS!!!!! GET A LIFE.

@jennieandersen: @oliviabeckett I think you mean GET FUCKED

@oliviabeckett: @jennieandersen, thank you, autocorrect got me. GET FUCKED.

@jennieandersen: imagine being this unhappy with yourself lol embarrassing

@lennonriley: oh no 🙁 someone’s mommy didn’t hug them enough and it shows

@marvelousmittens: meow hiss scratch!

@rosielockwood: I hope you find peace and healing from whatever hurt you.

@rosielockwood: And therapy. Because you clearly need it.

@rosielockwood: Also, your parents/guardians/friends/loved ones would be incredibly disappointed with all of you.

“Cara! Guess what!” My head snaps up as the bathroom door opens, Abel adjusting his pants as he emerges. He wipes his wet hands on his pants and then holds them up, jazz fingers on full display as he wears the brightest, broadest grin. “I wiped my bum all by myself!”

“ What? You did? ” I grab him around the waist, hauling him up into my arms and spinning around. “You did it!” Hugging him to my chest, I close my eyes, breathing out the negative words, the people who mean nothing to me. That’s the only way to give space to all the right. The right words, the right people, the right support, the right kind of love. And as Abel clings to me and I to him, I breathe it in.

This is right.

Him in my arms is right.

This life… it’s all right.

“I’m so lucky to be your Cara,” I whisper in his ear, hugging him tight.

“And I’m so lucky to be your Abel,” he whispers back.

W E MAKE IT BACK TO our seats with seven minutes to spare before the start of the third period, only because Carter has been telling us for the last three days that something iconic and groundbreaking is happening at the five-minute mark. One look at the mini packs of Oreos everyone has in their hands, the blue-and-green packages with Carter’s face on them, tells me what I already knew: that Cart and I have different definitions of iconic.

I grab a pack of his limited-edition double-decker Oreo—chocolate banana cream pie—off the teenager stationed at the end of the row as we walk by, and Abel manages to snag himself four packages and a T-shirt with a picture of Carter holding up an Oreo on it. I’m happy to see they didn’t take his suggestion for the T-shirt slogan. The rest of us told him Oreo would never put CREAMPIED BY CARTER BECKETT on a T-shirt, the same way we told him they’d never allow him to name the flavor Carter’s Double Cream Pie . As usual, he had to ask anyway.

“Commercial?” I ask Olivia as I find my seat next to her, taking baby Hunter into my arms. “Hi, little man,” I coo, rubbing the tip of my nose against his as he giggles, slapping his hands all around. “Is your silly dada debuting his big Oreo commercial today?”

Olivia doesn’t have a chance to answer me before my phone pings, right along with the rest of the girls’. I shift Hunter to my side, fishing my phone out of my pocket.

Carter: Everyone ready???

Me: Shouldn’t we be asking you that?

Adam: *sigh* he’s not talking about the game

Jaxon: Somebody PLEASE shut him up already I can’t TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!!

Emmett: Literally if nobody could entertain him, that’d be great.

Garrett: The last time I EVER get ANYONE a thoughtful gift.

Carter: ya, it’s my big day. my big debut. carter beckett, NHL captain, DILF extraordinaire, Oreo connoisseur, two-time Stanley cup champ, about to be three, and after today? actor.

Olivia sighs the sigh of all sighs, rubbing what I assume is stress or sheer exhaustion—probably both—from the spot between her brows. “I can’t wait for them to finally air this Oreo commercial. He hasn’t let anyone see it, even me, meanwhile I catch him watching it on his phone at least three times a day, chuckling at it, whispering nailed it to himself.”

“I’ve seen it,” Hank offers, waggling his brows right along with his smug smile. “Guess I’m special.”

