8

Milo

We're leading 4-0, when Alexis Trbojevic, the Tampa Bay Thunders' ruthless forward, intercepts a pass and makes a break toward me.

He skillfully glides past one of our defenders, then another.

I thrive on moments like this, when it's just me and a two-hundred pound goliath barreling toward me.

Adrenaline spikes in my veins, my eyes locked on him like a missile acquiring its target. I've kept the opposition scoreless all game, and I have no intention of letting anything get past me now.

I started playing hockey relatively late. I was in third grade. A PE teacher spotted my potential, and even though my home life was less than stable, I joined a junior team. That team became the only constant in my childhood.

On my darkest days, hockey pulled me through.

I could channel all my rage and fear and the gut-wrenching pain of being abandoned by an alcoholic mother and a drug-dealing father into a healthy outlet.

So I did.

And I still do.

Seven years in the major leagues later, I've got the highest save percentage of any goalkeeper in the past decade, and I'm in the top ten lowest goals against average goalies of all time.

That same rage, that fire, still burns inside me as Trbojevic approaches.

I grit my teeth, my heart racing, every cell in my body on high alert.

I live for this.

The only difference now is that it's not the only thing I live for anymore. I've got two small kids who depend on me to think about.

My eyes remain glued to Trbojevic as Josie and Jonah's sweet faces pop into my head.

I've finally got a purpose. A reason to do what I do that goes beyond making money, breaking records, and further inflating my already overinflated ego.

I want to give them the best start in life. The start I never had.

Trbojevic clutches the puck tightly to his stick.

The tension is palpable.

Whether he makes this shot or not won't affect the outcome of the game since there's less than a minute remaining.

Which makes this personal, a chance for him and his team to save face.

Not on my watch.

I square off against him, ready to defend the goal as if this were the Stanley Cup final, and not a Christmas week game.

He nears the crease, pulling his stick back in a smooth, practiced motion, and takes the shot.

The puck rockets across the ice.

My focus narrows to the small black disc gliding toward me. Years of discipline, dedication, and training merge with natural instinct as my glove meets the puck, the sharp snap of rubber against leather filling the air as I successfully block the shot.

With a sweep of my stick, I clear the puck from the danger zone.

We're in enemy territory tonight so the crowd boos loudly, but I don't care. I lift my stick in the air, goading them even more. The boos grow louder, and I can't help but smirk, enjoying every second.

After the up and down mess of last season, this year, the LA Swifts have come out swinging. It was a huge blow losing Culver so early, but those summer training sessions really paid off, and we're currently the top team in our division.

You can bet your bottom dollar I'm going to revel in it.

Why wouldn't I?

In hockey, you never know how long the good times will last, so you've got to make the most of them while you can.

After the game, Fraser jogs up to me as I'm leaving the arena, keen to get back to my hotel room. Even though the kids will be fast asleep, I still like to pop in and kiss them goodnight.

"Hey, man," he says when he reaches me. "I meant to speak to you earlier, but it slipped my mind."

"Winning does that."

"Heck, yeah, it does." We exchange exuberant high fives. "You were great."

"So were you, Mister Hat Trick."

He beams proudly. "This could be our year."

"Fingers crossed," I say, raising my crossed fingers. "Now, before we get sidetracked by our awesomeness again, what's on your mind?"

"It's about the wedding. Evie wanted me to pass on that we've saved you an additional two places."

"Two places?" I frown. "I'm not even bringing a plus-one."

Fraser bumps me with his elbow. "You have two little plus-ones."

"Oh, right. Thanks, but I already made plans for the kids. Their grandparents are coming to visit and will look after them," I explain. "I wasn't sure how you guys felt about having children at a wedding. Some people don't like it."

"Not us. We'd love for them to come. It's really no problem. Our wedding planner is fantastic and can adjust seating arrangements with no trouble."

"That's nice of you both, and I appreciate that. But I think the grandparents are looking forward to spending a few days with Josie and Jonah."

"Fair enough." He claps me on my back, then lets a beat or two pass before adding, "It's good to see you like this, man."

"Like what?"

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Happy."

Fraser is right. I am happy.

Having Josie and Jonah enter my life was unexpected, to say the least, but it's also been the best thing that's ever happened to me.

But becoming a father to two little ones has been a huge adjustment. I expected it to be tough, but juggling the intense demands of training, competing, and being on the road, all while trying to be the dad I want to be, is no easy task. There are times when I feel completely overwhelmed and wonder if I'm cut out for this. But then I remind myself, what choice have I got?

It's my job to give Josie and Jonah the best start in life. If that means working harder than I ever have and figuring everything out, then that's what I'll do. Because I cannot fail at this.

