Chapter Seven
note: hey y'all! This ones a bit of a long one, it took me a lot longer to finish than I though it would (plus, ya know, having babies kinda got in the way) but I'm really happy I got it done and I hope you all love it. Happy reading!🩵
note 2: just a reminder that there is now a taglist for this series and it will remain open for the foreseeable future. So if you want to be added (or removed) let me know
single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader
wc: 6.1k (est. reading time: 24 minutes)
warnings: bit of a time jump (I think ~1 month), light angst, pining (so bad it'll make you wanna pull your hair out), mentions of food
⬅️ previous part | series masterlist | next part ➡️
February doesn’t feel like the start of anything.
You’d think it would, considering it’s around the point in the season where everything really starts to ramp up, but no. It feels like the middle. That awful stretch in the middle where you’ve already done the uphill part and think you’re done, but you actually have a massive uphill stretch still to go.
It’s the stretch where the season stops being new and starts being heavy—where every single game matters just that little bit more, every single practice is run a little sharper than earlier in the season, and every conversation outside of the rink starts circling the same words. Standings. Positioning. Momentum. You hear it from the commentators during the broadcasts while the game highlights play in the background as you make dinner. You hear it when strangers in jerseys talk about it a little too loudly in the cereal aisle. You see it in the way the calendar updates from Hayley come a lot faster now—small adjustments that make the weeks look more like a colourful brick wall than a schedule.
And, most of all, you see it in Gabe. Not because he’s louder. It’s the opposite. He’s quieter, more controlled. Like he’s narrowed himself down to a version where he fits the expectations of everyone else—captain, leader, steady, strong, focused—the margins for anything else, almost non-existent.
The rule, the same one he’d proposed at the beginning of your employment, and the same one he’d been using as a loose excuse, still exists. And since the last date you went on, and Christmas, it’s been different.
Lately it’s felt less like a boundary and more like a lifeline he keeps white-knuckling in his grip.
_________________________
Monday morning arrives with a muted sky, and the kind of cold that makes the kitchen windows look frosted at the edges.
Charlotte, ever the early bird, had woken you up slightly before your alarm was set to go off, and after a good 15 minutes of early morning snuggles, she demanded breakfast in her usual way—patting your cheek ‘gently’, pointing to her mouth and saying ‘nana’. Now, she’s perched in her high chair with a determined grip on her second chunk of banana, smearing it across the tray like she’s painting.
Clara had joined you and her sister in the kitchen not too long after you came down, gave you a sleepy hug, and now she’s sitting in the breakfast nook in her sparkly pyjamas, book open, flipping through the pages slowly, finger tracing over the words with careful precision.
Cato joined the three of you downstairs a little while later. After a brusque ‘good morning,’ he runs over to the living room, immediately grabbing his hockey stick and narrating to himself. You could hear it in the relatively quiet house.
“Okay, okay—pass—shoot—goal—”
You’re in the middle of whisking eggs when you hear his footsteps behind you. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just…early. Earlier than usual. You turn slightly. Gabe’s standing in the doorway, hair damp, sweatshirt in hand, phone in the other like it’s glued there.
He doesn’t do the doorway pause in the same way he used to. He walks straight to the coffee pot, pours a mug, and takes a sip. Fuel. Then his gaze moves over the kitchen. First to Charlotte.
She squeals as soon as she spots him. “Da!”
He leans in, kisses the top of her head, and she immediately grabs his sleeve with banana-coated fingers like she couldn’t resist.
Then he glances at Clara.
“Morning, Småglin,” He says softly.
Clara looks over at him, eyes calm.
“Hi,” she whispers, then goes back to her book.
Cato bursts through the entrance of the kitchen just minutes later, like he’d been waiting for his dad to enter.
“Dad! Watch—watch—” he lifts his hockey stick and demonstrates some overly dramatic wrist shot mid-air.”that’s my new move.”
