And Baby Makes Six. Linda Markowiak

sweat under his arms and on the inside of his palms in their gloves.

      Once, sitting with the other first liners on a bench like this had been all he’d ever wanted out of life.

      “Hey, guy, how’s it going?” The Northern Lights coach, Buddy Campbell, put a hand on Mitch’s shoulder and squeezed lightly before flopping into the seat beside him. A little puff of air escaped him as he sat.

      “It’s going,” Mitch said briefly. The Zamboni was finishing now, lumbering almost silently off the ice. Some of the younger boys—kids Jason’s age, began to take the ice for their session.

      “Can you sign this?” Mitch looked up. Most of the kids were used to seeing him here, but this one was new. A boy of about twelve was holding out his sleeve and a marker.

      “Sure thing,” Mitch said, signing his name on the kid’s sleeve—the kid turned bright red and breathed Wow—and giving him a thwack on the shoulder.

      The boy blushed again. “Thanks.” He took off, over the boards instead of through the doorway, hitting the ice with a burst of speed that ended in an ice-churning dead stop.

      “They never ask me for my autograph,” Buddy grumbled good-naturedly. “I’m too damn old. Finished my career before most of these kids were born.”

      “Sooner or later we’ll all be too old for these young guys to remember.” Regret pierced him. Five years ago he’d been well on his way to becoming a hockey legend. Then he would’ve been remembered.

      That was the same time they’d discovered Anne’s cancer, and there’d been no question about playing hockey. His family had needed him home. There had been a hardship clause in his contract. The team owners had argued, but legally he’d been able to leave.

      After Anne’s death, he’d longed to bury himself in the sport, pounding out his grief on the ice, numbing his sharp sadness with a fierce concentration on hockey, hockey, hockey. But there had been the boys to consider. He’d known the day she died that he wasn’t returning.

      If only he didn’t miss the game so damn much! If only he hadn’t lost them both.

      “Dad?”

      It was Luke, with his friend, David Chandler. Luke was the star shooter for the Lights; David was a talented defenseman. They’d grown up together playing on the ice on Mitch’s pond. “Ready to go?” Mitch asked.