“They’re growing up so fast,” he says, as if he read my mind.
“Next thing you know, they’ll be driving,” I state resignedly.
“Don’t remind me,” he groans, looking physically pained. “I just got used to the fact that they can ride their bikes.”
I laugh. “When they start driving, you can give them the Dad Lecture. ‘Check your oil, watch for deer, don’t date anyone who drives a Camaro.’”
He nods with mock seriousness. “Camaro drivers are not to be trusted.”
“Doesn’t one of your teammates drive a Camaro?”
“Ex-teammate. And yes, you just made my point for me.”
We end the day with a hayride, bouncing along the uneven ground. The wagon creaks as we pass fields brushed in gold, trees burning red at the edges, the kind of scenery you only get for three weeks in Ohio before everything turns brown and sad. Olivia melts against my side, Orlando is perched drowsy on Tristan’s lap.
The wagon lurches over a dip. Olivia squeals.
“Don’t let go, Mommy!”
“As if I ever could.” I tickle her ribs until she squeals louder, snorting with laughter.
Tristan catches my eye over the kids’ heads, his smile full of love and adoration. I return the adoration a hundred times over. When I realized my feelings for Tristan years ago, I thought it was the height of emotion.
I was wrong. Every day provides abundant reasons tolove him more.
TRISTAN
After the hayride, we make the pilgrimage to Young’s Dairy’s holy grail: fried cheese curds with cold apple cider. Every bite is a sinful glimpse at heaven. Some might find my description an exaggerated contradiction. It’s likely, those people have never been in the presence of this Midwestern feast.
Across from me, Ligaya is casually destroying the willpower of every man in this county. Knee-high boots, jeans that should come with a warning label, and that caramel-colored sweater that I want to bury my face in. Preferably right where her cleavage peeks out.
It's a practical mom outfit on most women. But on her? I’m a goner.
Olivia is busy licking grease off her fingers while Orlando fights sleep, cheek smushed against Ligaya’s shoulder. She juggles both kids without breaking a sweat. My wife’s hair is a little messy from the hayride, lips pink from the cold. She catches me staring.
“What?” she asks.
I grin. “Just appreciating how hot my wife is. It’s a full-time job.”
Her eyes soften, heat flickering under the teasing. I reach under the table and squeeze her thigh. Ligaya takes a sip of the apple cider and makes a show of licking her lips.
“You know what you’re doing,” I state with a tinge of warning because this is a PG rated event. Giving me a hard on with those sultry eyes and lush lips is simply unfair.
“What do you mean?” Ligaya bats her lashes in mock innocence.
By the time we pile into the SUV, the sun is bleeding into the horizon, fields lit like fire. Golden sunflowers hang heavy by the roadside, bowing as we pass. Orlando snores softly in the backseat, Olivia mumbling about carving her pumpkin into a princess riding a dragon before she joins in the snoring.
I drive one-handed, my other hand laced with Ligaya’s across the console.
I think about that autumn years ago when our paths crossed again, colliding to alter the course of our lives. At the time, I didn’t realize I was lost. But Ligaya found me. Or rather, we found each other.
I retired over a year ago. Do I miss hockey? Maybe a little. But my knees don’t. And being home every night to cook for my family is a huge bonus.
Besides, I’m not completely cut off from my hockey family. I continue to work for the Mavericks in my role with community outreach, building programs for kids and expanding free hockey lessons to underserved communities.
Our house waits at the end of a leaf-littered drive, porch swing swaying in the breeze. We do the silent-parent move, scooping up sleeping kids, carrying them inside. They fit against our bodies like puzzle pieces.
When the twins are tucked in the toddler beds of their shared room, Ligaya and I go outside to the porch swing. It’s a gorgeous sunset, the sky converting pink streaks to deep indigo. I nuzzle into her neck.