Olivia gives him a look, all parts unimpressed. It softens when her eyes drift over him, the baseball hat that says CARTER BECKETT’S #1 FAN , the crocheted vest Jaxon’s gran made for him with Carter’s number on the back and a patch that says HOCKEY’S FAVORITE GRANDPA . She smiles, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. Do you know what I caught him searching last night? The night before the game, what could be the Stanley Cup Final, when the captain of the team should be hyperfocused, my husband was asking Google when Oscar nominees would be chosen and notified.” She looks at us with wide eyes, and I think it’s adorable she manages to still be surprised by him after all this time. “I said, ‘Carter, baby, there are no Oscars for commercials.’ Do you know what he said? Do you?” She leans closer, as if saying these next words aloud is criminal. “He looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘After they see this performance, there will be.’ ”

I don’t even attempt to swallow my snort, and neither does anyone else.

Hank shrugs, palms up. “He’s a natural, I’m telling you. It’s a cinematic masterpiece.”

“Hank is single-handedly fueling Carter’s chaos,” Lennon says as she snaps a picture of him holding up his Oreo packet.

“He’s his hype man,” Rosie offers.

“He’s enabling him,” Jennie corrects. “And one thing Carter does not need to be?”

“ Enabled. ” Olivia points at Jennie. “You always have my back. I married the wrong Beckett sibling.”

Before we can all confirm this, the players from both teams quietly file onto their benches, all except Carter.

Emmett catches my eye from behind the plexiglass, winking at me. He points at Abel. “Want me to score you a goal, big man?”

Abel grins. “But it’s okay if you don’t too. You can’t score every time. I will always love you, no matter what .”

I watch Emmett melt in real time, his smile all kinds of soft, like the gooey puddle of my heart. “I’ll always love you too. No matter what.”

Abel gives him two thumbs up. “Hey, Emmett, guess what?” he whisper-yells. He cups his hands around his mouth and presses himself into the glass. “I went poop all by myself!”

Emmett throws his arms in the air. “Ehhh! My man!”

The flash of a camera lights our bubble, and Lennon sniffles. “Who would’ve thought a conversation about poop could be such a magical moment?”

Suddenly, the lights in the arena dim. Spotlights swirl slowly over the ice, smoke billowing from the machines tucked in each corner of the rink. The crowd is reduced to silence, eerie and palpable, anticipation sizzling in the air like electricity.

The four-sided jumbotron that hangs over center ice continues counting down to the beginning of the third period, but as it crawls closer and closer to the five-minute mark, it appears to start short-circuiting, the power cutting in and out. Then, the timer hits five, and it stops.

“Oh, God,” Olivia mumbles.

“The drama,” I whisper.

“The fucking drama. ”

Holly leans toward us. “He didn’t get it from me.” But I don’t need Maury Povich and a lie detector test to determine that that was a lie—the giddy excitement on her face says it all.

The speakers and screen fill with static, the picture cutting in and out. Suddenly, a video clip fills the jumbotron, one of those old home videos with the date in the corner. This one says it was filmed twenty-seven years ago. Which puts the little boy on the screen at four years old.

“Carter. Carter, look at Mama.”

The little boy sitting at the old wooden table looks up from what he’s doing. He grins at the camera, pulling in a set of deep, heart-stopping dimples that earn an aww from this massive crowd. “ What, Mama? I’m twistin’ my Oreos .”

A young Holly Beckett snickers from behind the video camera, and the present-day mama chokes out a sob from my left. “ It’s a special day today. You’re four years old. ”

“ I know ,” he says simply. “ And it’s Valentine’s Day. You’re my Valentine, right, Mama? ”

“ Always ,” she says softly, and I am not fucking crying. Nobody is. That’s ridiculous. “ What do you want to be when you grow up? ”

A deep laugh booms from off camera, and then a large man who looks strikingly like Carter today steps up behind the little boy and his cookies. He dips his mouth to Carter’s ear. “ Your mama’s afraid you’re growing up too fast. ”

“ He is, Theo ,” Holly cries.

