“No problem.” He bent down to help one of the dozens of boys who took up the benches. Quinn’s arms were waving, and I picked my way to the back of the locker room.
“You’re late!”
“I know,” I said, crouching down to grab one tiny skate. “But Daddy had to help save lives. I’m here now. You wouldn’t let Mommy tie your skates?”
There was a tiny headshake under a massive helmet. “She doesn’t do it tight enough. She’s scared of hurting me, but I’m tough.”
“I know you are,” I assured our firstborn, finishing up the other skate. “Are you ready for your first game?”
“I’m ready.”
“What do we do?” I asked, careful as those tiny skates met the padded surface of the locker room so we could walk to the ice.
“Skate fast, shoot steady, and don’t hog the puck.”
“Good job.” We fist-bumped before we stepped into the bench.
“Daddy? My helmet feels weird.” Quinn plopped onto the bench with as much grace as a four-year-old decked out in gear could.
“Okay, let me peek.” I unhooked the snaps and then pulled it off.
A tumult of red curls fell from the helmet, and I stared into eyes that mirrored my own with the attitude to match. “That’s better,” she said.
“You didn’t let Mommy braid your hair?” I asked, pulling an extra hair tie out of my coaching jacket.
“None of the boys have to,” she argued.
“None of the boys have Princess Merida hair. Now turn.” I straddled the bench behind her, divided her hair into three sections, and braided it with practiced fingers. “Done.”
She ran her hand down the seam. “Mommy does it smoother.”
“Then you should have let Mommy do it, you imp.”
She burst into laughter and grinned up at me. “I’m not an imp, I’m Quinn!”
I kissed her on the forehead, and then secured her helmet. “Yes, you sure are. Now get on the ice, and we’ll go out for hot chocolate if you score.”
“Daddy,” she whispered.
“Quinny?”
“What if I don’t score?”
I grinned at her perfect little face, so like her mother’s, and thanked God again for this life I’d been given. “Then we’ll go out for hot chocolate.”
“Okay.” She nodded, then turned to where Ember sat in the stands. “Hi, Mommy! Noah!”
Ember waved, and then lifted Noah’s hand from her hair to do the same as Quinn took the half-ice that was set up for the Mites-level game. How was she already four? How was this already her first game? How…had my daughter just stolen the puck from that massive six-year-old?
Quick on her feet, she skated past the lone defenseman and scored on the goalie-less net, throwing up her arms in victory as if Lundqvist himself had been in goal.
I clapped for her, and then turned to Ember, who had covered Noah’s ears and was cheering loudly against the glass for our daughter.
I had never loved December more than at that moment—though I thought that just about every day.
All these years, and we were back here, at the same rink, cheering on the jersey with number thirteen and the name Walker emblazoned across the back.
And now it was our daughter who was terrifying every boy on the ice.
Ember raised her hand to the glass and smiled at me with a slow nod that let me know her thoughts were along the same line.
We weren’t in high school, or even college, but one thing remained the same—I was head over heels in love with December Walker.
And I always would be.