#gl92

[pucks-goals-penalties]

Chapter Six

note: hey y'all! I'm so sorry this took so long but there've just been so many curveballs thrown at me over this past little while and I just wasn't able to take the time to sit down and write. Since the game tonight was not the result we were hoping for, my workload lightened up and I finally got the chance to finish this chapter. I'm so grateful for all of you following this series and joining the journey. Hope y'all love it as much as I do. Happy reading!

single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader

wc: 6.3k (est. reading time: 25min)

warnings: single parent, kids, tension, flirting, jealousy, yearning, not beta'd

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Playoff talks don’t start at the end of the season, end of March/beginning of April. 

Not really. 

You know that, but you didn’t really know that until taking this job.

And they certainly don’t for the teams that are expected to make it. It starts so much earlier than that—earlier than people admit out loud. Presumptions and theoreticals in pre- and post-game broadcasts. Expectations slipped into interviews with careful language, and post-game coverage in a way that sounds casual but definitely isn’t. And it shows up in the way the analysts linger a few seconds too long on certain plays, certain mistakes, and certain names. 

It creeps in, quiet at first, then constant. Until it stops feeling like something ahead of you and starts feeling like something already pressing down. 

You hear it in the background of your life. In the broadcast clips, murmuring from the TV while you stand, stirring dinner on the stove, commentators’ voices rising and falling like distant weather. In the way you’ve come across fan comments on social media, the comments are less joking, more dissecting and critical. In the way Hayley’s calendar updates have shifted from organized to a relentless barrage of changes. Blocks stacked so much more tightly. Travel squeezed closer. Margins being erased.

And you can see it in Gabe. Not in obvious ways—not in speeches or frustration or anything that would make sense from the outside. You see it in the small, quiet ways. The ways no one else would notice unless they were seeing him the same way you do. 

The first thing is the way he stops lingering. The way he used pause in doorways—not always, not long, but enough that it felt like he’d started to allow himself to actually arrive somewhere before moving on. A breath. A second. Now, he moves like he’s already late. Always moving like something is pulling him forward, like there’s somewhere to be, even when he’s home.

His phone’s stopped leaving his hands completely. That’s the second thing. He’s not glued to it—but he never really sets it aside either. It’s always within reach, within sight, like something that might demand his attention at any given second. 

And then when he comes home—from a roadie or just the training facility or home game—he doesn’t land. He walks through the front door, but some part of him stays somewhere else. At the rink. In a meeting. At a game that hasn’t even happened yet. 

The season had been demanding from the start. And you knew, at the beginning, it was only going to get more intense. But now, it feels like it’s all sharpening. Like everything extraneous is being stripped away. Like all the noise is narrowing to a single point, and everything that doesn’t belong to that point is getting harder for him to hold onto, and you’re not even halfway into the season. 

And that rule he’d made—the one he’d been so strict about, no distractions—sits between you heavier than ever. 

Not spoken or repeated, but present for it all.

Monday starts with a schedule change. Mornings always seem to start that way lately. They don’t really start as mornings anymore; they begin with updates, adjustments and revisions. 

Hayley’s text comes through before the sun is fully up, the faint blue-grey of an early winter morning just starting to creep through the kitchen windows.

Hayley

morning skate added

media after

late practice

You read it once, then you set your phone down beside the cutting board. You don’t forward it. You know you don’t need to remind him. He already knows. He always does. 

The house is still half asleep.

Coffee lingering in the air from the cup you’d brewed yourself a little while ago, the soft mechanical drip of the water hitting the bottom of the sink, filling the quiet kitchen. 

You’re stirring the oatmeal slowly, spoon tracing the same pattern over and over, more out of habit than thought.

Upstairs, you hear movement. A door. Footsteps. The steady, unassuming rhythm of someone already in motion. 

By the time Gabe comes downstairs, he’s dressed. Fully ready. Compression gear layered under his team-issued athletic clothes. Hair damp at the edges, combed back just neat enough for the messy look to look intentional. 

He doesn’t pause in the doorway.

Doesn’t take a moment to take in the room.

He just crosses straight over to the coffee maker, makes himself a cup, and takes a sip immediately—like it’s not something to enjoy but something necessary, routine. 

“Morning,” you say.

He nods once, briefly. “Morning.”

His voice is even. Not cold but controlled, already somewhere else. 

When his eyes flick over to where Charlotte sits in her highchair, she lights up instantly. Her whole body reacts before her brain probably registers why—hands slapping against the tray of the chair, a bright and delighted sound breaking through the quiet.

“Da!”

He walks over to her, leans in, and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. Soft. Automatic. Then, as quick as it had happened, he was gone. Charlotte stares in his direction, watching him go. Not upset or confused. Just…watching. As soon as he’s out of her sightline, she turns back to you, twisting in her seat so she can make sure you’re still where she left you. Still steady. And still where you’re supposed to be.

Clara shuffles into the kitchen next, carrying one of her favourite books open in front of her face like she’d woken up mid-story. The hair atop her head is still in tangles from sleep, one sock missing, eyes half-focused as she sleepily shuffles into the kitchen, trying to divide her attention between the pages in front of her and the room. She just narrowly misses tripping over the leg of her sister’s highchair.

You reach for her spare hairbrush from over beside the fridge. 

“Come here sweetheart,” you murmur softly.

She obeys without protest, leaning slightly into your touch as you gently brush through her hair.

Cato comes in louder. Faster. Like he’d chugged a five-hour-energy just before coming downstairs. As usual, energy first, awareness second. 

In the moments between Clara coming downstairs and Cato rushing into the kitchen, Gabe had come back. You hadn’t noticed. But he’s the first person Cato greets.

“Dad, can you come to practice today?”

The question comes out hopeful and with as much casualness as a five-year-old can muster—but in the same way they do when a question has been asked enough times that you can basically predict the answer.

Gabe doesn’t look away from his phone, obviously enthralled by whatever is on the screen.

“I can’t,” he says. “I’ve got mine.”

There’s no hesitation in the answer. No pause to soften it, or soften his tone like he usually does with the kids. Just straight truth, delivered efficiently.

Cato’s face drops. Just for a second, so swiftly that it would’ve been easy to miss. Then it snaps back into the happier expression that’d been there before.

“Okay,” he says, too fast. “Maybe next time.”

Cato rushes out to the living room before the moment can stretch any further. Before any of you really have to linger in it, and before it turns into something heavier.

Gabe nods once, still fully absorbed in his phone.

Clara tilts her head slightly, watching him in that quiet way you’ve come to expect, like she notices more than she ever says—at least you.

Charlotte drops a puff onto the floor and laughs like it's the funniest thing she’s ever seen. 

Normal morning stuff.

Everything looks normal. But underneath, you can feel the shift. The shift of a house, trying to stay soft while something inside slowly turns rigid.

By 7:12am, he’s gone. No lingering at the door. No long good-byes. No extra check-ins. No “see you later” stretching into something warmer than it has any right to. 

Just keys.

Coffee.

Bag.

Door.

The sound of the latch clicking into place echoes a little longer than it used to.

Charlotte fusses for a second at the noise. Clara doesn’t look up. Cato’s already halfway through a made-up drill and ignoring the world around him. Life keeps moving. Because it always does. 

You follow the same routine you always do. Shoes tied. Backpacks zipped. Hair brushed, even when Cato complains softly and flinches away from the light mist of water like a feral cat. Charlotte cleaned up and lifted from her chair. Doing your best to keep everything steady and consistent, because if the house doesn’t stay steady, everything else will start to wobble.

And right now, he can’t afford to wobble. Which means, you can’t either.

The first real sign of the day shows up at 10:38am. 

Clara at preschool and Cato at kindergarten. 

Charlotte is upstairs napping.

You’re in the middle of switching the laundry over to the dryer, the low hum of the machine filling the space, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

Finishing up what you’re doing, you wipe your hands on a towel quickly and grab the device, glancing down at the screen.

His name. 

Not Hayley.

Him.

You pause, just for a second, then read the message carefully.

Gabe L.

did Cato finish the worksheet he brought home on Friday 

the science one

I did the math with him

You blink. Not because it’s strange for him to care—though it is, at least like this—because a lot of the time he checks in more indirectly. Less specific. This isn’t that. 

Leaning back against the counter slightly, rereading the message like there might be some hidden message behind it. Then you respond, wording it carefully.

You

not yet

we’re doing it after school today

he wanted to ask his teacher some questions before we get started

The reply comes quickly. Three dots appear, disappear, appear, disappear, before the response finally comes through.

Gabe L.

okay

You set your phone down, then pick it back up again. Because something about it lingers. And a minute later, the device buzzes again.

Gabe L.

he’s been more distracted lately

You stare at that message longer because it’s not just information, it’s not even really a question, but it feels like one. Like he’s trying to reach for something—confirmation, maybe, or reassurance, or control. Something that he can’t quite grab onto where he is. You’re careful with your words, trying to make sure they’re not too dismissive or over-explaining. 

You

he’s fine

just excited and a little tired

we’ll keep him on track

There’s a pause this time. Longer. You can almost picture him reading your texts. Standing somewhere loud, chaotic and fast-moving, and trying to anchor himself to the small piece of something manageable.

Gabe L.

thanks

That’s it. One word. Simple. But the word lands heavier than it should because it’s not just about the worksheet. And it’s not about homework or schedules or any of the other possible things he could’ve used as an excuse. It’s about the fact that his mind doesn’t stop. That even when he’s somewhere else, he’s still tethered here, to the house. Split between roles, he can’t fully hold on to at the same time.

And without meaning to—he’s started to hand you the parts he can’t carry. And you can’t find it in yourself to mind.

_______________________

That afternoon, the house stays loud in the way it always does after school. Backpacks just barely dropped into their cubbies in the mudroom, like they’d been abandoned mid-thought. Shoes kicked off in different directions, one landing by his cubby at the wall and one in the middle of the room—a Cato special.

The kids follow you inside the same way they always do. 

Cato comes in talking, almost at warp speed. The same way he always does. Words spilling out ahead of him, bouncing from subject to subject without warnings—school, practice, some things someone said at recess, a complaint about math that turned into a story about lunch halfway through.

You let it happen, the same way it had in the car after pick-up and on the way home. Doing your best to follow his stories, answering where it mattered, and nodding where it didn’t.

Clara’s quieter, her book from this morning already back in her hands like she’d been eating all day long to return to it. She slides into her usual spot in the kitchen nook—with a little help from you—curling one leg underneath her, humming something you vaguely recognize as a song from a Barbie movie softly to herself as she flips the pages.

Charlotte toddles around behind you, unsteady but determined, her small feet making soft, uneven sounds against the floor. She bumps into the side of a kitchen chair still pulled out from this morning, catches herself, and keeps going as if nothing happened.

The house fills itself back up.

Sound.

Movement.

Life.

You do your best to keep it light. To keep it moving.

Cato’s worksheet comes out after a snack. There’s dramatic sighing. An unnecessary amount of pencil tapping. At one point, he flops forward onto the kitchen table like the weight of kindergarten science has finally broken him. 

You nudge his shoulder gently. “Sit up.”

“I am sitting,” he mutters into the wood, with a level of sass you just know he inherited from his dad.

“Buddy,” you say deadpan, “you’re melting.”

He huffs, pushes himself into an upright position, and goes back to work with all the exaggerated effort of a drama queen.

Clara, now switched to colouring books, sits beside him. Careful and precise, switching between crayon colours with a quiet concentration.

Charlotte wanders between rooms—the kitchen, living room, and hallway mostly—occasionally appearing just to check that you’re still where she expects you to be before disappearing again.

Normal.

It all feels normal.

Then your phone buzzes again.

You glance at it instinctively.

Gabe L.

how’d he do?

You look at Cato, who’s now chewing the end of his pencil like it might help him think faster, and type back.

You

he’s finishing up now

needed a little pushing but he got it done

spelling is up next

A minute later, your phone buzzes again.

Gabe L.