“ He is not. ” Theo, Carter and Jennie’s late father, nabs one of Carter’s cookies. “ He’s still learning how to twist his Oreos apart. ”

Carter shakes his head, grabbing his cookie back. “ Am not, Dada! I know how to twist my Oreos! ” He smiles up at his mom. “ And besides, that’s an easy question. I know what I wanna be when I get big. ”

“ Oh yeah? ” Theo ruffles his hair. “ What’s that, buddy? ”

“ The best big brother ever,” he says, and Jennie chokes out a laugh as the camera flips down to show Holly’s bump. “ And I wanna be kind. And brave. And I wanna… I wanna make people laugh. And, oh! A hockey player. Yeah, I’m gonna be a hockey player, and I’m gonna be so big, and so fast, and I’ll score more goals than Wayne Gretzky. ”

Holly laughs. “ I think you could do all that if you set your mind to it. I think you can do anything. ”

His eyes light, vibrant and green and full of mischief. “ Anything? ”

Holly nods. “ Anything. ”

He twists an Oreo apart, dunking the icing-free half in milk while he licks the icing on the other half, humming like he’s deep in thought. “ If I can do anything… then I think, one day… I’ll make my own Oreo cookies. ”

The video goes black, and I’m still not crying, and I can tell, easily, from the sounds around me, that everyone else is also definitely not crying.

A picture fills the screen next, a screenshot of a post from Carter’s Instagram, one of his Oreo creations and a simple plea for Oreo to sponsor him. Another post comes next, then another, each one faster than the last, until the screen is filled with one grown man’s unhinged love for a simple cookie.

The feed cuts again, and I really have to hand it to Hank—or maybe Oreo’s marketing team—because he was right. The static really adds to the cinematic spectacle of it all.

A new video fills the screen, Carter soaring down the ice in the middle of a game, a voiceover from a sportscaster pouring out the speakers.

“Carter Beckett, Vancouver’s hometown hockey hero, making his NHL debut, hoping he can put one in the net tonight. I gotta say, he’s fast, he’s big, but does he have what it—oh, there he goes! Steals the puck with ease, and he shoots, he—”

“ Scooores! ” The video changes promptly to Carter, sitting at a kitchen table, a glass of milk and a stack of Oreos at his side as he drops an entire cookie in his mouth.

The arena erupts with laughter as the video switches back to footage of Carter on the ice.

“And here comes Beckett, flying out of the penalty box. Oh, did you see that! Hammered number nine into the boards, shakes it right off, and now he’s… yes, he’s on a breakaway. He’s got it, a clear path. He winds up, and where’s that puck going? Going, going…”

“ Gone! ” Another cookie disappears as Carter tosses his head back, chomping it out of midair, and then the video is right back to him on the ice, a game I remember, only a week before Emmett and I got married.

“He’s got his good luck charm in the audience tonight, folks. Beckett is unstoppable with that woman of his in the stands, isn’t he? If he can put one more in the net tonight, just one more… okay, here we go. Here we go, folks. Is this history in the making? If Beckett can do this, if he can sink this puck, then he’s bringing home the—”

“ Stanley Cup! ” Carter dunks an Oreo into the very real, very large Stanley Cup, the one sitting on the table in front of him, filled to the brim with milk. Ireland is at his side now, wearing his jersey, inciting another aww from tonight’s crowd as the little lady herself jumps up and down, slapping the plexiglass.

“Dat me! Dat me and Daddy!”

“ Like this, baby ,” Carter tells her on the video, dunking another cookie before eating it, all while Ireland watches carefully.

“ Like dis? ” She dunks her cookie—and her entire fist, and up to her elbow—in the vat of milk, before shoving the sopping mess in her mouth.

Carter chuckles. “ Just like that, baby. You’re a natural. ”

The video flashes to Carter standing next to a giant Oreo, Ireland in his arms, and I’m sure the only time I’ve ever seen this man smile quite like this was the day Olivia said I do .

“My name is Carter Beckett—”

“And me is I-land Bucket—”

“And we’re Oreo’s biggest fans.”

The jumbotron goes black, the announcer’s request for everyone to get on their feet for the Vancouver Vipers captain lost to the chaos as the crowd goes wild, hollering for Carter.

Holly’s shrieking, whipping around one of the T-shirts with Carter’s face on it. “That’s my son! That’s my boy!”

“That’s my brother!” Jennie shouts as Carter glides onto the ice, stick in the air, proud grin plastered to his face as he takes his praise, knocking fists with his teammates and even the other team while they bang their sticks on the boards for him.