Gabe’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile. “Looks dangerous, Busfrö.”
“It is,” Cato declares proudly.
Gabe nods once, taking another sip of coffee. Then his phone buzzes in his hand, lighting up. He looks down immediately.
The tension’s been living in the little things like that, the way his focus snaps away. The way he never lets the day fully stop.
You slide the scrambled eggs onto plates and set them down. Charlotte bangs her hands on the highchair tray in approval. The minute you set Cato’s plate down in front of him, he’s got his fork in hand, and he’s inhaling the food like it’s a competitive sport. Clara eats slower, more careful, almost methodical.
Gabe stays leaning against the kitchen counter—his seat in the nook noticeably empty for someone supposedly present—half-eating, half-reading something on his phone.
Cato starts talking through a story about school—something about a math game on Friday and a kid who “didn’t know hockey teams,” horrified. Halfway through his story, Cato asks his dad a question.
“Dad, can I be captain one day?”
No answer.
It feels like the air stales, the kitchen moving to an almost-standstill.
Cato stares and asks again. "Dad?”
Gabe looks up, looking for the source of his name-calling.
“What?”
Cato’s face pinches for a second, the disappointment rising before he swallows it down fast. Too fast for a five-year-old.
“You didn’t hear me.”
Gabe’s jaw works once.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his tone soft. “What’d you say?”
Cato repeats his question, but it’s softer this time, a lot of the excited energy from the earlier question missing.
You watch Gabe’s expression change—the faint guilt, the way his shoulders tighten and his gaze flicks to the phone again like it was the reason he missed the moment, like it is the thing that stole him away.
“You can,” he says finally, walking over and bending down so he’s eye level with his son, resting his hand briefly on Cato’s shoulder. “If you work for it.”
Cato brightens back up immediately at his dad's encouraging words, like the moment just seconds earlier hadn’t happened at all.
Clara’s eyes move from the book in front of her over to you. She noticed. Just like she always does.
Charlotte drops a piece of banana on the floor and laughs, breaking the somewhat tense kitchen atmosphere.
The house keeps moving. But the shift, that stays.
Gabe puts his phone down—face down—on the counter, forcing himself to turn his attention to the people in front of him. Then he looks at you. Not fully. It’s just a brief glance. But you catch it anyway. There’s something quiet lingering in it, like he’s checking something, confirming the house is still steady. That you’re still steady.
You don’t say anything. You don’t do anything. You just keep moving through breakfast.
By the time backpacks are packed and shoes are on, Gabe’s tightened back up again. Bag by the door. Keys in hand. Phone in his other hand. He crouches down to zip Clara’s jacket, his movements gentle.
Cato, not one to wait for anyone, shoves his backpack on and bounces in place, absolutely ready to see his friends.
Charlotte reaches for her dad, whining.
He lifts her, movements automatic, and kisses her cheek once.
Then Charlotte twists in his hold, reaching for you too, grabbing at your sleeve like she doesn’t want the moment to end in anyone’s arms except the both of you.
Gabe notices. His eyes flick to Charlotte’s hands, one on him, one on you. The look that crosses his face is quick. Not frustration. Not even surprise anymore. Something softer. Something he doesn’t know where to put or what to do with. He hands Charlotte back to you carefully.
She settles instantly against your shoulder.
His shoulders ease like he’s been holding onto tension you weren’t seeing.
“You good today?” He asks.
“Yes,” you say. “Same routine as usual.”
He nods once. Then hesitates. It’s just a fraction of a pause at the door, but it’s not the old doorway pause. It’s something new. Like he wants to say something that doesn’t fit inside the schedule. But all he manages is a short ‘thanks’ before he’s gone out the door.
The day runs exactly the same as pretty much all the rest of the Mondays have.
Drop-offs.
Pickups.
Snacks.
Homework.
Clara playing with her Barbies quietly in the living room while Cato tries—to no avail—to convince you his math worksheet is “ruining his future.”