Charlotte been napping okay?

You don’t see the message until you come back from putting Charlotte in her playpen, hopefully to nap, maybe to settle. You smile faintly and reply.

You

this morning yes

now? no

she fought it but she’s down now

You set your phone aside and return your attention to the two kids in front of you, cheering Cato on when he finishes his worksheet, reacting appropriately when Clara shows you the abstract colouring she’d done in her colouring book. Then dinner and then bedtime routine. And even though you’d set your phone to the side, the pattern had slowly settled into place.

Gabe was checking in. Not once. Not occasionally. Consistently. Not like a watching over your shoulder kind of way. And not through Hayley. Directly through you.  It’s not just about the kids. It’s about connection. About knowing. About holding on to something that feels stable while everything else tightens around him. Making you the point of that stability—whether he means to or not.

He comes home late. Later than usual on a non-game night. Late enough that the rest of the house had already shifted into night mode—lights dimmed, noise gone, and the kind of quiet that feels earned after a full day. 

The kitchen stove light is still on. You’d left it on. You always do now. A small, warm pocket of light in an otherwise dark room.

You hear the front door open. Quiet. Careful. Like’s trying not to disturb something. Footsteps follow, slower than they’d been this morning.

He appears in the kitchen a second later, shoulders tight, hair damp again, duffel bag (which needs to go to the laundry room) slipping from his hand to the floor with a soft thud. He stops in his tracks when he sees you. 

Not the old pause. 

Not soft.

Surprised.

Like he wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here, to still be awake.

“You’re still up,” he says.

“Charlotte had trouble settling tonight,” you reply. “She’s down now.”

He nods, movement quick and brief, gaze flicking to the baby monitor on the counter like it’s second nature. 

The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable, just…unfilled. 

Then he speaks again. “Thanks for the updates today.”

You meet his eyes briefly, “no problem.”

He hesitates. It’s small. Almost nothing. But you see it. Like something pushing up against the surface, and he’s not sure if he should let it out. Then it slips out anyway.

“I feel like I’m missing everything.”

The words come out low.

Flat.

Not dramatic.

Not asking for reassurance.

Just..true.

Defeated.

You don’t rush to respond or try to fill the silence with empty reassurances you know wouldn’t help. You don’t soften it with something easy. Because it’s not easy.

“You’re doing what you have to do Gabe,” you say quietly. “And the kids, they’re okay.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his jaw. “I know.” Then, softer, “Still.”

It’s just one word. But it carries everything he didn’t say. The weight of it. The guilt. The awareness that being where he needs to be means not being where he wants to be. That the same thing that makes him succeed, helping him live his dreams, is also pulling him away.

You watch him stand there, the tension in his shoulders not easing even in the quiet, with the words out there.

And the instinct you’ve been doing your best to tamp down rises again. To step closer. To close the space. To offer something that goes beyond schedules and routines and careful distances. But you don’t.

You stay where you are.

Because the rules still exist. Because you know that he needs the control more than he needs comfort right now. Because you’re not sure what would happen if you were to blur that line even a little more. 

But you do let your voice soften as you speak to him.

“They don’t need you to be perfect,” you say. “They love you, they know you love them. They just need you to keep coming back.”

He holds your gaze. And for a moment, the mask slips. Not completely. But enough. Enough that you can see the exhaustion beneath it. The doubt. The quiet fear that he’s getting something wrong in a way he won’t be able to fix. Then he nods once.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

He moves to the fridge after that, pulling out the plate of dinner you’d left for him. 

You didn’t mention it. 

You never do.

He doesn’t thank you for it directly.

He doesn’t need to.

The routine says enough.

The microwave hums softly as he leans back against the counter, one hand braced behind him, eyes closing briefly as the sound fills the room.

You watch him for a second longer than you mean to. The way he exhales slowly. The way his shoulders finally drop, just a fraction, but enough. The way the house—this space—seems to pull something out of him that the rest of the world doesn’t allow for. And it hits you, quietly, and maybe it should’ve come earlier, but the conclusion is the same. He isn’t just stressed, he’s scared. Not of losing games, not really, though that really sucks. But of losing control. Of letting something slip—on the ice, at home, in himself. Of not being able to hold all the pieces in the same way he’s used to. And of needing something he’d already decided he can’t afford.

_______________________

Friday is a school event. Not a big one—just one of those “family reading afternoons” where parents show up for twenty minutes to read with their kids, eat stale donuts and drink lukewarm coffee, and smile politely at teachers.

Since you’d found the flier in Cato’s backpack, he’s been talking your ear off about it, asking if you’d come.

And when Clara learned it was on a Friday—which means no preschool—she latched onto the begging too.

You were planning to go regardless. It obviously mattered to Cato, and to Clara. And Gabe had a practice scheduled for the day, so you knew he probably wouldn’t make it. Cato knew it too; he was trying not to care. Clara didn’t ask once if Dad was coming too. 

You show up anyway. Clara sits in your lap, book open, small finger tracing over the words lining the bottom of the pages—the ones she doesn’t know yet. Cato sits close against your side, calmer than usual, leaning into you and pretending he’s too old for it but still listening. Charlotte is crawling on the carpet in front of you, entertaining herself. 

You read slowly, letting them turn the pages and point out pictures.

For a moment, it feels peaceful. Normal. Then you hear it. The ripple. The shift in the room. The way the adults turn their heads in the direction of the door. A familiar presence walking into a space.

You look up.

Gabe’s standing just inside the classroom door, beside the cubbies. Still in compression gear—tight black shirt and joggers with a tiny avalanche logo stitched by the pocket. Hair damp at the edges, with sweat or water you don’t know, sticking to his temples. One hand on the frame like he paused before stepping inside, unsure if he is interrupting. 

The minute Cato spots him lingering in the doorway, his entire face lights up. “Dad!”

The teacher smiles. 

“Oh!” She says warmly. “We weren’t sure you’d be able to make it.”

You don’t miss the way her gaze dips down to his mouth before looking away quickly, or the way her eyes linger on his broad frame as he walks into the room. You do look away before you can be caught staring at the way the teacher stares at him.

Gabe nods once, stepping closer. “Schedule changed.”

His eyes find Cato—though he could be more accurately described as a blur rushing at him at Mach speed. Then Clara. Then you. His gaze on you lingers—but only for a beat. But it was definitely there. Present. Grounded. Like it steadied the room for him the same way it did for you.

He crouches down in front of Cato, letting him shove a new book into his hands immediately.

“Read,” Cato demands.

Gabe blinks at his son once, then huffs out a breath that sounds a lot like a laugh.

“Bossy,” he murmurs.

Cato grins, delighted. “Yes.”

Clara leans into his shoulder cautiously, then settles, finally comfortable, while Cato settles himself against his dad's other side. Charlotte—who’d been too busy entertaining herself- finally noticed Gabe and reached for him at once.

He lifts her into his lap without really thinking about it. 

Book in hand.

Kids settled on/around him.

And for the first time in days, he looks…here. Not halfway gone or tight with pressure. Just present. 

The wave of relief the sight sends through you is enough to make your chest ache.

Once the event starts winding down, families start filtering out of the classroom. Parents litter the hallway in clusters, chatting with each other, akin to the way they usually do at school pickup. Kids run in circles around the adults, noise levels steadily rising as they get more riled up by their friends. 

Cato had dragged Gabe over to the class bulletin board, showing him all the artwork he’d done over the past week. 

Clara is tucked against your side, holding onto your sleeve.

Charlotte, comfortably nestled in her dad's arms, looks at you from across the classroom before snuggling in further.

You’re gathering your things when Jordan approaches you again—Miles’ dad, polite smile, a much more careful distance this time. 

“Hey,” he says to you. “Just wanted to make sure—are we still on for a park day this weekend? Miles keeps asking me.”

You nod. “Yeah, if that’s what Gabe told you, it should be fine.”

Gabe steps over from the bulletin board in your direction. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel the shift. “I’ll handle it. I already confirmed with you, Jordan. We’ll see you Sunday at 10.”

Jordan blinks, then laughs lightly in a way that sounds nervous. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” He nods at you apologetically and steps away.

The moment Jordan leaves, you turn your focus to Gabe.

He’s already watching you. Jaw tight. Shoulders set. 

The soft presence from inside the classroom is now long gone, replaced with something sharper. 

Protective.

Too sharp.

When you speak, you make sure to keep your voice low and tone calm. “It’s just a playdate, Gabe.”

“I know,” he says.

But his tone doesn’t match the words.

You hold his gaze, not flinching at the way his eyes bore into yours. 

“Then why—”

He cuts you off. “I said I’ll handle that.”

The edge when he speaks makes Clara flinch beside you and tuck her face further into your sleeve. 

Your chest tightens at the sight. Because now, it’s not just tension between the two of you. And now it’s starting to affect the kids.

“Okay,” you say, tone softening instinctively. “We can talk later.”

Gabe’s eyes flick to Clara, then to Cato, who’s still lamenting about the lunchtime drama, then back to you. For a second, there’s a shift in his expression—maybe regret—then the captain mask snaps back into place.

“Yeah,” he says. “Later.”

On the ride home, the car is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful. Cato regales everyone with more tales of his school day. Clara is clutching onto the hand she demanded you stretch behind your seat. Charlotte is snoozing away in her car seat. And you’re sitting in the passenger seat, staring at the window—like you’re in some sort of music video montage—feeling the tension in the car taking up space like it’s another living, breathing thing. 

Because this whole thing isn’t about Jordan. 

It’s about control. 

And it’s slipping.

The tension doesn’t explode. That would’ve been so much easier. 

Clean. 

Contained.

Something you’d be able to point to and say that’s the moment it all went wrong.

Instead, it follows you. Quiet. Persistent. Like something that had settled in and refused to leave without being acknowledged.

By the time you’re back at the house, Cato hasn’t stopped talking once. And he continues with his tales as he runs inside, kicking his shoes off and hurrying to the living room—most likely to set up a drill.

Clara stays close to you. Not unusually so, but closer than she’d been earlier. Her hand brushes against your sleeve and arm more often, her shoulder leaning into your side whenever she passes you in a room.

Charlotte toddles between you and him with small, unsteady steps, drawn in both directions. She reaches for him every time he passes her, then twists back in your direction only seconds later, like she can’t quite settle on where the steadiness is.

Gabe moves through the routine the best he can, erring on the side of normalcy so much so that it feels fake—forced. Shoes off. Keys down. Jackets hung. Charlotte picked up every single time she reached for him. 

All of the motions are automatic. All of them are correct. But something has shifted. The warmth from the classroom—the brief, real presence—already faded. Replaced by something tighter, more controlled.

Dinner is normal in the same way the routine is, so normal that it almost feels forced.

Sitting around the table, Cato regales you all with the same story, this time with exaggerated sound effects and hand gestures.

“You should’ve seen it,” he says halfway through chewing. “It was like—” his arms gesticulating something that doesn’t resemble anything you’ve ever seen before.

“You were reading,” you remind him. “And we don’t talk with our mouths full buddy.”

He nods. 

“I was winning story time,” he corrects you.

Clara asks for more milk in a soft voice, eyes flicking between you and Gabe like she’s trying to track something she doesn’t have a name for yet.

Charlotte drops her spoon. Laughs when you pick it up. Drops it again. Laughs even harder when you pick it up again.

Gabe engages when they pull him in. Answers Cato’s questions. Smiles—real enough—when Clara leans into his side, pressing a brief kiss to her hair without thinking. But every time his attention drifts, it lands back on you. And every time your eyes meet, something in his expression tightens. Just slightly. Like a muscle bracing, preparing for an impact that hadn’t come yet.

You don’t bring it up.

Not here, at the table with the kids watching, absorbing more than they understand. 

But the silence between you isn’t empty.

It’s heavy.

Waiting.

Full of all the things you haven’t said.

After bedtime, the house exhales. The shift is immediate. 

Noise gone. 

Lights dimmed. 

