Page 104 of Wyatt
I’ve been breathing hockey since I was seven years old. It’s who I am.
“Are you okay?” Coco said. “Are you sure you should miss practice?”
“And leave you and Mikka alone at the hospital?”
She touched his arm. “What about…I just…”
His mouth tightened.
“We need to look at this realistically,” she said finally. “You have a job that causes you to travel. You aren’t going to be able to stick around in Seattle if Mikka is sick. And if he’s not…well, he needs to live somewhere stable.” She took a breath. “We can’t travel with you, Wyatt.”
Her words dug a hole through him.
What if it crumbled? What would you have left?
He wasn’t ready for it to crumble. Coco was right, but her words suddenly took him out and he was sprawled on the ice on his back, struggling to get back on his feet.
What had he been thinking?
“Let’s just get to the hospital.”
Hockey is all I have. It’s my whole world.
He blew out a breath even as they pulled up to the hospital.
What if he had to give up his career to take care of Mikka?
Inside, Coco headed straight for the information desk and presented her name. The receptionist looked it up. “Here for Mikka Stanley? You’re listed as the mother.”
Coco nodded. “And this is his father.” She gestured to Wyatt.
His father. The word wrapped tentacles around his chest and squeezed.
The woman printed stickers and handed them over. “If he’s here longer than a day, we’ll issue you wristbands.”
Wyatt slapped the sticker onto his chest and followed the woman’s directions through the lobby with the cartoon drawings of forest animals and woods to the bank of elevators.
They got off on a floor with lime-green carpet, a children’s play area, and a reception desk.
Coco inquired about Mikka.
The whole thing felt surreal. One day Wyatt was worried about stopping shots on goal, the next he was a father. And now he was following Coco down the carpeted hallway of a children’s cancer ward, trying to steel himself against a deep, bone-chilling horror that one of these gaunt children could someday soon be his.
But he would do this. Be there for every surgery, every needle poke, every waking moment his son needed him.
Because he was his father.
Coco stopped at an open door and knocked, then walked inside.
Wyatt’s entire world skidded to a halt.
What—?
His mother stood at the bed, holding Mikka’s hand, waging a thumb war. The kid was laughing, dressed in a pair of new pajamas with trucks on them, his brown hair tousled, his stuffed lion clutched under his other arm.
His mom looked up.
Wyatt had nothing. He stood there, stripped, unable to move.