Charlotte stays clingy for an hour, then suddenly she’s fine the second you sit down on the floor with her and let her crawl into your lap like it’s the solution she’d been waiting for all along.
The house stays steady.
The kids stay okay.
You stay busy.
And still, your phone buzzed at 11:03 that morning with a text from Gabe.
Gabe
did Cato remember his reading log?
You stare at the screen.
You
yes
it’s in his backpack
The three dots appear, then disappear, then appear before a new text floats onto the screen.
Gabe
okay
good
thanks
That should’ve been nothing. But it’s not. Because it’s not a captain checking a schedule. It’s a father trying to anchor himself to home from wherever the day had dragged him. And for Gabe, you’re the anchor point.
He makes it home just before dinner. Not early by any means, but early enough that he walks into noise. Into life. Cato’s laughter. Clara’s soft humming. Charlotte’s babbling to her Burnie stuffy as she drags him around. He stops in the entryway and just listens for a second, letting it all wash over him. Like it was the only thing all day that didn’t demand something from him.
When he steps into the kitchen, his eyes go straight to you. Not long. Not dramatic. Just immediate. Another check, same as this morning. Then he exhales, long and tired, almost too quiet to hear. And something in his shoulders loosens.
The change in Gabe isn’t super obvious at first. There aren’t any big conversations or moments where he says he needs help. No shift in tone or expectation. If anything, he gets even quieter than before. More controlled. More careful. But he starts staying. That’s the difference.
It begins in the kitchen. The same place where almost everything between you seems to materialize. Dinner’s halfway finished when he comes in, jacket already off, sleeves pushed up like he’d come straight from the car without stopping.
Cato’s sitting at the table working on homework with the intensity of someone who believes that sighing loudly might make the work easier (or just disappear altogether). Clara sits in the seat next to him, colouring, tongue poking out slightly as she concentrates, her Barbies positioned carefully in front of her. Charlotte’s standing at your feet holding onto your leg and narrating the most serious story in toddler language.
Gabe pauses in the doorway. Again. The familiar movement almost a comfort. But instead of moving through, he steps in and leans against the counter, same as he did that morning. Watching. Not hovering. Just…there.
“Did it go okay today?” You ask without turning to look at him.
He nods.
“Yeah.” He pauses, just for a second, mulling it over before continuing. “Clara seemed tired this morning.”
You turn your head in his direction, glancing over. He’s looking toward the table, watching as she colours with slow, careful movements.
“She didn’t sleep well,” you say. “Growth spurt, I think. She’ll probably crash early tonight.”
He nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t question you. He just trusts your judgment of the situation, trusts that you can handle it, and follows your lead.
You notice.
The next night, it happens again. He comes into the kitchen while you’re cutting fruit. And this time, he doesn’t even pretend he has a reason to be in the kitchen. He grabs a glass of water. Then stays.
“Cato seemed to be really frustrated after practice,” he says after a minute.
The knife hitting the cutting board echoes in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
“He’s been comparing himself to the older kids,” you reply, your focus not breaking. “He’ll settle. He just needs a few good shifts. A few successful drills.”
Gabe nods slowly. Then glances toward the living room where Cato had already picked up his stick-handling drill from the morning like the frustration had never existed.
“You’re right,” he says.
There’s relief in it. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there.
By Thursday, it’d become routine. Gabe would come home, drop his bag (usually by the front door, sometimes in the laundry or mudroom), and then end up in the kitchen. Sometimes he asks you something. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he just stands there while you move through dinner prep, Charlotte orbiting your legs and Clara reading or colouring nearby. It isn’t a conversation. It’s presence. And the longer it goes on, the more you realize something you hadn’t thought about before.
Gabe doesn’t just come into the kitchen.
He looks for you.
Every single time.
Friday tests the routine. Not intentionally. Just one of those normal things that happens in any household.