“Goddammit.” I sniffle, swatting at a stupid, stray tear. “That was…”

“A cinematic masterpiece,” Olivia breathes out, tears streaming down her face. She leaps to her feet, slapping her palms against the glass. “Somebody get my man an Oscar! You did it, baby!”

I choke out a laugh, my heart all kinds of warm as the boys embrace Carter, as he tells them, with all the gratitude in the world, thank you and I love you.

These boys are a rare breed. Nobody can convince me otherwise.

As the chaos winds down and the players take the ice, Emmett pauses and circles back to the boards, tapping the glass in front of Abel. He presses his gloved hand to his lips and blows him a kiss. “Put it in your pocket for later.”

Abel grins, catching the kiss and putting it in his pocket before he blows one right back. “Put it in your pocket for later.”

I don’t know what it is. Maybe there’s some sort of renewed energy in the air after that video. Maybe pigs can fly and the main official has decided he finally remembers how to do his job. I’m not sure, but the final period is the kind of hockey not a single person could possibly hate. It’s lightning fast and rough in all the best ways. It’s fair and heated, the kind of excitement that has you on the edge of your seat, pulling your hair, and two minutes after Carter puts us in the lead, Tampa ties it right back up. Before I know it, Tampa’s up 3–2, and the Vipers pile on top of Garrett when he manages to sink the puck in the net with three seconds to go, sending us into overtime.

“When do hockey players retire?” I drop my head to my damp hands, dragging them over my face as my knees bounce, six minutes down in overtime, and Emmett’s just finished his third shift. I don’t consider myself to be wound tight, but overtime when the Stanley Cup is on the line? I mean, I’m beautiful, smart, and strong, yes, but I’m only human. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this kind of stress. I found a gray hair this morning! Can you believe it? Gray! At my age!” I down my wine cooler before finding the M&M’s and Skittles I’ve been too stressed to eat, shoving a fistful in my mouth. “I’m not aging prematurely for a sport. ”

Rosie gnaws on the tip of her nail. “They’re all in agreement, right? When one retires, they all retire?” She pulls her nail from her mouth just to shove it back in there when the play starts again.

“You guys are a bunch of babies.” Jennie whips a Twizzler around. “This is fun. Getting your heart racing is good. Don’t— Oh, Jesus fuck, Garrett! ” She leaps to her feet, eyes wild as she watches Garrett climb to his feet after being checked into the boards by a defenseman. Hand over her heart, she heaves a sigh. “Scared the shit out of me.”

“Fuck yeah!” Lennon shrieks from behind her camera, snapping away as Jaxon pummels the same defenseman into the boards. “That’s my baby! Taking care of business!”

“Oh my God, this is so bad. This is so bad.” Olivia grips her distressed face, pulling her lower eyelids down. “Watching him play like this, when he’s so confident and in control and being a leader, it… it does things to me. Scary, scary things.”

I arch my brow. “Like what?”

“It gives the thoughts in my head a voice. And do you know what they say?” She leans closer, brown eyes wild with terror as she whispers, “ You could do it. You could handle one more baby. ”

I bark out a laugh, slapping a hand across her eyes and pulling her into my chest. “Shhh, Ollie. Don’t let the voices win.” But then Emmett leaps over the boards, rejoining the game, and I shove Olivia away as he pokes the puck free from Tampa, tossing it backward to Garrett. I grab Abel, standing him in front of me, clinging to him while he wraps his fingers around my forearms. “Oh God. Oh God. Ohhhh God.”

“He’s gonna score,” Abel says quietly, and I can hear the certainty in his voice, right there along with the anticipation. “My Emmett’s gonna score.”

My heart lodges itself in my throat as Garrett races up the right wing with the puck on the tip of his stick blade. His eyes move, cataloguing his options, and then he sends the puck across the ice to Carter, who soars up the middle, passing the puck back and forth with his stick before he spins around one defenseman, coming face-to-face with another before Tampa’s goalie. He pulls his stick back as if he’s going to shoot, and when he brings it forward, the goalie dives.