The kind of quiet that amplifies everything x100. 

You move through the kitchen slowly, cleaning up the remnants of a day you kinda wish would just end. 

Stacking dishes. 

Rinsing plates. 

Loading the dishwasher with careful, practiced motions. The easy rhythm helps to soothe you, giving your hands something to do while your mind stays too full.

Footsteps come down the hallway, slow, unhurried. He stops just inside the kitchen. You feel his presence before you even turn. The weight of him standing there is heavy in the silence. For a second, neither of you speaks, then you dry your hands and turn to fully face him.

“We should talk,” you say, voice calm. Gentle. Steady enough that it really doesn’t leave room to avoid it.

His jaw ticks.

“About what?”

The words are defensive. Not sharp. But guarded—more than he usually is with you.

You hold his gaze. 

“About earlier. At the school.”

He leans back against the counter, arms crossing automatically, his body settling into the position before his mind has even decided to.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Holding your tongue, you restrain yourself from scoffing. There’s no way that you’re going to let him shut you down like that. That’s definitely not the end of the discussion.

“You stepped in like I was doing something wrong, Gabe.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You really didn’t have to.”

A flicker of irritation paints his features.

“You weren’t doing anything wrong.”

You tilt your head. “Then why did it feel like that?”

Silence settles between you. It stretches just long enough to matter.

His eyes drop briefly—just a flick—then come back to you.

“I just don’t want the other parents bothering you,” he says.

The answer comes too quickly. Too clean. Like he’d had the excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue since the afternoon.

“Well, that’s part of the job, Gabe,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Playdates. School events. Talking to people. We talked about this all when you were hiring me. And I really don’t think you want me just handing out your phone number to all the parents at school.”

“I’ll handle the coordination. Like I said before.”

There it is again.

The same line as before. This time, it lands differently. Before, it sounded supportive; now, it just sounds like a means of control.

You take a slow breath. “That’s not really the issue.”

His shoulders tense.

“Then what is?”

You hesitate for a second. Not because you don’t know how to answer him, but because saying out loud will make it real in a way that neither of you can ignore anymore.

“It feels like you don’t want anyone talking to me,” you say carefully.

The shift in him is immediate. Subtle but sharp.

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s how it came across.”

His jaw flexes.

“They don’t need your number.”

“He wasn’t asking for my number, certainly not after last time.”

“That guy’s always around you.”

The words come out faster this time. Sharper. A lot less controlled. The room stills around them.

There it is. 

Not logistics.

Not professionalism.

Something else.

You keep your voice even, trying not to take offence. “He’s Cato’s friends dad.”

“I know who he is.”

“Then you know it’s harmless.”

A silence settles between you again, but this time, it’s not empty. It’s full of something he isn’t saying.

His gaze holds yours. Too steady. Too intense.

“You don’t have to be that friendly,” he says finally.

And that—that crosses the line. You force yourself to keep your mouth closed at the insinuation. It’s not loud or explosive, but it’s unmistakable. He’s stopped making about the job or logistics or any of the number of rational things it could be about. Now it’s about you. About what you do. About how you act. About who you’re allowed to be in spaces that aren’t his.

You straighten slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough to ground yourself.

“I’m polite to the parents,” you say. “Because I take care of your kids.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t tell me how friendly I’m allowed to be with people outside of this household.”

He stiffens again. “I’m not trying to do that.”

“Well, it’s happening anyways.”

The tension in the kitchen shifts. Not louder. Heavier. 

Gabe pushed off the counter, pacing once—two steps forward, two steps back—before stopping again, the movement solving nothing. 

“This is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear it.

You frown.

“What does that mean?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, the control slipping just enough to show frustration underneath as he tugs on the already messy strands.

“It means things are getting…” he exhales sharply before forcing the last word out. “Complicated.”

The words hang in the air between you.

Too vague.

Too loaded.

Your stomach drops slightly at the words and at the look on his face. “Complicated how?”

His eyes meet yours. And for a second, just a second, the truth is there. Clear. Unfiltered. Too close. Something unspoken but undeniable. Then the wall goes back up. Fast.

“I can’t have distractions right now,” he says.

The sentence lands so much harder this time. Not cause the words are new—he’s already said them to you before—but because of the way he says them. Flat. Final. Controlled. Like the decisions already made. And you’re just another thing to manage, something that needs to be kept in place.

Your body stills at that.

“I’m not a distraction,” you say quietly, voice wavering with undisguised anger.

“I didn’t say that you are.”

“You literally just did.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Gabe?”

It’s just silence. A real silence this time. Because there is not a single version of the truth he’d be able to say out loud without breaking something. Because the distraction isn’t the job. It’s not the house. Or the kids. It’s this. 

The way the air changes when you’re in the same room. 

The way his focus slips for a half second when someone else speaks to you.

The way he notices things he definitely shouldn’t be noticing.

The way the line between you has already been blurred, and the way that neither of you stopped it.

But instead of saying any of that, he steps back. Emotionally first, then physically.

“I need things to stay professional,” he says.

And there it is. Like a reset button to be pressed. The line, redrawn. Clear. Sharp. Deliberate.

Every single thing that had shifted between you and Gabe over these past weeks—the quiet conversations and the late nights and the easy rhythm of the house and the way he’d started to look at you like you belonged in it—all pushed back behind something colder. Safer. 

You nod once. Professional. Controlled.

“Okay.”

The word comes out steady and even; you’re not even really sure how you managed that.

He nods too. A small movement. Almost relief. Or maybe just an acknowledgment that the conversation is reaching its end. 

Neither of you moves. But the kitchen feels bigger now. Like, there’s too much space between you.

Finally, he speaks again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were doing something wrong.”

The apology is careful. Measured. But it doesn’t undo anything. Because he didn’t take any of it back, and he didn’t step forward again.

You give a small nod and take a step back, putting more space between you. “I understand.”

This time, you mean something different by it.

Turning back to the sink, you pick up a glass that doesn’t need rinsing, but you let the water run anyway. 

The conversation is done.

He stays in the kitchen for a little longer. You can feel it. Hovering like he might say something else. Like he wants to say something else, something just sitting there on the tip of his tongue. Then, nothing. Footsteps fading as they get further away. He walks away. Upstairs. Out of sight, but unfortunately, not out of mind.

The house feels different as you get ready for bed. Not in the way things look, it all looks the same. Not in the routine, it went the same as it always does. But in the space between moments. The line is back. Clear. Intentional. Like it’d been drawn in Sharpie this time. But this time, it’s not just about professionalism, it’s about protection. For him. From you. From whatever has been building without either of you naming it. 

Standing there at the sink, staring into the dark backyard at the night sky, hands running under water that no longer feels warm, you come to a realization that you really don’t want to. 

You can’t say with certainty which one of you the distance is actually protecting.

taglist: @embluesky, @lo-bells, @dreamovs, @wonderfullyhiddensaga, @shanehollandersautism

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[pissyleon]

a very sweaty gabe landeskog in his first intermission interview

Playoffs Round 1 Game 3 | COL @ LAK | April 23, 2026

[justagoddamnpossum]

[pensherosjourney]

a sight for sore eyes <3

[pucks-goals-penalties]

Chapter Five

note: hey guys, since the first round of playoffs is winding down, I've had more free time and somehow I managed to write this whole thing. So I thought, why not post it? I really thought I'd be able to get this out Sunday but Colorado was really excited Sunday night and I joined in on the festivities a little and yesterday was no different. I hope y'all enjoy it. Happy reading!

note 2: I have been asked a few times but I never got responses back after interacting with the questions, but, I am also open to making a taglist for this series. Let me know if you would like to be added.

note 3: I'm so sorry for the delay, the last couple of days have been hectic. As I posted previously, I am hoping to get at least 2 chapters out this weekend.

single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader

wc: 8.8k (est. reading time: 35min)

warnings: not beta'd, single parent, kids, angst,

⬅️ previous part | series masterlist | next part ➡️

By the time Sunday rolls around, you’re starting to feel that restless energy you’ve learned comes when the kids aren’t around. 

You feel it in the energy of the house, too. Not quite calm. Not quite chaotic. Just that in-between feeling of the house preparing to be filled up. 

You spend the entire morning tidying without really thinking about it—straightening pillows that don’t need to be straightened or fluffed, wiping down counters that you know for a fact are clean, resetting and putting away toys that haven’t even been used since Friday. 

They always do, but this weekend, without the kids, made the house feel way too big. 

Every room echoes with the absence of their laughter and excitement. Even now, with the sun spilling through the windows and the faint sound of the heating system cycling on and off, there’s a stillness that doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels like waiting. You hear the car before you can see it. The tires crunch on the gravel drive. A door closing loudly. A key scratching in the lock. Then, the stampede.

The front door flies open with the kind of force only a child would use, no regard for the walls behind it. 

“WE’RE BACK!”

Cato bursts through the door first, backpack bouncing against his back, hair wild and windblown like he’d been a constant blur of movement for the last 48ish hours. Clara follows behind her brother, quieter like always, holding a small glittery purse—something she didn’t have on Friday, you know that for a fact—like it contains something precious. And then, the littlest Landeskog. Charlotte comes in last, toddling fast despite her unsteadiness, in her determined way, cheeks flushed and head whipping around surveying the foyer. Like she’s looking for something. Looking for you. The second her eyes land on you, her entire face changes. Her arms shoot up as she toddles closer to you, a tiny sound of relief coming from her. 

You bend down automatically, scooping her into your arms. 

She clings to you like she’s been waiting for it all weekend.

“Hi, sweetie,” you murmur, voice gentle, pressing your cheek to her hair.

She sighs against your shoulder—an exaggerated, dramatic baby sigh—you feel her body melt into you, then she settles. 

A little further away, Clara watches you and Charlotte. Her expression stays reserved, but she takes small steps, closer and closer until you’re within her reach, then she slips her small hand into yours when you shift Charlotte higher in your arms.

Cato barely slows monologuing to breathe.

“We had pancakes and I slept in Mom’s big bed and we went to the park and I did my stops and I told Miles that I’m going to be in the NHL like dad—”

You smile, steadying him by catching his backpack strap before he can run deeper into the house. 

“Wow, that’s a lot,” you say. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes!” He shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet in front of you. “But I missed home.”

The word home lands softly. In that soft, squishy part of your chest. Clara nods once like she agrees with her brother. Charlotte’s tiny arms tighten around you, and that says more than enough. You swallow, brushing off the strange pinch in your chest, and guide them a bit further inside.

Gabe comes in last. Quiet. Controlled. The door shuts behind him with a lot less force than it had been opened with. Careful not to let life slam back in too abruptly. He stands in the doorway for a second, just taking in the scene. Cato’s nonstop monologuing, Clara tucked as close as possible into your side, Charlotte wrapped around you like she’s made the executive decision you’re her anchor, and she’s not letting go again. 

You feel Gabe’s gaze land on Charlotte first. Then on you. Not cold, or distant, really. It’s more…careful. He doesn’t step into the moment right away. He lets you do what you always do—catch the momentum, guide it carefully, keep it from tipping into something resembling pandemonium. But when Cato finally runs out of words long enough to properly notice Gabe, he launches himself forward.

“Dad!”

Gabe catches him easily, arms closing around him in a quick hug.

“Hey, Busfrö,” he says, voice softer than it’d been in days.

Clara approaches him next. She gently lets go of your hand, slowly stepping closer and closer, until she’s about a step away, then leans forward and lightly presses her forehead to his hip. He rests his hand on her back, gently.

“You okay?” He asks her quietly.

Clara nods, then whispers something so softly you barely catch it. “Missed you.”

You don’t miss the way his throat moves. The way he swallows down the emotions. “Yeah, I missed you too Småglin.”

Charlotte, still in your arms, reaches for her dad. 

You shift to pass her over. 

He takes her easily. 

For a second—just a second—she goes. Then she turns. Her eyes find you again, and her arms reach back for you. 

The change is immediate. 

She wants you.