I'm also lucky. With an amazing nanny, Boden, supportive grandparents I can count on, and Josie and Jonah being wonderful kids, I'm managing to keep things together.

For the most part.

One thing I'm struggling with?

It starts with bath and ends in time.

It's the night before Christmas so I insisted Boden get home to his family in Milwaukee for the holidays. I assured him I could handle the kids on my own for one night. Turns out, I can't even manage a simple bath time on my own.

"Jonah, no," I say firmly. He halts for a second, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he stills in the tub. "No more splashing."

"Oh-tay, Daddy."

By now I've learned a valuable lesson—bathing a toddler means you're going to end up wet. There's no use trying to prevent it, but I can try to minimize it.

I wipe water off my brow as Jonah stops splashing and engages in his second favorite bath time activity—pushing his two floating boats around the tub. He's got a big grin on his face as he makes them race each other through the water. Occasionally, he collides the boats together, pretending they're in a crash, and giggles as they bounce off one another.

He's such a great kid. Playful, energetic, and unafraid of anything. The exact opposite of his sister. Josie is much more serious, calm, and cautious.

That actually works in my favor. Because while I'm busy chasing after Jonah, I can count on Josie to always be close by, keeping a watchful eye on things.

Like, right now. She's happily sitting in the corner of the bathroom reading a book about crayons that have come to life.

I turn over my shoulder to look at her…and her chair is empty.

"Josie," I call out.

Nothing.

"Josie!"

No response.

What the heck do I do now?

I can't leave Jonah alone in the tub, but I have to find out where Josie has wandered off to. Why hasn't anyone invented a way for parents to clone themselves so they can be in two places at once?

With no answer after shouting again, I quickly scoop up Jonah, wrap him in a blanket, and hurry off to look for Josie.

I find her in the kitchen drinking a glass of water.

She stops drinking and looks at me like I've lost my mind. She might not be too far off with that assessment.

"You all good, sweetie?"

"Yep." She lets out a satisfied Ahhh. "I was thirsty."

Think, Milo. Think. What's the best way to handle this situation? I don't want to scold her for simply getting a glass of water because she hasn't done anything wrong. But I do need to tell her that while Daddy may still be young, having constant panic attacks is a surefire way to an early heart attack—without scaring her.

"I have an idea," I say to buy myself some time since I currently have no freaking idea. "Let's play a game."

"What sort of game?"

"Uhhh…a game where we tell each other things."

"How do you play?"

"Well, for instance, when I'm giving Jonah a bath and you're reading a book and want to leave to get a glass of water, you let me know before you go."

"That doesn't sound like a very fun game."

"Oh, it is. It's so much fun. And hey, you can tell me things that I need to know. That way, we always know what's going on."

"I guess." She places her glass by the sink and walks over to me. "Can we play the game now?"

"Sure, sweetie. What do you want to tell me?"

"You're getting water all over the floor!"

"Huh?"

I look down, and she's right. I may have bundled Jonah up but I'm soaked and dripping water everywhere.

"I'll get it cleaned up," I say as I take her hand in mine so she doesn't slip…"Right after I finish giving Jonah a bath. Then it's time for bed so Santa can make his visit."

The living room is bathed in the soft glow of lights from the Christmas tree. I'm sitting on the couch, watching Josie and Jonah, both still dressed in their festive pajamas, tear open their presents.

Well, Jonah tears open his presents, his little fingers making fast work of the gifts I stayed up all night wrapping. I now realize there was no point spending all that time watching instructional YouTube videos on how to level up my gift-wrapping game.

The last thing he's paying attention to is the layering effect I painstakingly applied to his race car set or all the ribbons I ironed on low heat to make curling easier before attaching them to his swing set.

His delighted squeals fill the room and make all the effort worthwhile, even if he is too young to appreciate it.

But Josie's another story.

She's sitting on the carpeted floor, holding a wrapped gift—a collection of animal-themed books if I remember correctly—not saying or doing much.

"What is it, sweetie?" I ask, putting my mug down on the coffee table and joining her on the floor.

"I miss…" Her blue eyes start to water. "I miss Mommy."

"Oh, sweetie."

She falls into me, sobbing as I hold her in my arms, frantically hoping my touch is comforting her because I sure as heck can't find any words. What could I even possibly say?

All three of our lives have changed in the most unexpected ways this year.

If you'd have told me last Christmas this is what I'd be doing a year later—spending the day with my kids in a small town where I bought a house next to a woman who seesaws between tolerating and hating me—I would have laughed in your face.

But that's life, isn't it? You've got to expect the unexpected.

And if all this change has been a lot for me, I can't even begin to imagine how hard it is for the kids.