You have an appointment that afternoon—not anything major, just something that’d been rescheduled one too many times and really shouldn’t be put off any longer. It’ll be an hour max. Maybe two with bad traffic. Gabe knew. Hayley knew too, just in case anything went wrong. You made absolutely sure that the schedule would be covered while you’re out. And you left a detailed note, with instructions for the routines, just in case. Snacks were prepped. Homework packets laid out on the table. Dinner mostly prepped.
This isn’t the first time you’ve had to step out on a workday. It probably won’t be the last. It really shouldn’t have mattered.
When you come back, the house isn’t chaotic, but it doesn’t feel settled either. The difference is subtle.
Clara is sitting on the couch with one of her books, but she keeps glancing toward the foyer.
Cato’s in the living room too, but instead of his usual drills or games, he’s building something aggressive with his blocks.
Charlotte is standing in the foyer when you come in. The second she sees you, her entire body relaxes. She toddles straight toward you, arms up.
You lift her.
She presses her face into the crook of your neck and stays there.
From the kitchen, you hear his voice drift out.
“You’re back.”
You turn and walk over to the kitchen with Charlotte still cradled in your hold.
He’s standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up again, a cutting board in front of him with fruit that looks…uneven. He isn’t really smiling. But the tightness in his shoulders seems to have eased once you’re in the room too.
“How’d it go?” You ask.
He shrugs.
“Fine.”
Cato appears beside you, giving you a side hug before separating again.
“We did homework,” he reports immediately. “And Dad cut the apples weird.”
“I cut them normally,” Gabe interjects; you can hear the slight defensiveness in his tone.
“They’re squares,” Cato says, nose upturned in offence.
Clara slips her hand into your free one. “They’re crunchy.”
Apparently that’s approval.
You turn your focus back to Gabe.
“Everything okay?”
He hesitates then nods. “Yeah. They were a little…off, though.”
You wait.
“Just the routine,” he continues. “They kept asking when you were coming back. Charlotte kept hurrying to the front door at every little sound outside.”
The words settle softly. But they still land. Charlotte’s arms tighten around you like she’s in agreement. Cato already drifted closer to you again. And Clara hasn’t let go of your hand.
You swallow.
“They’re used to the rhythm,” you say.
He nods. Then looks around the kitchen. At the lunches you’d prepped and the notes you’d left and the space that has felt slightly misaligned without you moving through it.
After a moment, he says something so quietly you almost miss it:
“House feels really different when you’re not here.”
The sentence really isn’t much of anything. It’s not dramatic. Not emotional. Just honest.
You don’t answer right away, because you’re pretty sure the second you open your mouth, your voice would betray you. Your voice would probably waver more than it should, definitely carry more than it should.
Charlotte finally relaxes enough in your hold to reach for the counter. Clara carefully disentangles her hand from yours, going back to her book. Cato starts explaining to you why apple squares are “upsetting.”
The house settles. And the rhythm returns.
You look at Gabe.
He’s watching you again. Not intensely. Not the same charged way he had before. Something quieter. Something steadier. Like he’s not just looking at you as the nanny. But like he’s looking at you like the person who keeps everything balanced. The person the house leans toward. After a moment, he exhales. Almost imperceptible. Then he reaches for the knife resting against the cutting board again.
“Show me how you cut them,” he says. “Please.”
You lower Charlotte to the floor before stepping beside him. Closer than you’ve been to him all week. Your hand brushes his as you reposition the apple. Neither of you pulls away immediately. It’s not romantic nor is it dramatic, but it’s not nothing either. Because this time, maybe for the first time, the closeness doesn’t feel like a distraction. It feels like alignment. Like the house has finally shifted back into place.
—————————————————
The plan wasn’t to be out of the house long. Another appointment, same problem as before; you’d just been putting off too long because there was always going to be a better day for it. A less busy week, a time when the schedule wouldn’t be packed so tight. And Gabe usually reminded you to take time for yourself, but lately he’s been distracted—knowing you had the household battened down—allowing himself to almost disappear into hockey. But Hayley, she’d noticed and took care to remind you—gently but firmly—that you are allowed to take time for yourself, even take a full day off.
