20. Aubrey

20

Aubrey

It’s almost noon, and I’m soaking up the solitude on our back porch, a rare moment of peace in the world of Ice. Luke's out like a light, and Sean's been snoozing like it's his new career path. Something's up with him, a mystery wrapped in a nap.

Just when I'm about to deep dive into my own theories—alien abduction? Secret agent mission gone awry?—Sean stumbles out like a man who's lost his map to the coffee pot. He’s sporting the sweatpants look that screams 'fashion by way of laundry day,' looking more ragged than a chew toy at a puppy party. He collapses next to me with all the elegance of a deflating balloon.

Eyeing him, he's giving off strong 'I've wrestled with a bear and the bear had a headache' vibes. Cutting through the morning fog, I go straight for the jugular. "Were you out on a bender last night?"

"Nope," he grunts, sounding like he's gargled with gravel. It's as convincing as a toddler denying cookie theft with crumbs on their face.

"And there was no wild partying while away? Not even a tiny bit?" I persist, because I've got to know if I should start planning an intervention or just a nap schedule.

Again, a "No," comes his way-too-serious reply. It's like talking to a brick wall, if the brick wall could grow a five o'clock shadow.

"So, what gives? You're acting like you've seen a ghost. Or worse, lost your favorite hockey stick," I push, because subtlety is not today's game plan.

He looks out at the yard, clearly opting for the 'stare and hope she disappears' defense. "Just tired, Aube. The game, the trip... it's a lot," he finally admits, but it's like he's reading off a script from the 'Generic Excuses Handbook.'

Reaching over, I grab his hand, a lifeline in our little sea of avoidance. "Come on, Sean. You and I? We're supposed to be a team. Whatever's eating at you, spill. I've got my detective hat on and everything," I encourage, half-expecting him to confess to midnight cow-tipping or secret dance competitions.

He turns to me then, and there's a flicker of the old Sean, the one who'd charm the skates off a hockey player. "I might've been a bit out of line earlier. Just...overdid it with the whole 'trying to act tough' thing. Sorry for the drama, director Aubrey," he says, a sheepish grin creeping in.

My heart does a little jig at his attempt at an apology, even if it's wrapped in layers of Sean-ese. "We'll work on it. Maybe get you a stunt double for the tough scenes," I joke back, hoping to lighten the mood.

As Sean tries to steer the conversation into the calm waters of nonchalance, I gear up for a little reality check. "Listen, Mr. Ice, I'm not wandering around with my head in the clouds. I know about the hat tricks and the penalty boxes of your past. If you think you can just spin me around the rink with tales, think again," I lay it out, mixing in just enough seriousness to season the conversation.

He hits me with a "yeah, yeah" that's as convincing as a cat promising to ignore a laser pointer. It's his go-to defense, but this goalie's not letting anything past.

"Look, your rep's hanging by a thread, but so far, so good. Public opinion's a fickle beast, though. One wrong move, one TMZ headline, and it's game over. And let's not even talk about us—transparency's key, Sean. We gotta be open books, not mystery novels," I press on, trying to drill down to the heart of the matter.

He nods, throwing out an "I get it, I do," but there's a distance in his eyes, like he's somewhere else, maybe mentally icing down some unseen injury.

"And you know, it's not just about keeping the press off our backs. It's about trust. Real, down-to-the-bone honesty. That's our foundation," I add, hoping to bridge the gap between his distractions and our conversation.

That's when I notice it—a grimace, subtle but telling, like he's trying to mask a wince of pain. "Everything okay? You look like you're wrestling with more than just my formidable debate skills," I query, half-joking but fully concerned.

He waves it off with a casual air. "Nah, just some aches from trying to contort into airplane seats. You know, the usual high-flying luxuries," he quips.

I lean in, dropping the playful banter for a moment of genuine concern. "Sean, if there's something more, you know you can tell me, right? We're teammates in this crazy game of life. No secrets, remember?"

He meets my gaze, and there's a flicker of something—a mix of appreciation and something else I can't quite place. "I know. And I promise, it's just the travel wear and tear. But I appreciate the check-in. Team Ice, right?"

"Right," I affirm, letting the subject drop for now, but making a mental note to keep an eye on him.

Just as I'm gearing up to dive deeper into the mystery of Sean's apparent discomfort, he jumps ahead, laying his cards on the table. "You know, being the oldest, I got used to handling things solo, taking care of the team at home," he begins, his tone tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "This whole 'sharing and caring' bit? It's like learning to skate all over again."

I can't help but smirk at his confession. "Well, Mr. Lone Wolf, welcome to the pack. We're married now, so it's high time you got used to it," I shoot back, half-teasing but entirely serious. Marriage is a team sport, after all.

Then, leaning into the seriousness of our conversation, I add, "And about earlier, with Luke. I saw that edge, Sean. We can't have that, especially not from his dad."

He nods, solemnity replacing the usual twinkle in his eye. "I know, and you're right. Luke... he's the reason I dialed it back. Just seeing him there, it snapped everything into perspective," he admits, and I believe him. There's an honesty in his words.

I hold his gaze, making sure my message hits home. "I'm glad to hear that. But just so we're clear, I'll be watching, Sean. Our little guy deserves the best, and I'm here to make sure he gets it."

He meets my watchfulness with a nod of acknowledgment. "Understood. And I'm grateful, Aubrey. Really. Luke, he's changed the game for me. For us. I'm all in."

His words offer a comfort, a reassurance that he's on board with this new chapter we're writing together. I can sense his commitment, not just to me, but to Luke, to our family. And while I'm ready to hold him to his promise, to play defense for our team's well-being, there's a part of me that's relieved, hopeful even, for what lies ahead.

Sean rises, and there it is again—that fleeting grimace of pain he tries to hide as he pushes up from his chair. It's like watching someone trying to skate off an injury, pretending it's all good when everyone can see they're hurting.

"Gonna grab something to eat," he says with a half-hearted attempt at his usual charm. "A bit of food, and I'll be as good as new."

He shuffles off, leaving me there with my thoughts, and suddenly, the porch feels too big, too quiet. I'm wrestling with a jumble of feelings, the kind that doesn't untangle easily. On one hand, there's no doubting the warmth that blooms in my chest when I think of him with Luke, the way his eyes soften, how he tries, really tries, to be the dad and partner we need.

But then there's the other hand, the one that's holding a bunch of question marks like they're going out of style. He's hiding something, keeping a part of himself locked away where even I can't reach. And that? That worries me more than I want to admit.

I let out a sigh, the sound lost in the expanse of the ranch around us. Being married to Sean Ice—hockey legend, heartbreaker turned family man—it's not a path I walked into blindly. I knew it wouldn't be all smooth sailing, that we'd have our share of power plays and penalty boxes. But sitting here, in this moment of solitude, I can't shake the feeling that I've signed up for more than I bargained for.

Yet, here's the thing about long hauls—they're not just about enduring the rough patches; they're about believing in the journey, in the destination, and in the person you've chosen to ride shotgun. And Sean, with all his complexities and challenges, he's my choice, for better or worse.

So, as the afternoon sun dips lower, casting long shadows over the porch, I make a silent promise to myself, to Sean, and to the little family we're trying to build. I'm in this. Through the doubts, the fears, and the pain he's not ready to talk about, I'm here.

Because maybe, just maybe, giving Sean Ice a second chance isn't a mistake. Maybe it's the leap of faith that'll lead us to something real, something lasting. And maybe, with a bit of patience, a lot of love, and an unyielding commitment to each other, we'll find our way through the confusion, the hidden hurts, and emerge stronger on the other side.