You step forward again, without thinking, and take her back into your arms. Charlotte settles instantly against your shoulder, as if nothing had happened. The moment itself is tiny. Normal for her now. 

But you see it, the flicker in his expression. Not annoyance or disappointment, relief, maybe, and something tighter underneath it. Something buried. Something he doesn’t name. 

He’s the first to look away.

“Alright,” he says, voice taking on a bit of his ‘captain tone’. “Shoes off. Hands washed. Lets get settled please and thank you.”

Captain mode easily slips into place. Like a shield.

You don’t comment, you just move with it.

It doesn’t even take 20 minutes for the house to get loud again. 

Cato dumps out his weekend bag in the middle of the living room, showing you all the rocks he’d found at the park like they’re priceless treasures. Clara had gone upstairs for a bit, then took you by the hand to show you how she’d placed all her stuffed animals on her bed and piled her books in front of the bookshelf. Charlotte had calmed completely, content to just follow you around the house as you knocked off various tasks.

Gabe hovered at the edge of it all. Not really in a bad way. In the kind of way he always does after transitions—watching, measuring, observing, making sure everyone is okay before he even allows himself to relax. 

You catch him watching you from the doorway. Once. It’s not the same as the way he’d watched you on the weekend. Not the charged quiet from the couch. It’s different. Tighter. Like he’d made sure the rule is firm, like armour, and cemented into place for extra protection. No distractions. No slipping. No repeats of the too-close warmth and gentle touches and Friday night silence. You tell yourself it’s a good thing, brushing off the low ache in your chest. 

It’s what he asked for.

It’s what you agreed to.

And yet, it still feels like everything took one step forward and two steps back.

Dinner is easy. Kids chattering. Charlotte dropping food and laughing. Cato begging to stay up because “weekends mean late bedtime,” absolutely ignoring the fact that it’s Sunday and he has school in the morning. 

Gabe eats with them. He smiles at the right moments. Keeps the conversation moving, but every time you speak, his responses are short. Professional. Polite. Like he’s answering a reporter during a media scrum and not—for all intents and purposes—another member of his household. 

When you stand and start clearing the plates, he stands too.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

You pause, mid-movement.

“You don’t have to…”

“I know,” he interrupts gently.

His voice is gentle, but his tone stays tight. Controlled. He stacks the plates carefully, rinses them and one by one, loads them into the dishwasher. Efficient, precise movements. Then he steps away from the counter like he can’t risk even the possibility of staying too close too long. 

The distance is a deliberate move.

And you feel it.

Later on, after the kids are in bed, you’re back in the kitchen putting away leftovers, trying to prepare for the morning.

Gabe comes in quietly; you almost don’t hear him, but the soft sealing of the fridge doors alerts you to his presence. He grabs a bottle of water and leans against the counter in silence, just long enough to drink it. 

You expect him to leave again. 

Instead, he stays. 

“They okay?” He says, not looking at you.

“Yes,” you answer. “They were so happy to say goodnight to you and have bedtime cuddles. But they said they had fun. And they missed you.”

You pause for a second, mulling over your next words. 

“They missed home.”

Gabe nods once, grip tightening around the bottle. Then he sets it down on the edge of the counter by the sink and turns toward the hallway.

“Good,” he says.

But when he speaks, his voice sounds like he is talking to himself. Like he’s trying to confirm the steadiness of the house, that the events of the weekend hadn’t shifted anything he couldn’t control. Before he leaves the kitchen, he hesitates. Just a fraction. But you catch it anyway.

“Thanks,” he says. 

It’s not the same, thank you as before. Not warm. Not heavy. It’s controlled. Professional. Safe. 

Then he’s gone.

You stand there, at the counter, in the kitchen. Alone. Listening as his footsteps fade. 

The house is loud again, full again, alive again. But something has changed. Not in the kids. 

In Gabe. 

In the space between the two of you.

Because, whether or not he chooses to ignore it, the weekend happened. And you both know it.

___________________

The overcorrection isn’t loud. You’ve noticed that it never is with him. It lives in the little things:

- the way he’s stopped lingering in the kitchen when you’re in there

- the way his voice stays clipped and efficient with you, even when the house is warm and full of love, and the kids are laughing

- the way he’s retreated back to routing everything through the schedules and paperwork, like logistics can drown out whatever sparked in the quiet between you on the weekend.

Monday morning, he’s up before you. Not unusual in itself. What is unusual is that he’s already gone by the time you come downstairs with Charlotte. 

Coffee maker off.

Kitchen dark, other than the morning light starting to spill through the windows.

And when you check your phone, there’s a single message sitting on your lock screen.

Gabe L.

Hayley updated the calendars

practice earlier

There’s no good morning. No, thank you, like there usually is. No pause or small talk. Just information. 

You stare at the message for a second, like the text, then lock your screen and move on. Because you’re good at this job. You love this job and these kids. Professionalism isn’t new. You can handle distance—even if the house suddenly feels like it’s dipped in temperature.

The kids fill the space anyway in the ways they always do.

Cato comes down the stairs hungry and loud, talking about his math test and how he “needs protein like dad.”

Clara drifts into the kitchen a little bit later with her book, hair still sleep-mussed, clutching her well-loved Bernie stuffy.

As soon as Charlotte hears her siblings, she’s no longer content with her highchair and demands your arms immediately, tiny fingers gripping your shirt like she’s remembering the weekend and doesn’t want you leaving again.

You move through it all like you always do. Breakfast. Sparkly clip selection. A spirited debate about how jerseys aren’t appropriate as everyday school clothes. Shoes. Backpacks. 

When you’re standing by the door, Clara holds up two sparkly clips even though she already has some in her hair, like she’s waiting for your final verdict.

“The star,” you say.

Her eyes brighten. “Correct!”

She holds the clip up to you, asking you to change it. You do.

Cato, already halfway out the door to the car, calls back to you, “Tell Dad I’m faster!”

“You can tell him yourself buddy, tonight,” you say.

Cato pauses mid-stride, then shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

“He’s busy.”

The words are casual, but something about them sends a pinching feeling through your chest. Because he is. You know that. But it’s not just hockey that’s making him busy.

That afternoon, you pick Cato up from school and Clara from daycare, and the house is filled back up with noise. You’re only a few steps into the foyer when Cato is kicking off his shoes, dropping his backpack and running off to set up a new mini hockey drill in the hallway. You have to grab him by his sleeve and remind him that ‘we need to put our things in the right places so we know where they are' before he can go and play. Clara curls up on the couch with her favourite blanket and a few of her Paddington books. Charlotte is content to just follow you around the house like a shadow. 

You and the kids flow through the nighttime routine easily: homework, baths, pyjamas, and a little bit of quiet time/stories in the living room before bed. 

The front door doesn’t open until almost nine pm. 

A lot later than usual, especially on a non-game day. 

When it does open, he steps in quietly—almost like he’s trying not to be seen—shoulders tense, jaw set. 

He looks exhausted in the way that makes you want to soften the world around him, instinctively. But he doesn’t go to the kitchen. Doesn’t pause in the living room this time. Gabe walks straight through the hallway, greeting the kids quickly before disappearing upstairs.

Cato follows him like a puppy. “Dad, did you see my shot?”

“Not tonight, Busfrö,” Gabe says, already halfway up the stairs. “Tomorrow.”

Cato stops at the bottom step, face pinching for a second like he’s fixing to cry. Then he recovers in the way kids learn to.

“Okay,” he says loudly. “Tomorrow.”

When he turns back around, his eyes are different. Not sad. Trying not to be. You move from the couch so you’re in front of him and crouch to his level.

“Want to show me buddy?” You ask.

Cato nods quickly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’ll watch.”

He resets his drill, winding up for a shot with renewed determination, like your attention is enough to patch the hole his dad’s exhaustion left behind.

Tuesday is worse than Monday. Not because anything actually happened, but because nothing did. Gabe isn’t cruel. He doesn’t ignore you, he’s just…very careful. A man who’d nearly crossed the line and made the executive decision that pretending that the line isn’t even there is the safest path forward. He speaks to you like you’re staff, as he talks to Hayley, like a schedule—and technically you are, but it still feels wrong. 

“Cato has to be at practice by four.” You already know.

“Clara has story time at the library at four-thirty; she hates being late.” You know this, too.

“Charlotte’s been really fussy.” Again, not like you’re the person getting up with her in the middle of the night or anything. 

All and any information he deems pertinent for you to have or know is delivered like bullet points. There’s no extra warmth. No small looks shared. No small moments. The kids don’t understand the shift, but they react to it anyway. Clara stays closer, quiet and steady and observant as always, anchoring herself to you. Cato starts asking you for everything—snacks, questions, help with homework, even help with hockey—without even looking towards Gabe. Charlotte, she clings. Hard. She cries when you put her down and cries when Gabe tries to take her. Not all the time, but enough that his expression has started to pinch every time it happens. 

You can see the frustration in his face. Not at her. Of course not. At himself. And the fact that he just doesn’t have enough of himself to give.

Wednesday evening, he comes home before dinner. A first in a while. You hear the door. Then the familiar drop of his keys into the dish by the door. Then footsteps. You expect him to go upstairs; instead, he walks into the kitchen.

For a second, you feel that tug in your chest—the old instinct, the memory of the weekend, of the relationship you’d been building before it, the couch, the quiet.

When he speaks, his voice is neutral.

“Hayley said you need the travel itinerary.”

You blink at him, kinda wondering why he didn’t just tell her to send it to you. 

“Yes. For next week.”

He nods, pulling his phone out, already opening the email app. “I’ll forward it to you.”

“Thanks.”

He stands there for a moment after tapping the screen. When you look over at him, he’s frowning; it looks like he’s having some sort of internal debate.

“Kids okay?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause as a lull settles in the quiet between you. Then he turns to look over at the living room, where Cato’s building a fort. Clara tucked under a blanket in the breakfast nook, small fingers tracing the pages of her book. Charlotte crawls toward your feet. He watches them all for a moment. The house feels warm. Alive. He stands there, in the doorway, like he wants to step into it. Instead, he quickly backs out and into the hallway.

“I’ve got a call,” he says.

When he leaves the room, it feels like the warmth vanishes with him. Not because he’d taken it. Because he refused to let himself even be a part of it.

Later that night, a little while after the kids are in bed, you’re in your room when you hear movement downstairs. You go down expecting to find one of the kids’ toys not turned off properly or a door not fully shut. Instead, you find him in the kitchen. Again. Standing at the counter. Plate of food in front of him—the same one you’d put aside earlier when you notice he didn’t eat with the kids—but he’s not eating. Just staring. Gabe doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t turn right away. When he does finally look up at you, his eyes are tired. Emotions bared for you to see. For just a second, the captain's mask slips away.

“You okay?” You ask, voice soft, like you’re trying not to spook an animal.

He nods, but the nod is slow, like he’s not really sure.

“I’m fine,” the words are automatic, and they slip from his lips easily. Then he exhales, and the words that come out after are a lot softer. “I’m just…tired.”

It’s not the dramatic confession it could’ve been. But for him, considering the status of things between you, it was something.

You don’t move closer. You don’t push for more. You just lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, pulling your sweater tighter to your frame, and try to give him space to exist without being the captain, even if just for a minute.

“You can be tired here Gabe,” you say.

His gaze holds yours. 

Then he looks away again, jaw tightening like he’d let too much of the curtain fall.

“Yeah,” he says, then his voice shifts back to controlled, clipped. “I’ve got an early skate.”

Of course he does.

He stands and rinses his plate, wipes the counter where he was sitting, like the motions themselves were capable of erasing the moment, and heads upstairs.

But for the first time, since the weekend, you saw the crack. The part of him that doesn’t want the distance. That part of him that needs something he’s refusing to take.

When you get upstairs, you check on the kids one last time before turning in for the night. Cato stirs in his sleep, mumbling something about hockey. Clara’s door creaks slightly when a draft pushes it open a little further, but she doesn’t wake. Charlotte’s soft breaths fill her nursery as she sleeps soundly. 