But he doesn’t shoot.

He cradles the puck against his stick, tosses it to Emmett, wide open on his left, and my man doesn’t hesitate.

His eyes zero in on that puck as it glides toward him.

He pulls his stick back.

Winds up.

And lets it fly.

Over the goalie’s shoulder.

Right into the net.

His arms go above his head, his stick tossed in the air behind him as he shrieks, and the team empties the bench, tackling him to the ice when they pile on top of him.

I think I’ve never in my life been more in love with him than when he finally drags himself to his feet, making his way over to us, pulling his gloves off so he can make a heart with his hands.

But two hours later, when he’s helping Abel brush his teeth before bed, and I’m sitting in the window in Abel’s room, watching an interview with Emmett on the ice, I find a way to fall a little bit harder.

“ How does it feel, Emmett, to be a three-time Stanley Cup champ? ” the interviewer asks him. “ Does it start to lose its shine after the first or second? ”

Emmett chuckles, one hand on his hip as he uses the other to push his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. “ Does it lose its shine? Nah, definitely not. Of course it never feels quite the same as the first time, but this time… man, I gotta tell ya. I don’t think anything in my life has prepared me for how this, winning here today, with the two people I love most here supporting me, would feel. ” His gaze drifts off screen, and he smiles a lopsided, lovesick smile before he looks back at the camera. “ The Stanley Cup is nice. But me? I’ve already won at life. ”

“Why you crying, Cara?” Abel’s footsteps patter against the floor as he dashes over to me, and I swipe my tears away, turning my phone off. “Is you hurt? Is you sad?”

I shake my head, rubbing my hands up and down his arms, smiling. “I’m not hurt or sad. I feel so much happiness it’s overflowing, I think. I feel… lucky. So lucky.”

“Me too,” he whispers, crawling into my lap. He lays his head on my shoulder and points to the space left in the window seat. “Emmett, can you sit with us?”

I look over my shoulder as Emmett shifts himself off the doorway, ambling toward us. He tips my chin, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek before he takes a seat with us.

“I’m tired,” Abel says on a yawn. “Too tired for books tonight.”

“We can just look at the stars for a few minutes,” I suggest, stroking his hair.

“And make wishes?”

“Mhmm.”

“What will you wish for?” he asks me quietly, looking up at me with hopeful eyes as he fidgets with the buttons on my pajama top. “I won’t tell no one, and if you say it quiet, I don’t think anyone else will hear.”

I smile softly, cupping his cheek as my thumb moves over the flush of his skin. “This moment right here, over and over.”

Abel grins, settling back against my chest. “That’s a nice wish. What would you wish for, Emmett?”

Emmett looks up at the stars for a moment before his gaze coasts down to me and Abel. “If you and Cara were the only stars in my sky, that would be enough for me.”

Abel yawns, fist curled under his chin as his eyes flutter closed. “I like that one too. I’ll always be one of your stars.”

He’s out just moments later, but Emmett and I sit there beneath the stars for another thirty minutes, soaking up the quiet, warm love, one we’ve been so lucky to find. Emmett takes him carefully from my arms, laying him down in bed where we kiss his forehead before turning for the door.

“Emmett? Cara?” his sleepy voice calls, stopping us. “How come Lily’s jacket said Daddy ? And Ireland’s, and Connor’s. Mine didn’t say Daddy .”

I pause, looking up at Emmett beneath the glow of the stars outside. “Well… Lily’s jacket said Daddy because Adam is her daddy. And Connor’s too. And Carter—”

“—is Ireland’s daddy?”

I nod. “Exactly.”

“Oh.” He’s quiet for so long, I think he’s fallen back to sleep. But then he speaks again, his words soft and raw, vulnerable. “Do I have a daddy?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” I move to his bed, sitting on the edge as Emmett crouches before him. “You have an Emmett.”

Abel gazes at Emmett with hooded eyes, reaching out to brush the stubble on his jaw. “My Emmett,” he murmurs. “And do I have a mommy?”

My throat squeezes as I take his hand, pressing a kiss to it. “You have your Catharine.”