In some ways it's good that Jonah's so young, he seems to be coping well. He asks about his mom from time to time, and I tell him she's always with him, looking out for him, that all he has to do is close his eyes, and remember her, and she'll never leave his heart.

But Josie is just that little bit older, and she feels her mother's absence more acutely. What words can you find to explain to a five-year-old that their mother is gone forever?

I hold her close to me and rub my hands up and down her small back.

Given all the changes they've experienced, they're both coping remarkably well. They've gone from losing their mother, to being shipped off to live with their grandparents for a few months, to traveling all over the country with me.

I may be their father, but until only a few short months ago, I was also a complete stranger.

And my lifestyle is anything but kid friendly, something that's become abundantly clear to me as we traipsed from city to city in the lead up to the holiday break.

But that's a problem I'll deal with another time.

Jonah drops his plush toy and toddles over to us, managing to slink his way between us to get in on the hug, too.

"Don't be sad," he says, giving his sister a reassuring pat on the back.

"That's right," I say softly. "Mommy loved you. Nana and PopPop love you. And I love you. Both of you."

Josie pulls away and sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "You do?"

"I do. Very, very much. The three of us are a family, and I am always going to be here for you."

"Promise?"

Emotion catches in my throat. "I promise."

"I wuv you, Daddy," Jonah says, giving my bicep a press with his tiny fingers.

"I love you, too, Jonah. And I love you, Josie."

Josie looks between us, not saying anything.

Jonah started saying I love you to me after only a few weeks.

Josie hasn't said it yet.

And that's okay.

She needs time, so time is what I'm going to give her. I'll keep saying it to her, though, because I want her to always know that she is loved.

The kids go back to opening their presents, Josie still unwrapping hers way more cautiously than Jonah. Even at this young age, I can tell that he's going to be fearless, an act first, think later type, whereas Josie is a lot more measured and likes to take her time to assess things before jumping in.

I start scooping up all the wrapping paper and stashing it into a pile in the corner when my phone buzzes. I snatch it from the arm of the sofa and smile when I see who the message is from.

Beth: Save me! Please! It's not even seven and my smile muscles are all maxed out. My family is way too chipper.

I smile at the image of Beth surrounded by her family, who, from what she's told me, are the complete opposite of her. I believe her exact words were, 'They're so happy it depresses me.'

Milo: At least YOUR smiling face doesn't scare away children.

Beth: Is that your way of telling me you've frightened your own kids and possibly ruined Christmas for them forever?

I chuckle at that.

Some—most?—guys might take offense to the constant stream of insults and teasing that come my way, but I guess I'm not like most guys because I love it.

Milo: Happy to report that the kids are having a great time…even with me and all my smiling.

Beth: It's a Christmas miracle!

Beth: Anyway, I won't keep you. Just wanted to wish you all a great day.

Milo: Thanks. Same to you and your family.

I tap the side of my phone, wondering if I should ask how she's getting to Fraser and Evie's wedding. She's already up on the mountain since that's where her folks live, so I assume she'll spend the next two days with her family, and then drive straight to the venue from there.

I hold off from asking. She probably already thinks I'm a weirdo, why give her any more ammo?

The truth is, I'm dying to see her again. It feels like it's been an eternity since we've had a conversation that doesn't involve using our phones.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad we're keeping in touch, but nothing beats seeing her in person.

Would I like for something more to happen with Beth?

No.

I'd love for something more to happen with Beth.

But I'm also a realist.

I'm a single dad with two children under five, a career that sees me crisscrossing the country eight months out of the year, and what am I forgetting?

Oh, yeah. She low-to-mid level hates me.

Teases me about my man bun.

Knocks my taste in music. Books. TV shows. You name it.

Has opinions she is not afraid to share about pretty much anything I say.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Beth: Merry Christmas, x

I stare at that x for way longer than any grown man should stare at a single letter, my stomach suddenly feeling weightless.

What does the x mean?

Was she being festive? Did her finger slip? Or is that how she signs off on text?

I know the answer to that last question is no, because in all the months we've been texting, she's never once let an x slip through before.

Jonah shrieks excitedly at his pirate ship, so with a shaky thumb—why is my thumb suddenly shaking?—I click into the reply field, tap Merry Christmas, x, and hit Send.

I drop the phone as if it were a sizzling skillet then tuck it in between the sofa cushions so that I can't see it because that's a perfectly logical thing to do.

I can face off against a player charging at me on the ice, but sending someone a message that ends with one letter sends me into a tailspin?

I need help.

I also need to refocus.

So I wander over to Josie and Jonah and clap my hands together. "Who's ready for pancakes?"