There seemed to be a break in the schedule, a day where he would have more free time (a day where you feel less guilty taking the time off). He would be home in the afternoon. It finally made sense. You’d told him the night before.
“Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to be out for a few hours,” you’d said while packing lunches. “I’ll make sure everything is ready before I go.”
He’d nodded.
Said, “okay.”
Just a single word. No hesitation. No questions. But his eyes, they stayed on you a second longer than they usually would.
The morning runs about as smooth as it usually does. Breakfast chaos. School drop-offs. Charlotte refusing her nap for twenty minutes before finally settling down.
By early afternoon, you’d done every possible thing you could think of to make the rest of the day easier on them. Snacks were prepped. Homework packets and after-school activities laid out on the table. Dinner ingredients prepped. Schedule updated on the fridge in your usual neat writing.
You find him in the kitchen on your way out, reviewing something on his phone.
“I’m heading out,” you say.
Gabe looks up immediately.
Too quickly.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it.”
You nod.
“I prepped snacks and laid out all the after-school stuff. Dinner is also all prepped, just needs to be heated up. Charlotte needs to be up from her nap by two-thirty otherwise pickups will be a nightmare and she won’t sleep tonight.”
He listens. Really listens. Like he’s committing your voice to memory.
“Okay,” he says again.
You grab your bag.
Charlotte stirs on the monitor beside him.
He glances at it as soon as he registers the sound, then back over to you.
“How long?” He asks.
“I don’t know. A few hours. I should probably be back around dinner.”
He nods, but he doesn’t go back to his phone right away. He just stands there, the barstool he was sitting on moments ago now empty, watching as you walk to the door.
——————————
The first hour you’re gone goes fine. Almost the same as last time. Charlotte wakes, he gets her up, changes her, manages a snack. Then school pick up. Cato and Clara come home, backpacks are hung up—not thrown carelessly on the floor, shoes are kicked off wildly, then the kids run further into the house. It’s all routine. Normal. But the rhythm is off. Not wrong, just…uneven. Cato asked the three times what was for dinner before remembering you weren’t home—even though Gabe could’ve answered—and walking off to play. Clara frequently got up from the table, pausing her colouring, to stand in the kitchen entryway, hovering, and staring at the front door just waiting for you to appear. Charlotte fussing more than usual for her now, climbing up Gabe’s leg repeatedly looking for something she can’t quite find.
Gabe moves through it. Handles everything with an ease that can only be developed in high-stress situations (being a single dad to 3 under 6, for example). Homework and after-school activity packets started. Snacks distributed. Charlotte on his hip, clinging to his sweatshirt while he tries to check Cato’s math. But it all feels like juggling. Like everything needs attention at once, and none of it stays settled for long.
By late afternoon, the house is louder. Not really louder in a good way. Cato is frustrated with an exercise on his worksheet. Clara asking questions, softly like she usually does, that he doesn’t quite hear. Charlotte crying every single time he tried to put her down. Gabe tries to keep his voice calm. Tries to keep the structure you’d laid out to him, the same structure that you keep for them every day. But the timing gets away from him. It splits.
Snacks a little too late.
Homework and worksheets dragging on a lot longer than usual.
Charlotte super clingy and extremely overtired.
When the timer for the oven dings, and he reaches to put dinner in, he realizes that he’d never preheated it. He stares at the controls for longer than necessary. Not fully overwhelmed. Definitely aware. Aware that the house hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Aware that the house usually runs a lot smoother. Quieter. Easier.
———————————
You make it back to the house just before six.
Charlotte is the first to hear the door open. Her head snaps up, and she removes herself from clinging to Gabe’s leg, launching herself toward the hallway.