“And I have my Cara?”

I smile, tears stinging my eyes. “You have your Cara.”

“Does anybody call you Mommy and Daddy?”

Emmett meets my gaze before shaking his head. “No.”

“If I called you that, would it make you feel special?”

“Oh, honey. You don’t need to call us Mommy or Daddy to make us feel special.”

Emmett cups his cheek, tilting Abel’s gaze to his. “You make us feel special every single day.”

“But what if I wanted to? One day?”

I think back on the training we did, the one that feels so long ago. A child calling their foster parents Mom or Dad should be the child’s choice only, and should never be forced on them. “If one day you wanted to.”

Abel thinks for a moment, then nods. “Okay,” he murmurs as his eyes close again, as he snuggles beneath the blankets.

Emmett twines his fingers through mine, and we tiptoe across the room. For the second time tonight, a little voice stops us in our tracks, right before we can close the door.

“I wished for you. When I wished on the stars tonight, I wished for you. Good night, Mommy. Good night, Daddy. I love you.”

And wow , what a fucking wild, wild thing it is to hear those words. Not because of the name, the single label I’ve spent so long yearning for. No.

Because of the boy who spoke them. Because of the trust he’s placed in us, the love he’s given to us so freely. Because there is nothing in this world that I want to be more than I want to be the safe space this little boy calls home. The arms he crawls into, the ear he lends his sleepy ramblings to, the star he wishes on.

He’s given me everything, a love I could never have dreamed of, a strength so different from the one I’d known, a version of myself I’m proud of, always, because I’ve learned, finally, how to give myself grace when I need it most. Patience, because things don’t always happen when you want them to, and trust that things will work out exactly as planned.

And if I could give him one thing, just one, it would be loving him just right. Because when done right, oh, man, love is such a powerful, crazy thing. When someone loves you right, they show you how to love yourself. They show you how to let other people love you, how to value yourself enough that you accept nothing less. The just right kind of love has the power to erase all the negative thoughts one by one, the labels we’ve slowly given meaning to. There’s no room for those thoughts to hold any real weight, because the just right kind of love whispers louder, until it’s impossible to ignore.

That’s what I want to give Abel, what I promise him every night beneath the stars over the next three days, while Mommy and Daddy become his new favorite words, and those stars above us wrap us in their glow, protecting us from the world outside.

But you can’t see the stars every night, and sometimes on those extra dark nights, that’s when you’re reminded that there’s no real protection from the world outside. That without the glow you’re used to, it’s easy to feel a little lost. That something so small, something so seemingly insignificant… it can knock your world off its axis in the blink of an eye.

I TRIP OVER THE EDGE of the rug in the dark, catching myself on the edge of our bed. “Ow, fuck. ” Clutching my injured foot, I roll onto the bed, wiggling into Emmett’s lap. “Help me,” I pout up at him.

He drops his smile to my mouth. “Not a star out there tonight. Can’t believe how dark it makes the sky. Hopefully the storm blows over soon.” He scoops me against his chest, carrying me into the bathroom, where he deposits me on the counter and readies my toothbrush for me. I spin toward the mirror, crossing my legs so I can brush my teeth while watching Emmett draw on the mirror. He starts with the stars, scattering them across the top of the mirror. Then, he adds the mountain, tall and vast. Next, he draws Abel, standing right there on the top, with me and Emmett flanking his sides, our hands linked. My favorite team , he scrawls beneath the picture, before he wraps one arm around my waist and drops his chin to my shoulder. “I love you, firefly.”

When we make it back to bed, I plug my phone into the charger, taking a moment to check my email. I scroll past most of them, but pause when I see one from Abel and Catharine’s social worker. Something like dread settles low in my belly, but I swallow down the irrational fear and open the email.

It’s short and to the point, and it never ceases to amaze how few words it takes to shatter someone’s world. Because after the pleasantries and the congratulations on Emmett’s recent win, comes just a small handful of words that manage to knock the air clean from my lungs.

Catharine is ready to meet to discuss the next steps in Abel’s placement plan.

And suddenly our future looks as dark and scary as this starless sky.