As you lie down in the quiet, you realize something that makes your chest ache more. The house is still steady. The kids are still okay. You’re still doing your job. But the distance between you and Gabe has changed the feeling of the home. And if you’re feeling it, there’s no way that he isn’t.

______________

Game nights have their own kind of gravity. The house moves differently on those days—everything’s faster, tighter, like nothing is orbiting a single point. And on nights when you get the chance to take the kids to the games, it only increases tenfold.

By late afternoon, Cato has shuffled through his rotation of jerseys before landing on the home jersey with his dad’s name on the back. Clara has asked you three separate times if the sparkly blue star clip is ‘too much for hockey.’ And Charlotte’s refused to nap entirely, which means a careful balance for you to navigate between excitement and meltdown. 

You pack your bag methodically, everything routine now.

Snacks

Water

Extra sweater

Charlotte’s blanket

The game day routine has become so familiar that you don’t even really think about it anymore. What you do think about is the text you got from Hayley earlier this morning.

Hayley

family seats confirmed

section 124

I made sure you’ll be allowed down for warmups (regardless of busyness)

he knows you’re coming

You weren’t originally planning to go, but Cato had begged you after school for days. So you’d reached out to Hayley, hoping she could help you out.

The wording of her message sticks with you longer than it should have. He knows you’re coming.

Ball Arena feels like a living, breathing entity by the time you get there. Electric energy coursing through the building. Cato’s practically vibrating the second you’re through the doors. 

“Can we see the ice? Can we go now? Are they warming up yet?”

“In a minute. Shoes stay on the floor please, buddy,” you remind automatically as he tries to climb a railing while you finish going through security. 

Clara stays close to your side, eyes wide, taking in everything quietly. Charlotte clings to you, slightly overwhelmed by all the lights and noise, her small hands gripping the collar of your jacket. 

The energy inside the arena is even more vibrant, buzzing through the air—music, announcements you can barely hear, the low roar of thousands of people filtering into the building. 

When you finally reach ice level, Cato is the first to the glass, rushing to press his hands against it.

“They’re coming out,” he whispers like it’s a secret. 

The in-arena lighting changes, the music gets a little louder, and then players start skating onto the ice for warmups. 

Wedgewood.

Makar.

Toews.

The rest of the team.

MacKinnon.

And when Gabe skates onto the ice, the crowd volume jumps. 

Cato’s whole face lights up.

“That’s Dad!” He says proudly to one in particular.

Clara lifts herself onto her tippy-toes, trying to see over the boards. It doesn’t work very well. So you lift her in your free arm. When she can finally see, she smiles faintly and watches the ice with renewed interest. 

Charlotte points at the ice, confused, but excited by everyone else’s reactions.

You watch as Gabe skates across the ice. The way he moves out there is so different than at home. Sharper. Bigger. Commanding in a way that makes it so easy to forget the quiet man who stands in the kitchen at night, staring at a plate he’s not eating. Out there on the ice, he isn’t tired. He doesn’t look tired. He’s not holding anything back. He’s the captain. 

About halfway through warm-ups, he skates toward the glass. Not directly at first, it’s more of a slow arc. Then his eyes lift, surveying the crowd, finding the section, finding Cato.

Cato jumps, waving both arms wildly, a broad grin plastered on his face. 

Gabe skates to a stop in front of him, tapping the glass once with his stick.

Cato loses his mind. “HE SAW ME!”

Clara waves at her dad more quietly.

Charlotte reaches toward the glass, pressing her small hand against the surface like she could actually touch him.

His gaze bounces over the kids and then lands on you. It’s not long. Just a second. But it holds. Long enough that your breath catches before he pushes off, offers one last wave, and skates away. 

You herded the kids up a few rows, still in the lower bowl, and to your seats. 

“Are these your seats?”

You turn.

A woman stands beside you, smiling warmly, holding a young child in an Avalanche hoodie.

“Yes,” you say.

“They’re great.” You watch as her eyes flick between you and the kids. “They’re adorable. You must be so busy.”

You smile politely. “It’s a full house.”

She nods along, still smiling at you and the kids. “Your husband’s having a great season.”

The word hits you before you can stop it.

Husband.

You open your mouth to correct her—but Cato speaks first.

“That’s my dad!”

The woman blinks. 

“Oh!” She laughs. “Well then, you’ve got the best seats in the arena.”

She moves on before you can explain anything. 

You don’t look over at the ice right away; you busy yourself with the kids and their things in your bag. Because the word husband is still echoing in your head. And because you’re not sure how you feel about the fact that, from the outside, to a stranger, your unit looked normal. 

Natural. 

Like you belong there.

The game is fast. Physical. Close. Cato stands for most of it, jumping up and down in his spot, and you repeatedly have to remind him to be mindful of the people around him. Clara claps when everyone else does, looking at you for reassurance every time the crowd booed at a call (or non-call). Charlotte fell asleep against your shoulder sometime in the second period, her head heavy and warm against you.

Late in the third period, the arena camera swings across the family section. As it lands on familiar WAGs and other family members, the crowd cheers louder. You don’t realize it's on you until Cato starts waving, wildly, like he’d been preparing for this, and Clara freezes against your side. You look up at the screen for half a second—then immediately wish you didn’t. Because up there, on the Jumbotron, are the four of you. 

Charlotte asleep on your shoulder. 

Clara tucked into your side.

Cato, in his jersey, waving wildly. 

A family shot.

The crowd noise swells, and that’s enough to catch his attention. You watch as he looks up from the bench, right to the screen, then over in the direction of your section. The moment lasts maybe two seconds. Then play resumes. But there’s something about the moment that sticks stubbornly under your ribs.

The final horn of the night brings the arena to its feet. 

The boys won. 

Cato shouts himself hoarse. Clara claps carefully. Charlotte wakes just long enough in your hold to look confused and then goes back to sleep. 

Hayley meets you and the kids in the tunnel near the room.

“He’ll be out in a few minutes,” she says.

The hall is buzzing with families, kids, WAGs, staff, and a few media members who are quickly herded out. A few of the guys spill out of the room, waving to the kids with gentle smiles and heading to their partners and families—but not without giving you a curious look.

When he comes out of those doors, dressed in his pregame outfit—albeit messily—and hair damp, the energy around him shifts. People nod. Say his name. Clap his shoulder. Captain. Leader. He moves through it all automatically. Then his eyes find the kids.

Cato’s the first to run over, as per usual. “YOU WON!”

“I did,” he says, crouching to absorb the hug.

Clara goes next, slower, quieter, hugging his side. Charlotte reaches for him from your arms. You pass her over. This time, she stays, curled into his shoulder. Gabe holds her close for a moment, eyes closing for a split second before reopening and moving over to you.

“Thanks for bringing them,” he says. 

The words are simple, but the look he gives you as he says them isn’t. There’s something in it. Relief. Gratitude. And something a lot heavier. Like seeing the kids there—seeing you there—settled something he isn’t ready to name.

On the walk back to the car, Cato talks nonstop about the game. Clara holds Gabe’s hand, and Charlotte continues to snooze away against his shoulder. You walk beside them, a few steps behind. Since you were parked outside, a parking pass for the parkade was forgotten, a few fans pass smiling as you walk along the sidewalk. One man slows slightly.

“Great game tonight,” he says to Gabe. Then he glances over at you and the kids. “Nice to see the family out.”

You falter mid-step and wait for Gabe to correct it, certain he’d heard. To clarify. To say something. He doesn’t. He just nods once.

“Thanks,” Gabe says, and just keeps walking.

The word stays with you the whole drive home. Family. Not corrected. Not denied. And as you watch him from the corner of your eye, one of his hands reaching back and resting on Charlotte’s tummy as he drives, you realize something. Out there, he’s the Captain. But here, he’s starting to look at you like you’re part of the team—part of his team. Whether he’s willing to admit it or not.

_______________

The mornings after home wins always feel lighter. Not calm—never calm, not in the middle of the hockey season—but the tension that runs like a live wire under everything seems to ease up, just a little.

Cato’s first downstairs. He comes bounding down the stairs already talking about the game to no one in particular.

“I saw the goal right in front of me,” he announces with confidence, like he’d personally contributed to their success last night. 

When Clara comes down the stairs, she’s donning her Avalanche sweater, slightly askew. You help her straighten it out and then set her up at the coffee table in the living room for breakfast—a special treat because it’s Friday and they had been asking all week. 

Charlotte keeps pointing toward the TV and babbling excitedly whenever she sees flashes of her dad in the highlights from last night on the screen.

Gabe had already left before you’d finished making breakfast. He’d sent you a quick text as he walked out the door that morning.

Gabe L.

early skate

optional but not for me

be back later

No extra words. No reference to the game or the after-game occurrence last night. But the tone…it feels softer than it did earlier this week. Like the big win took some of the weight off his shoulders.

School pickup is really crowded this afternoon. Parents line the sidewalk, chatting in small clusters as the kids start to spill out the doors. 

Charlotte is perched on your hip, one hand tangled in your hair, and you don’t even want to think about detangling it later. Clara is close beside you, her fingers hooked loosely in your sleeve.

Cato bursts out of the building with the same speed and furor as usual, waving his latest worksheet in the air.

“I got a hundred!”

“That’s awesome buddy,” you say, taking the paper from him carefully.

He beams up at you, a proud smile on his face. 

“Make sure you tell Dad.”

“I will.” Cato nods, satisfied. Then his attention snaps to the playground. “Can I go for five minutes?”

You check the time on your phone.

“Just five,” you agree.

He runs off. 

Clara says beside you, and Charlotte shifts in your arms, warm and heavy against your shoulder.

“Big night last night.”

The voice comes from your right. When you turn, Jordan—Miles’ dad is standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his vest pockets. His smile is friendly, but a little cautious, like he’s still remembering the way your last interaction went.

“Yeah,” you say politely. “The kids were really excited.”

“I saw the game,” he says. “Your—” he pauses briefly, “their dad played well.”

You nod. “He did.”

Jordan glances toward the playground where Cato is playing with Miles and a few other classmates.

“Miles has been bugging me about a park day again,” he says. “I figured I’d check with you before bugging anyone else.”

His tone stays respectful this time. Careful. Professional.

You can’t lie and say you don’t appreciate that.

“That should be fine,” you say. “I can try and coordinate with—”

“Coordinate what?”

The new voice comes from behind you. Familiar. Controlled. You turn around, Gabe’s standing a few steps away, still in athletic gear and smoothie in hand like he’d just come from a recovery session at the training facility. 

His appearances are starting to become a pattern. Showing up early, unexpected.

Gabe’s eyes move quickly—taking in his baby girl on your hip and his other one beside you, and Jordan standing a touch too close to you.

Jordan straightens slightly. “Hey,” he says, offering a hand to introduce himself again like they hadn’t just done this song and dance just the other week. “Jordan. Miles’ dad.”

Gabe shakes it. 

Firm. 

Brief.

Then his attention shifts back to you almost immediately.

“What’s being coordinated?”

The question sounds neutral, but there’s an edge under it.

“A playdate,” you say, keeping your tone even. “The boys want to go to the park. Maybe see each other outside of school.”

He nods once. “I’ll handle it.”

The words come out quickly. 

Final.

Ben blinks.

“Oh—yeah, sure,” he says, stepping back from you slightly. “That works.”

Jordan gives you an apologetic smile, then heads over to the playground. 

The air he leaves in his wake feels fraught with tension.

Cato runs over barely a minute later, Miles hot on his tail.

“Dad!” He says, thrilled. “You’re early!”

“I had the time,” Gabe says.

Same words as before.

Same tone.

But his eyes flick over to where Jordan is standing, talking to another parent, and then back to you.

“Ready to go?” He asks.

You nod.

Charlotte reaches for her dad, and he takes her automatically. And she settles into his arms, small hand wrapped around the collar of his jacket as she snuggles against his chest.