“Hi,” you call as you step further into the entryway.
Charlotte reaches you in seconds, arms up, relief immediate and overwhelming.
You lift her.
She buries her face in your neck like she’d been holding her breath the entire time you were gone.
“Hi, sweetpea,” you murmur softly into her downy locks, “I guess you missed me huh?”
She tries to nuzzle further into your hold—not that that’s really possible.
Gabe ambles out of the kitchen into the foyer slowly, movements not rushed. He doesn’t look stressed or upset, but the moment his eyes land on you, you see the way his posture changes. See the way his shoulders drop, just a fraction, but noticeable enough.
“How’d it go?” You ask.
He shrugs, “fine.”
The word is barely out of his mouth when Cato runs out of the kitchen.
“You were gone fooooreverrrrrrr…”
“Buddy,” you say, “it was one afternoon.”
“Was long,” Clara adds quietly, already slipping her hand into yours.
You glance at Gabe.
He’s watching the three of them cluster around you. Charlotte still clinging. Clara pressed close. Cato talking over both of them—though that’s not hard.
The house feels different already.
Quieter.
Settled.
Like the volume’s been adjusted without anyone touching a dial.
Dinner goes smoothly. The routine falls back into place almost immediately. Homework and activities finished faster. Charlotte calmer. Clara back to her quiet reading spot. Cato explaining something about his school day, without the edge that was present earlier.
You’re clearing the last of the dinner plates when he comes into the kitchen. He stops beside the counter, not leaning this time, standing closer than last time.
“They were fine,” he says, breaking the calm silence between you.
You nod. “I knew they would be.”
“…it was just…louder.”
You glance up at him.
His expression isn’t frustrated or critical, just thoughtful.
“Transitions are harder when the routine changes,” you say, adding on as an afterthought, “as I’m sure you know.”
He nods slowly. Then he looks around the kitchen. At the lunch bags you’ve laid out for tomorrow. At the newly updated schedule that you’d manage to print out at some point tonight, already posted up on the fridge. At Charlotte’s nighttime bottle, prepped and ready to go. Then back at you.
“They kept asking me when you were coming back,” he says.
The sentence tugs at something deep in your chest. You don’t quite know what to do with that, because honestly, you’ve been feeling it too. The pull back to the house. Back to them. Back to this.
Charlotte toddles into the kitchen, immediately latching onto your leg. Clara follows close behind her sister, and Cato hovers in the doorway, not quite as close as his siblings but still keeping you in his sights.
The same quiet.
Gabe watches it happen. He watches the way the room settles around you. The way the noise levels out. The way the faint undercurrent of tension disappears without anyone saying anything or talking about it.
A long moment passes before he says anything.
“I thought I had your routine down,” he says.
“You did, Gabe,” you reply, your tone gentle.
He shakes his head once.
“It’s not just a routine.”
His eyes meet yours. This time, there’s no ‘Captain’ mask. No professional distance. Just quiet honesty.
“It’s you.”
The kitchen air stills.
Not heavy.
Not charged.
Real.
Gabe doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t turn it into something overly emotional. But he doesn’t take it back either.
Charlotte tugs at your hand. Clara leans further into your side. Cato asks a question about tomorrow.
The house keeps moving.
But the words, they stay. They linger. Because this is the first time he’d said it out loud—at least with anyone around to hear it.
The house doesn’t just run smoothly because of the routine; it runs smoother because of you.
———————————————————
By the time mid-February actually rolls around, game nights have settled into their own unique rhythm.
Cato wears his jersey; it’s on before you can even ask him to get ready for the day. Clara insists on her sparkly clips, whichever shape she feels matches the day, in the team colours because "it’s a special night.” Charlotte gets overwhelmed by the noise without fail, but refuses to miss anything as soon as she realizes her siblings are excited.
And you pack the bag the same way every time. Snacks. Water. Headphones for Charlotte. An extra sweater (or blanket) for Clara.
