Hoss, three years later

“Jesus, brother. Take a fuckin’ breath.”

Jase’s voice startled him, as did the sudden appearance of a heavy hand on his shoulder. Fingers squeezing, holding on to balance himself, Jase stepped over the bleachers from behind where Hoss sat, claiming a place next to him.

“He’s good. Kid’s not gonna get hurt, man.”

Hoss turned his attention back to the arena, tensing up again as he watched the bodies flying across the ice. His focus was on a specific young body, because his son Sammy was one of the skaters.

“Dude, I wouldn’t have recommended this workshop for him if he wasn’t ready.”

Hoss knew that. Knew it to his bones. Jase was one of the most compassionate and caring men he’d ever seen when it came to kids. And he’d helped kids through tough times before, seen them come out the other end and move on to be healthy, young adults. Sammy needed this challenge. Needed so much. Still, seeing his fourteen-year-old son taking on hulking high schooler kids like this, kids who were listed on the hockey prospects websites, was terrifying.

“I’m scared as fuck. All the time.” He didn’t look at Jase, could have been talking to himself, but he knew Jase was listening. “My boy’s lost so much. I can’t imagine if he got hurt and lost hockey, too. Jesus, brother, some days I think it’s one of the only things that keeps him going.” Sammy’s skills were undeniable, but so too was a fragility that hadn’t been in the boy’s eyes before. He’d learned far too young how vulnerable they all were. Loss does that to people, he thought. Breaks us in ways others can’t see, but we feel. Scarred and scared, Sammy’s only solace were his dreams, both nighttime and this one, the pursuit of a life on ice. It was working, all his hard work paying off, because Sammy was one of the youngest prospects listed on those websites, arrayed alongside men he revered.

“He’s healing.” Jase’s tone was firm, a statement that he would brook no argument on the topic. It was decided, at least in his head.

“He is.” It had been four years since Hope died. Together he and Sammy had dealt with the beginnings of adolescent angst, a mini-rebellion when classwork had to take precedence over hockey, and the boy sprouting his first pubes. They’d also handled teething, potty-training, and the sad death of a first pet for Sammy’s sister, Faith. Hoss had replaced Goldie the goldfish with a rat terrier puppy, and Sammy was pretty certain he’d gotten the better of that deal. Hoss hadn’t known until they pulled away from PBJ’s house with the puppy wrapped in a blanket that a dog was Sammy’s dream pet.

He’d wrestled with that guilt for a long time, Sammy’s tearful recitation of Hope’s arguments against a dog spelled out in their son’s quaking voice scoring deep. Another thing he hadn’t picked up on, and the example Hoss held up to himself on nights when he couldn’t sleep, wondering what else he’d missed.

“Are you?” Hoss jumped, so lost in watching his son and his memories he’d forgotten Jase was sitting at his side.

“Am I what?” Before Jase could respond, Hoss jumped to his feet, shouting “Yes! Goooaall!” as Sammy deked around one of the high school kids and slipped the puck between the knees of the also-a-high schooler goalie. “Way to go, Samboni!” He stood, clapping until Sammy glided off the ice, one mitt lifted Hoss’ direction in acknowledgment of the applause. “Did you see that?”

“I did.” Jase chuckled. “Told you he was ready.” They sat for a moment, then Jase asked again. “Are you?” Hoss twisted his neck, one eyebrow raised, looking his question at Jase. “Are you healing?”

Hoss didn’t have to wait. The grief of losing his wife swept over him, the edges of his vision blurring while he turned to stare straight ahead, ignoring the emotion as best he could, hoping Jase would do the same.

“Brother.” Anguished, filled with a breathy pain, Jase tried to set what he must see as his misstep back straight. “I didn’t mean to make it harder. But,” Jase’s voice grew stronger, that same conviction returning from before, “you can’t keep on like this. You need something.”

“I went in my studio last night,” he blurted, mouth running away with him. “Haven’t been in there in months, maybe years. I’ve done only a few things since Hope—” He stopped, breathing as if he’d run a mile. “It just, made things fresh, brother. You didn’t do or say anything wrong. It just made it fresh.”

“You think you need to be going in there and stirring things up? Is that a good thing?” Jase sounded doubtful.

Hoss wasn’t. He knew the cost of not going back to work. His art had always been a part of him. Much as anything could, he believed if he let it, art could help him come to terms with the loss of the light that had filled his days for such a short time. “Yeah. I think it’s what I need, now.” He inclined his head, indicating Sammy seated on the bench, awaiting his next shift. Following the dream that made him stronger, more resilient. Made him whole. “I think…maybe we’re both ready for this next step.”

“Then take the fucking leap, brother.” Jase held that same confidence and conviction out like a lifeline. Hoss smiled.

“Maybe I will.”