Clara slips her hand into yours, clasping them together. 

Cato runs ahead to the car.

The walk is quiet.

Too quiet.

Once all the kids are buckled in, you close Charlotte’s door. He’s standing beside the car, arms loosely folded, watching you.

“You don’t need to deal with that,” he says.

“With what?”

“Parents asking for your number. Playdates. Anything like that.”

His tone stays calm and controlled, but the tension is there.

“He was asking about the kids,” you say carefully, mindful of the discussion from the other week.

“I know.” He pauses. “I’ll handle it.”

The same exact words as before.

You study his face. His tight jaw. The way his shoulders are set, straining. It's obvious to, only cause you’re looking, to see that this isn’t about logistics.

“Okay,” you say finally.

That seemed to ease something in him. His posture loosens slightly. 

He opens the driver’s door, then hesitates.

“I just don’t want you dealing with anything you don’t have to,” he adds.

The words are softer now. More protective than anything. But there’s something underneath them. Something closer to territorial, veering away from professional. 

You nod. “I understand.”

He holds your gaze for longer than necessary, then he gets in the car.

The drive home is louder—Cato giving the play-by-play of his day, Clara asking questions, Charlotte babbling—but the space between you and Gabe feels charged again. Not the quiet warmth from the weekend. And not the professional distance from the past week. Something in between. Something tighter. Because this time, his reaction wasn’t just about the job or boundaries or schedules, it was instinct. 

And instinct doesn’t follow rules.

That evening, after dinner, you’re standing at the counter packing up the leftovers, and he ambles into the kitchen, phone in hand.

“Hayley sent the schedule,” he says.

You nod, not paying attention to whether he sees it or not.

Then he adds, without looking up: “I’ll coordinate the park thing with Miles’ dad.”

You pause your movements. 

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

Again. Same words you’d used before.

His eyes lift to meet yours, steady.

“I want to.”

The sentence lands quietly. But it shifts something between you. Because it’s not about control. Or logistics. It's about involvement. Maybe a little bit about ownership. About making sure the space around you stays…contained. And safe. And his. The realization is enough to make your pulse jump.

Later that night, as you pass him in the hallway, his hand brushes lightly against your back. 

It’s a small guiding touch. Gone almost as quickly as it happens. But it’s deliberate. And the look he gives you afterwards is the same one from the arena. The same one from the kitchen. The same one that says he’s trying to keep the line in place—even while his instincts keep pulling him closer to it.

______________________

The loss shows up before Gabe does. You see it in the notifications on your phone. 

Score update.

Post-game headline.

A highlight clip that replays the last goal against them three different ways, each one seemingly in slower-motion than the last.

By the time you turn off the TV, the house already feels heavier. Not tense. Just quieter. Like, somehow it knows what kind of night it's in for.

The kids don’t at first, they’d lost interest in the game earlier in the evening. Cato’s busy on the floor with his mini net, narrating his own imaginary game.

“And he shoots…AND HE SCORES!”

Clara’s sitting beside you on the couch, carefully braiding the hair of a doll, which honestly looks more like twisting it into knots, knots you’ll be undoing later. 

Charlotte is using the couch and coffee table as leverage, standing between them and twisting to hand you random objects like each one carries extreme importance.

The routine holds as best as it can. Dinner. Bath. Stories. You keep everything steady, because that’s your job, and because on nights like this, the house needs to feel like nothing has changed.

The door doesn’t open until after 10. Later than you’d expect him, especially after a weirdly early game for a Friday. When the door does open, it’s quiet. No bag drop. No extra movement. Just the slow turn of the handle and the sound of the lock engaging behind him.

Cato looks up immediately. “Dad?”

Gabe steps into the living room. Still in his suit. Tie loose, hanging more like a scarf. Jacket unbuttoned and open. 

He looks tired. 

Not physically. Heavy. Like the game is still sitting on his shoulders.

Cato runs to him. “We watched!”

Gabe crouches, movements automatic, to catch the boy in a quick hug. 

“Yeah?” He says.

“Yeah. You almost scored.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Almost doesn’t count, Busfrö.”

Clara approaches him next, sidling up and leaning into his side without a word. Gabe rests his hand on her back. 

Charlotte stands, body braced against the couch, and her arms reach for him. Gabe picked her up. But just a minute later, she twists in his arms, looking for you. When her eyes find you, her arms reach back in your direction.

You step forward and take her. 

She settles in your arms immediately.

His shoulders drop slightly. Relief. One less thing to manage right now.

Bedtime takes longer than usual. Clara asks for an extra story. 

Cato asks, just quietly enough that you hear, as you tuck him into his covers, “Will they win next time?”

“They’ll do their best buddy.”

He nods, satisfied enough with your answer and too sleepy to fight it.

Charlotte refuses her crib twice before settling on the third try. 

By the time you make it downstairs, the house is finally still again. You start in the living room, tidying the toys that didn’t get put away before bedtime. Then you check the foyer and make sure the front door is locked before moving on to the next room. When you get to the kitchen, you see that the light is already on.

Gabe’s standing at the counter. Plate in front of him. Untouched. Exactly the same as the other night.

You pause in the doorway, debating whether or not you should interrupt, before ultimately deciding to interrupt whatever he’s doing.

“Hey,” you say, keeping your voice soft.

He looks up in your direction. For a second, the captain's mask is nowhere to be seen, just exhaustion. 

“Hey.”

You move over to the sink to start loading the dishwasher, giving him space. Neither of you speaks for a minute. He’s the one to break the silence.

“We’re pressing.”

The words come out flat.

“We’re chasing plays instead of making them.”

You don't turn to look at him; you just listen, giving him space to vent.

“They’re looking to me to fix it,” he adds, pausing for a second. “And I don’t know if I can.”

His last words are quieter. More honest. They’re what finally make you turn around.

He’s staring at the counter, jaw tight, hands braced against the stone. This isn’t media talk. This isn’t locker room talk. This is the part, the stuff, that he doesn’t say out loud anywhere else. 

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight, Gabe,” you say. 

His eyes lift, finding yours again. “That’s the job.”

“That’s the job out there,” you say, leaning against the opposite counter. “But not here.”

The kitchen goes quiet. The fridge hums softly in the silence. The house is holding its breath.

“You don’t have to be captain here, Gabe.”

The words settle between you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But something in his muscles loosens, just a little.

“I don’t know how to turn it off,” he admits.

Honesty drips off the words, hitting harder than anything else he’s said.

“You don’t have to turn it of,” you say. “You just don’t have to carry it all alone.”

His eyes stay on yours. Longer this time. The look isn’t guarded, it’s definitely not professional, and you’re certain it's the same one from the arena, the couch and the kitchen. The one he keeps trying to control.

He exhales slowly, then he picks up the fork and takes a bite. Not because he’s hungry. But because he can finally breathe enough to eat.

You turn back to the sink, giving him the space to come back to himself.

After a minute, he speaks again.

“They were loud tonight.”

“The kids?”

He nods. “A good loud.”

You smile faintly. 

“They missed you.”

“I missed them too,” he swallows. When he speaks again, it's quieter. “I missed this.”

The kitchen. The routine. The steadiness. 

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

When he finishes eating, he rinses the plate slowly and loads it into the dishwasher. Then he doesn’t leave. He stays leaning against the counter, watching you pack leftovers and snacks to be put into the fridge, watching the normal and very ordinary rhythm of the house moving forward.

“Thanks,” he says finally.

Not the professional version or the controlled one. The heavier one. The one that means more than the meal, more than the schedule, more than the job. You meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, Gabe,” you say again, reiterating yourself to really drive home the point.

Something in his expression shifts. Not relief, not exactly, recognition. And something a lot deeper. The same thing as before, the thing that makes the space between you feel smaller again.

Upstairs, later, as he’s checking the kids’ bedrooms, his movements are slower. Looser. The tension from earlier in the night greatly eased. And when he reaches the end of the hallway, he pauses. 

Your door.

Closed.

Quiet.

Temporary.

That’s really all this was supposed to be. But the truth is, the only place he was able to put the weight down tonight…was with you. And that’s starting to feel less like support and more like something he’s starting to rely on.

____________________________

Saturday mornings are always slower.

No school, no early drop-offs or rush to beat traffic or packing lunches in exact time windows.

The house wakes in layers instead. First is Charlotte, who wakes you up with babbling through the monitor before the sun's even fully risen. Then Clara wakes up, quiet footsteps in the hallway alert you to her presence, and the book in her hand, being dragged behind her, has definitely seen better days. Cato, for once, is the last to wake up. But he comes bursting out of his room like the morning light issued a personal challenge to him to be as loud as possible.

Gabe had come home last night. You know that. You had seen him. He’d helped you with some of bedtime. You haven’t seen him since your talk in the kitchen, but his car is still in the garage, and the coffee maker was already on by the time you came downstairs this morning.

Charlotte's sitting in her high chair, happily throwing the small pieces of banana onto the tray and then immediately picking them back up to do it all again. Clara is perched carefully at the counter beside you, colouring with great precision—especially for an early morning. Cato’s on the floor, building something elaborate out of blocks that looks like it might collapse at any given moment.

The kitchen feels warm. 

Easy. 

Normal.

Then footsteps sound behind you. Gabe walks in slower than usual, still in sweats, hair damp from a shower. He pauses in the doorway. That familiar stop, taking the room in.

Charlotte sees him first.

“Da!”

He crosses the kitchen and kisses the top of her head, movements practiced and natural. Then his eyes move. Cato, then Clara, then you. And the way he looks at you, his eyes linger for half a second. It’s not the guarded look from earlier in the week. It’s something quieter, something softer. 

Then he moves to the coffee pot.

Routine.

Safe.

Breakfast turns into the usual chaos. Cato talking non-stop. Clara asks careful questions. Charlotte reaching out and trying to grab everything at once. 

Gabe stays in the kitchen. Leaning against the counter. Refilling cups, listening, not rushing out or disappearing.

You notice the difference.

So do the kids. Clara drifts closer to him while she eats. Cato keeps turning to look, to make sure he’s still there. Charlotte keeps one small, sticky hand wrapped around his sleeve.

The house feels balanced again.

After breakfast, you move to start on the dishwasher. Cato immediately attaches himself to your side.

“Can we go outside later?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say. “As long as the weather stays good.”

“Can Dad come?”

You glance over at Gabe, who’s checking something on his phone.

“He might have practice,” you say carefully.

Cato nods, silent for a moment. “That’s okay.”

He says the words in the way kids do when they’re trying to convince themselves.

Clara speaks up from the table. “You live here, right?”

You blink at her question. “What?”

“You live here,” she repeats. “You’re part of our house.”

The words land gently but heavily.

Cato nods immediately. 

“Yeah. You’re always here.”

Charlotte, not understanding the conversation but upset about the lack of attention to her, reaches for you and makes a happy sound. 

For a second, you’re not sure what you should say,  because technically, the answer is no. You don’t live here. Not permanently. Not really. Before you can answer her, though, a voice comes from behind you.

“She’s here for the season.”

You turn around. Gabe’s standing near the counter, phone lowered, carefully watching the conversation playing out in front of him. 

The kids look over at him. Clara considers his answer, mulling it over. This time when she asks the question, it’s as serious as she can muster. “But after?”

The kitchen goes quiet. Cato stops building his tower. Charlotte’s head swivels back and forth between you and Gabe like she can feel the shift. You feel a pang in your chest. Because there isn’t a simple answer. And the question isn’t really just about contracts. It’s about the role you’ve taken on in their lives. 

Gabe doesn’t answer right away. His eyes move from Clara over to you, and he holds your gaze longer than he should have. 

“We’ll figure that out later.” He says carefully.

Clara nods, satisfied enough by his words. Cato goes back to his blocks, and Charlotte goes back to banging her hands on her highchair tray. The moment passes—for them.

For you, it doesn’t. Because when you turn back to the sink, you can still feel his gaze on you. And when you finally gather the nerve to look up, he’s still watching you.