The routine became automatic. The same exact way the house has.
Ball Arena is loud before you even make it fully inside the building, the excited crowd noise flooding well around the building. By the time you wrangle the kids through security and through the crowd to your section, the noise levels have only increased.
Cato insists on watching warm-ups so you herd them down to the glass. As soon as it’s within your sights—and more importantly, Cato’s—he plasters himself as close to the boards as he can get, hands pressed against the plexiglass, eyes wide, waiting excitedly like it still amazes him every time.
Clara stays close to your side, taking in everything quietly, observantly, the same way she usually is at the games.
Charlotte is in your arms, back to your chest, small fingers gripping onto the arm secured around her middle as she takes in the ice.
Once the players start skating onto the ice, the volume goes up again. And when Gabe skates out onto the ice, the crowd volume spikes exponentially.
Cato immediately starts waving, and you have to remind him to watch his hands and be mindful of other people around him. He nods at you once, then continues waving, slightly more restrained.
“Dad! Dad! Over here!”
It takes a moment. And you doubt he is actually able to hear Cato’s calls over the arena noise, but he turns his head. Finds the section. Spots Cato first, who lights up under his Father’s gaze. Then Clara. Then Charlotte. Then you. He skates over, taps his stick against the glass—once in front of each kid—then turns his focus back to the drills, still on the ice in front of where you’re standing with the kids. Cato practically explodes.
“He saw me! He saw me!”
“I saw that buddy. How exciting,” you say with a gentle smile.
Clara waves back carefully when Gabe catches her eye.
Charlotte slaps her hands against the glass, like she thought maybe if she hit it hard enough she’d be able to reach him.
He turns around again. This time, his eyes linger longer than before. Not dramatic. Not obvious—unless someone was really looking for it. But definitely longer than a quick acknowledgment, or a quick thanks.
Then he pushes off and joins the rest of the team warmup.
The game itself is fast and extremely physical. Close score. A taste of playoff energy, with the possible matchup, even if it’s not technically close to playoffs yet.
Cato stands for half of it. Clara follows her brother, and the crowd cues, for when to cheer and clap. Charlotte falls asleep against your shoulder midway through the second period, the weight of her body warm and steady against yours.
During a timeout, the arena camera does a sweep through the family section, paying specific tribute to another WAG, and you don’t notice it’s landed on you and the kids until the crowd cheers louder and Tracy discreetly nudges you in the ribs. Then the big screen flashes, momentarily, and there you are. Charlotte asleep against you, Clara tucked close to your side, and Cato waving both arms proudly like he’d been preparing his whole life for this moment in particular. The shot holds for a few seconds. It’s more than long enough. Then it cuts back to the ice. You try not to think about just how much that looked like an actual family shot.
The guys win the game.
As expected, the arena erupts with noise.
Cato shouts himself hoarse.
Clara claps, smiling, mirroring her brother's excitement the best she can.
Charlotte wakes up with a start as the horn goes off, looks around, then slowly starts clapping because everyone else is too.
You let the crowd thin out a little bit before heading down to the family room; Hayley meets you there not long after.
“Gabe will be down in a few,” she says, smiling slightly at the kids. “He just has a few post-games to finish.”
The hallway is buzzing with other kids, partners, and staff. By the time he actually makes it down to where you’re waiting with the kids, the majority of the people have left. The energy in the hall shifts the same way it tends to when he walks into a room—people notice. The reminder of them notice; they nod, clap his shoulder, call his name.
Captain.
Leader.
But the moment, the moment he sees the kids, his focus shifts.
Cato runs to him first.
“We won!”
“We did, Busfrö,” Gabe says, crouching to catch him in his arms.
Clara follows close behind her brother, pressing into her dad's side.
And Charlotte twists in your arms, reaching for her dad.
You pass her over.
This time, she stays, curling into his shoulder.
His eyes rest on Cato, then Clara, then Charlotte.