Not like an employer.

Not like someone reviewing schedules and relying on predetermined daily outlines.

More like someone realizing something he didn’t plan for. Something that really doesn’t fit inside the word temporary.

______________

Later on, when the kids are outside with you in the backyard, Gabe stays in the kitchen alone for a few minutes. The house is quiet again, but it’s not empty. Not the heavy silence from the kid-free weekend. This one feels fuller, lived in. 

He looks around the room. The empty lunch boxes stacked in the corner on the counter, Charlotte’s blanket from this morning carefully draped over the back of her now clean highchair, Clara’s colouring pages spread across the kitchen table, a few of them taped on the windows—just as high as she can reach, one of Cato’s many sticks leaning against the wall, a foam ball beside it. And your mug, the yellow and white polka-dot one—the one that’s become your favourite these past few weeks, still sitting beside the sink, like it belongs there.

Like you do.

______________

When you finally come back inside, the kids rush ahead of you, and you see Gabe still standing in the same place you’d left him. 

Cato runs straight over to him. “You seen my goal outside?”

“I did,” he says.

Clara slips past him and over to the table where her colouring books are.

Charlotte toddles over to him, standing right in front of his legs, and reaches her arms up. 

He picks her up easily. 

As soon as he’s back to his full height, Charlotte’s swivelling around, reaching for you again. It’s a small familiar routine. The shared gravity of it. His eyes shift and find yours, and for a second, neither of you speaks.

“They’re happier,” Gabe says quietly.

You nod. “I know.”

“The house is different now.” His voice is lower, more honest when he speaks.

You don’t say anything. You don’t answer because you know what he means. 

He looks around the kitchen again. Then back at you. When he speaks again, he doesn’t even bother trying to make it sound professional. He doesn’t wrap it in logistics or scheduling.

“Feels like its built around you…”

His words settle in the space between you. Heavy. Too honest. 

You swallow, forcing the words out. “I’m just doing my job.”

Gabe shakes his head once. 

“No.”

The word is quiet. Certain. But before the moment can turn into anything else, Cato crashes into both of you at once, holding a ball and talking loudly about a new game. 

The spell broke. 

The kitchen fills with noise again. Movement. Life. 

But the look Gabe gave you doesn’t just disappear.

———————————

Later that night, after the house is all settled and the lights are off, Gabe walks through the house the way he always does. Checking doors. Checking on the kids. Nightlights on. Routine. And when he reaches the end of the hallway, he pauses. Your door. 

Closed. 

Quiet. 

Temporary.

That’s still the plan. Still the rule. Still, the safe version of this. But the truth is—the kids are expecting you to stay. The house feels right because you’re in it. And somewhere along the way…he’d come to expect you to stay to.

taglist: @embluesky,

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[pucks-goals-penalties]

Chapter Three

note: holy hell! This took sooooo long and I'm so sorry. I've just been really busy at work with the season wrapping up and now the playoffs. But I've finally managed to finish it, (you can thank the flight from Colorado to Edmonton to LA that gave me the time to finish) so I hope y'all enjoy. I'm hoping to get chapter 4 out in the next couple days too (it kinda depends on where they send me for work) so keep a look out for that. Happy reading!

single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader

wc: 8k (est. reading time: 32min)

warnings: named kids, single parent, mentions of food, terms of endearment, discusses the divorce a little more

⬅️ previous part | series masterlist | next part ➡️

The morning after Gabe gets back, the house feels like it's holding its breath again.

Not in a nervous way this time. More like the quiet anticipation that comes right before kids burst into a room with too much energy and not enough volume control. 

You’re already awake when you hear him. It’s still early—dark outside, the kind of morning that makes the kitchen light feel too bright when you first flick it on. By now, you’re pretty much fully used to the early starts, the tight schedules, the way your days belong to someone else’s calendar. 

Charlotte woke up at five, because of course. You fed her, changed her and settled her into her high chair with her favourite strawberry banana puffs that she immediately attempts to share with some sort of imaginary pet.  Now she’s sitting happily, smearing either raspberries or the half banana across the tray while you move quietly around the kitchen.

Coffee brewing.

Oatmeal simmering for the kids.

Lunches are packed and lined up in the fridge, ready to take.

A small selection of Clara’s sparkly hair clips is sitting in a neat little row beside the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, because if Clara doesn’t get to choose which ones match her mood, the morning could go sideways—you really don’t want that today.

Cato’s jersey—right-side-out is folded on his chair at the table because last night he made sure to tell you that he’d declared it “game week” and so he had the right to wear it whenever he wants.

You hear heavy footfalls come down the hallway and turn just as Gabe walks into the kitchen.

He pauses. Again. It’s becoming a pattern now, these small stops in doorways, like his brain’s still expecting one version and keeps finding another. 

His hair is damp like he’s already showered. Team issued athletic gear on. He looks tired. Not in the way people look tired after an all-nighter or a night out, but in the way someone looks when they’ve been carrying the same weight alone for way too long. 

His eyes land on Charlotte first. 

The moment she sees him, she lights up—one hand shooting into the air like she’s summoning him.

“Da,” she says, not quite the full word, but close enough that it makes something shift in his face.

He crosses the kitchen without so much as a word, leaning in to press his mouth to the top of her head.

“Morning sötnos,” he murmurs.

Charlotte’s response is to grab his sleeve with her tiny fist, anchoring him with her iron grip. Then she looks past him. To you. Like she’s trying to make sure that you’re still in the room. You’re not sure if he notices the glance, but when he straightens to his full height, his eyes flick in your direction like he did.

“Morning,” he says. “You’re up early.”

“Always,” you reply lightly, a small smile on your face. “Char is an early bird.”

He nods, then looks around the kitchen again.

It’s not spotless, but it’s lived in. Warm. Calm. Predictable. Set up for success. His gaze finds the coffee thermos beside his keys on the kitchen counter, a few snacks beside it, too. Then he sees the snacks. And just as you close the fridge door, he spots the lunches lined up and ready to go. Then the small strip of paper taped to one of the snacks for him—Clara’s new glittery good luck drawing, carefully folded and secured like it belongs there.

Gabe’s jaw shifts, like he wants to ask something, but he’s working on the words. Instead, he says quietly, “you didn’t have to do that.”

You glance over at the drawing. “Clara asked me last night to make sure you didn’t forget it.”

A pause settles over the conversation. Gabe’s eyes soften; it would’ve been imperceptible if you weren’t looking at him like you were.

“Yeah,” he said. “She would.”

Charlotte makes a sound of impatience—a cross between a squawk and a raspberry—and reaches both arms up now, demanding to be removed from the high chair. Demanding to be carried like the little princess she is. Gabe lifts her in one swift motion, settling her against his chest, and bouncing her slightly in that practiced way that shows he’d done that more times than anyone’ll ever give him credit for. He shifts her higher on his arm. And then, for a second, he just stands there holding her, soaking in the baby cuddles, looking like a man who's forgotten he’s supposed to be in motion. It’s barely six-thirty. He has practice in a little bit. Meetings. Video sessions. And whatever else his schedule demands for today. 

But right now, he’s just…here. 

With you. 

In the kitchen. 

Holding his baby. 

Breathing. 

You watch him quietly out of the corner of your eye, keeping your movements soft as you putter around so you don’t shatter the moment.

He looks up at you again.

“Kids up yet?”

“Not yet,” you say, knowing he knows the answer. “Cato’ll be down any minute. Clara too.”

As if on cue, a thump sounds from overhead. Then the rapid, determined stomp of small feet that only slows slightly as both you and Gabe call out not to run on the hardwood stairs. Cato appears in the doorway like he was shot out of a cannon.

“Dad!” He shouts.

Cato sprints straight across the kitchen, stopping inches from his father’s legs and sliding slightly in his socks on the tiled floor, looking up with bright eyes full of morning energy that no one over the age of twenty-two is capable of this early.

“You’re home.”

“I’m home,” Gabe confirms, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at his son’s antics.

Cato bounces on his toes, wobbling each time he rises. “Did you win?”

Gabe doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pauses, thinking how to answer a yes or no question that isn’t really a yes or no question. “We did.”

Cato throws both fists in the air as if he’d personally scored the game-winning goal—a celly you’ve caught him practicing in the living room on more than one occasion. “Yes!”

Charlotte squeals at the noise and at her brother's excitement, smacking Gabe’s chest happily from her spot in his arms.

Cato points to the folded fabric on his chair at the table with sudden seriousness. “Is that my jersey?”

“It’s your jersey,” you say.

“Good,” he says with finality, like the matter is settled.

Clara shuffles into the kitchen minutes later. Slower than her brother. Quieter. Hair still mussed from sleep, stuffed Bernie tucked under one arm like it’s a part of her body. She stops in the doorway when her sleepy eyes find her dad, and for a second, she doesn’t move. Then she walks over and presses herself against his side without a word, leaning into him with that reserved affection of hers—the one that always seems deeper because she doesn’t offer it freely.

Gabe looks down at her. His hand gently comes down and rests on her back.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says softly.

Clara murmurs something into the fabric of his hoodie, too soft for you to hear; you only catch one word clearly: “home.”

You see the way his throat moves, the way he swallows thickly at the words.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m home.”

The rest of breakfast goes by in a blur. Cato spends the entire time narrating his plan for the day. Clara spends the majority of breakfast mulling over her hair clips before choosing the sparkly yellow star clips. Charlotte repeatedly reaches over from her highchair, trying to steal Clara’s spoon. You keep moving around the kitchen refilling, wiping, redirecting. 

Through the entirety of it, he stays. He doesn’t sit for long—already in work mode, mentally halfway gone—but he doesn’t rush the kids either. He’s leaning against the wall, coffee in hand, watching Cato hoover his food like it's a competitive sport. He reaches over and smooths Clara’s hair back when she leans too far over her bowl. And he lets Charlotte cling to his sleeve, tiny sticky fingers wrapped around him like a reminder. 

You catch him watching you once. 

Not in a way that feels flirtatious. In a way that feels…evaluating. As if he was finally fully coming to the realization that the rhythm of the house doesn’t fall apart when he’s not there, but it holds because you are.

Cato finishes breakfast first. To no one’s surprise. He hops down from his chair, goes to his room to get dressed, and then back down running on his way back to the kitchen.

“Are you coming to my practice today?” He asks, looking at you.

“I am.”

Cato grins. “Good.”

Then he turns to look at his dad. 

“Are you coming too?”

The question stills the kitchen air. You see it right away. The tiniest shift in Gabe’s posture. The tightening of his jaw. Because the answer, no matter how much he wished it could be something else, would probably be no. Because it’s usually a no. Because, unfortunately for Gabe, Cato’s practices usually happen in the middle of his schedule—his hockey schedule, the same one that dictates roughly 10 1/2 months of the year. 

Gabe glances over at the glowing numbers on the stove. Then over at Cato. Then to Clara, who’s watching him quietly now, eyes slightly too big, like she’s a little more mature than she should be at her age, like she understands that sometimes adults say no even when they don’t want to. Charlotte doesn’t understand; she just pats his shoulder and babbles. 

Gabe crouches down so he’s level with his son.

“I can’t today,” he says, voice steady. “I’ve got work.”

Cato’s face falls for half a second. The recovery is quick, like it’s something he’s been practicing too. Unfortunately, it’s not fast enough that Gabe misses it. And Gabe’s not fast enough for you not to catch the way his face falls at his son’s reaction.

“It’s okay,” Cato says, in that too cheerful way you know he does when he’s pretending. “Come next time.”

You both pause; Gabe pauses longer. Then he nods. “Yeah. Next time.”

Cato accepts his words and runs off towards the living room to play. Clara doesn’t move. She stays in her chair, watching her father in silence until he looks up and catches her eye.

“What?” He asks gently.

Clara’s voice is small when she speaks. “Are you going again?”

The kitchen goes quiet. Just for a moment. Gabe stands, joints cracking as he returns to his height, and he slowly adjusts Charlotte on his arm.