Then he lifts his gaze.
To you.
“Thanks for bringing them tonight,” he says, holding your gaze.
The words themselves are simple. Ones he’s said to you probably more than a dozen times since you’d started working with the family. But the look that accompanies them this time is steady.
Grounded.
Like seeing them—seeing you there with them—mattered to him more than the win.
Barely a moment later, Nate walks by with Cale. He slows down, glancing at your group.
“Good game, Cap,” Nate says, a lilt in his voice that you can’t quite decipher. And as he looks at you and the kids, his expression changes just slightly enough that the guys catch it and Cale gives him a well-placed elbow to the ribs. “Nice to see the whole family out tonight.”
The word hangs in the stale arena air.
Family.
You wait for the correction. Or a clarification. Or even just an easy, professional explanation. But it never comes. He just nods. Once.
“Yeah,” he says.
The conversation moves along, but you feel like you’re still stuck in that moment.
On the walk back to the car, the kids are loud and energized. Pre-bedtime zooms coming in full force. Cato is recounting the game with all the muster of a colour commentator. Clara’s small hand clutching onto her dad’s larger one, hands swinging between them. Charlotte is resting against his shoulder, sticky hand patting his cheek as she enthusiastically relays something in her playful toddler babble.
You’re walking behind them, slightly delayed.
A staff member walks by, smiling warmly.
“Great atmosphere tonight,” she says. Then she turns to look at you, “you must be proud.”
You open your mouth to respond, but Gabe beats you to it.
“They keep me grounded,” he says.
The words aren’t directed at the staff member. You can tell. They’re directed at you.
You feel the look without even turning.
The parking lot air is cold. Slightly colder than the arena air, not unlike the usual for a late February night. The lot is mostly empty by now, just a smattering of cars remaining.
Cato runs ahead, still careful, and making sure to stay in view.
Clara stays close to you and Gabe.
Charlotte has since fallen back asleep. Gabe shifts her carefully in his arms, then glances over at you.
“Cold?” He asks.
“I’m okay.”
He doesn’t say anything, but if you were to look over at his face, you’d see by his expression that he doesn’t fully believe you.
Then he moves slightly closer as you walk to the car. Not touching. Just closing the space between you. Instinctive. Protective. Easy.
When you get back to the house, the routine settles quickly.
Shoes off.
Kids changed.
Charlotte changed and transferred to her crib.
Cato still narrating the game and the final goal, even though you’d all been there to see it.
Clara, yawning wide as her mouth would open, feet shuffling across the floor in slow tired movements.
You move through the kitchen filling water bottles for the night and packing lunches for the next day, with what could only be described as comfortable ease.
Gabe comes in a few minutes later and stops at the counter, just watching you for a moment.
“She assumed you were family,” he says. “Nate called you family too.”
You look up.
“It happens sometimes. Does that bother you?”
He pauses.
“Does it bother you?”
His echoing of your question is more a deflection than an actual answer.
You don’t say anything else; neither does Gabe. He nods slowly. Lingers in the kitchen just a few seconds longer. Then leaves to check on the kids.
Later that night, after the house had gone quiet, Gabe walks through the hallway the way he always does.
Checks all the doors.
Nightlights.
Charlotte’s monitor.
All routine.
At the end of the hall, he pauses in front of your door.
Closed.
Quiet.
Temporary.
All still part of the plan. Still the agreement. Still the safer version of this. But earlier—at the arena, in the hallway, with the kids clustered around you, it hadn’t felt temporary the same way.
It felt right.
And for the first time since whatever this is had started, the word family didn't feel like something that needed to be corrected.
It felt right.
And nothing about it feels temporary anymore.
taglist: @embluesky, @lo-bells, @dreamovs, @wonderfullyhiddensaga, @shanehollandersautism, @puckitup86, @renegadebirch, @chiblackhawks
dividers by @/thecutestgrotto