“No,” he says. “Not for a little bit.”

Clara nods, his words satisfying her. She goes back to her breakfast quietly. 

You see the way his grip tightens on Charlotte for a second. How he stares at the table like he’s searching for something that isn’t there. 

His movements are jerky and abrupt as he turns to look over at you, like he’s trying to escape the last few minutes.

“We good today?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say. “Same as usual.”

He nods, hesitating like he wants to say something else, but instead he just lands on, “thanks.”

And then in a few quick movements, he’s gone.

When the front door clicks shut behind him, it’s like the house exhales. 

Cato’s calling for you from the living room. Clara’s still working on her breakfast slowly. Charlotte’s is in your arms now, because she’d reached for you the second Gabe put her on the floor—tiny hands trying to grab at you, demanding your attention. You adjust Charlotte on your hip and look toward the door for a second longer than you mean to. 

Because even though Gabe left like planned, like he usually does, he’d stayed longer than usual. He’d stayed in the moment. You saw it. That small, careful way he acts when he isn’t sure what to do with warmth.

______________________________

The rink always smells the same. Cold air, the rubber mats, and the faint metallic bite of the sharpened steel lingering in the air.

Cato loves it. 

He practically bounces through the doors every practice, already partway into his equipment before you even reach the bench area in the change room.

“I can do it myself,” he announces while simultaneously struggling with the strap on his left shin guard.

“You always say that, buddy,” you say, crouching down in front of him anyway.

Clara settles onto the bench beside her brother with her book, legs swinging slightly, perfectly content to disappear into her own little world.

Charlotte is secure in the carrier on your back, you can feel her little hands playing with your hair, and wiggling around like she is trying to look at everything around her.

You work through the routine automatically.

Shin pads. Socks. Pants. Skates. Shoulder and elbow pads. Jersey. Helmet. Gloves.

Cato leans into you without thinking as you move through the routine. When he’s all dressed, you gently tap him on the helmet, and he sits down on the bench so you can tie his laces.

“Too tight?” You ask, tightening the strings.

He shakes his head. “No. Tight is fast.”

You hide a smile.

Around you, other parents and trusted adults are moving through the same motions—bags opening, kids wiggling, voices echoing off the rink walls. It’s normal. Ordinary. Which is why you don’t notice him right away. 

Your first tip-off was the way Charlotte started wiggling more in the carrier. Next is the energy shift in the room. It’s subtle at first. A couple of the kids and parents were glancing toward the change room entrance. A few voices lowering mid-conversation. The quiet kind of ripple that moves through a space when a well-known person enters a room. 

Looking up from Cato’s skates, you look where everyone else is looking. 

Gabe’s standing rinkside. In the same athletic gear he’d been wearing when he left the house that morning. Hair damp and messy, like he’d rushed some semblance of a shower in his hurry from the training facility to get here on time. 

For a second, he doesn’t move. His eyes find the bench immediately. Find Cato. Then Clara. Then Charlotte, whose head is peeking over your shoulder. Then you. Something in his shoulders loosens as he takes in all of you, his family, together. 

Cato still hasn’t noticed his dad. Too busy talking your ear off all about his practice plans.

“Okay buddy,” you say. “Try standing up for me.”

Cato hops down, wobbling once and reaching for your hand before finding his balance. That’s when he sees him.

“Dad!”

The shout echoes over the loud arena sounds and the change room noise. Cato runs awkwardly in his skates straight toward the waiting man. 

Gabe crouches without hesitation, opening his arms wide, automatically. Cato collides into his solid frame.

“You came!”

“I had time,” Gabe says, voice softer than it had been all morning.

That tone, you’d heard that tone before. Dad mode. 

It’s only once Clara hears her dad’s voice that she looks up from her book, eyes widening. She slides off the bench and walks over slowly, but when she reaches him, she leans into his side the exact same way she’d done that morning in the kitchen. Like she’d been waiting all day for that exact moment. 

Charlotte starts making excited sounds and trying to reach, so you walk over to them. 

Gabe stands to take her, carefully unbuckling her from the carrier, one hand settling at the back of her head as she tucks herself against his shoulder. 

For a moment, all four of them are clustered together beside the boards. And you feel something shift in your chest, something you aren’t expecting. Because this is what the mornings are missing. This is what the house always feels like it’s waiting for.

“Coach said I was faster last time,” Cato explains, bouncing slightly.

“I believe it.”

“I’m going to score today.”

“I’ll be watching.”

Cato takes that very seriously, and once you all walk him to the rink entrance, he carefully steps on and skates away with renewed determination. 

The rest of you walk over and find a spot on the bleachers where the rest of the parents are. Clara sits beside him, reassured, opening her book again. Charlotte stays with Gabe, but that only lasts for about a minute. She twists in his arms, and her eyes find you. And then her arms reach out. He notices—of course he does—and hands her back to you without hesitation. She settles against you immediately, calm and content. He watches for half a second. Not surprised anymore, just…aware. Then he turns his attention back to the ice.

Practice finally starts. Kids circle the ice in uneven lines. Parents are scattered throughout the bleachers that had really started to fill up in the five minutes before practice started. You and Gabe stay where you are, in Cato’s sightline, waving every time he looks over. Clara has pressed herself further into Gabe’s side—if that’s even possible—and moved onto her second book. You and Gabe are sitting so close that your shoulders almost line up as you both watch the ice.

“You come to these every time?” He asks after a couple of minutes.

“Yes.”

He nods. “Thanks.”

“Cato likes when someone’s watching,” you say, shrugging lightly.

“He always has,” he says.

As the words come out, you hear in his voice that he’s carrying something heavier than just the words.

A mom, a couple of spots down, glances over at you. Then she looks again. Then smiles politely as she leans over.

“You must be so proud,” she says to Gabe. “He’s already got your stride.”

“We’re working on it,” he replies easily.

The woman’s eyes shift to you, then over to Clara tucked into his side, then over to Charlotte in your arms, and back to him.

“And you must be Mom,” she says warmly.

The moment freezes. Not dramatically. Just a small, quiet stillness. And the air feels like it’s dropped even lower.

You open your mouth to correct her, but he speaks first.

“She’s our nanny.”

The woman blinks once, surprised, but to her credit, she recovers quickly. “Oh! Well, you’re lucky,” she says to you. “Cato’s a sweet kid.”

You smile politely.

The woman turns back to the other parents sitting closer to her, all of them pretending to look away when you look in their direction—like they hadn’t been staring at you like you’re their favourite reality show. 

The conversation had been short. It lasted maybe ten seconds. But the air felt different afterwards. Because the word hung there, in the silence.

Nanny.

It’s accurate. It’s professional. It’s also temporary. Which this has been feeling less and less.

You shift Charlotte slightly on your lap.

Gabe still hasn’t moved. His eyes are still locked on the ice, but his jaw has tightened. After a moment, you hear him mutter quietly under his breath, and you’re certain the words aren’t meant for you, “Hon är så mycket mer än bara det.”

The words are soft enough that if you weren’t sitting right beside him, you would’ve thought you imagined them. He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t explain. Instead, he leans forward so he’s almost out of his seat, and watches as Cato makes an awkward turn near the corner of the boards.

“watch you edge,” he calls.

Cato looks up when he hears his dad’s voice and straightens out like he’d received elite coaching, the smile on his face so bright you can’t help but smile too.

The rest of the practice passes the same as it always does. Cato skates harder with him there. Clara stays close to Gabe, content, but still looking over in your direction occasionally. Charlotte had fallen asleep against your shoulder about halfway through. 

When practice ends, Cato skates over to the boards by the team bench just in front of the bleachers where you’re sitting.

“Did you see my stop?” He asks.

“I saw it,” Gabe says.

“Was it good?”

“You’ve gotten a lot better buddy.”

The grin on his face only gets brighter—like that’s possible—and accepts the words like they’re the highest praise.

You walk over and help him off the ice, and on the way to the change room, he talks nonstop about practice. Relaying it all to you like you weren’t sitting there. About the drills. About skating faster. About how Gabe had come even though he said he couldn’t. 

You glance up once while you’re helping Cato undo his skates. 

Gabe’s watching you again. That same quiet, measuring look. Not evaluating your work per se, but watching how naturally the moment works. How the kids move around you. How Charlotte had been comfortable enough to fall asleep against you in one of the loudest places. How Clara leans into your side without thinking about it too much. How Cato talks to you like you’re absolutely part of the team. 

When your eyes meet, Gabe doesn’t look away immediately. He just nods once. 

It’s small. 

But it’s deliberate.

Outside the rink, the cool air still feels warmer than it did inside the rink.

You manage to keep Cato glued to your side as you walk with the kids and Gabe through the parking lot, but as soon as the car is a few feet away, with no signs of other cars nearby, Cato is running ahead. Clara follows her brother, but slower. Gabe walks beside you as you adjust Charlotte in your arms again.

“She likes these,” he says.

“The practices?”

“The routine.”

You nod. “So do they.”

There’s a lull, a comfortable silence. 

“So do I.”

The words are so quiet you almost don’t hear them. They’re honest. And heavier than they should be. Because routine means stability and stability, well, that means trust.

Gabe helps you load the kids into the car. Once the last kid is buckled and their equipment is in the trunk, he closes the car door gently. For a moment, neither of you moves, kind of just stare at each other. Then he steps back.

“I’ve got meetings,” he says.

You nod. “See you tonight.”

He hesitates, then adds: “Thanks.”

And deep down you know, it’s not about the ride. Or the practice. Or the schedule. Not really. It’s about something else. Something steadier that’s starting to feel a lot less temporary every day. 

You watch Gabe climb into his car and drive off. As you ready yourself to drive home, for the first time since you took this job, the word nanny feels smaller than the role you’re allowing yourself to fill.

_________________________

You know something is wrong before Gabe even walks into the house. There was no text message from him or from Hayley. There was nothing on the schedule or in your emails that says anything’s been changed.

But the game had ended well over two hours ago, and the postgame coverage playing quietly on the living room TV is telling the story well enough. The commentators are using careful voices, but the words they’re using are sharp, talking about ’slumping’ and ‘unstable under pressure’ and ‘questions about team leadership.’

Cato doesn’t understand any of it. He’s still sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, still wearing his jersey, still hopeful.

“They’ll win next time,” he says with complete confidence, the kind that only children have.

“They might,” you say gently.

Clara is sitting beside you on the couch, quiet, picking at the edge of her blanket. Charlotte is sitting in your lap, unusually still, calm. 

The house feels different. 

Not like it’s holding its breath. 

More like it’s waiting.

You hear the door open a little after nine. No bag drop this time. Not a noisy entrance. Just the quiet turn of the handle and the sound of it latching behind him. 

Cato’s on his feet immediately.

“Dad!”

He runs toward the entryway. You follow more slowly, Charlotte balanced on your hip and Clara at your side.

Gabe is standing just inside the door, still in his suit. Tie loosened. Jacket undone. Shirt partly unbuttoned. Hair is slightly damp at the edges. He looks…tight. Not angry. Not upset in an obvious way. Just like he’s wound too tight to really relax. 

Cato reaches him first.

“Did you see my practice video? Coach said he sent it to you,” he asks, already talking a mile a minute. “Coach said my stops are getting better and—”

“Hey, buddy,” Gabe says, gently interrupting him.

The words are gentle. 

His tone is soft. 

But his attention is split. His eyes flicker towards the hallway, then in the direction of the TV noise, then toward you. He’s not fully present yet.

Cato doesn’t notice. He keeps talking. 

Clara approaches her dad more carefully, stopping a few steps away.

Charlotte reaches for him as soon as he’s in her view. He takes her easily, pressing a quick kiss to the downy hair on the top of her head. After a few seconds, she’s twisting in his arms. Her eyes find you, and her arms reach back. 

You step forward and take her; she settles immediately.

He notices.

You see it in the way his shoulders drop half an inch. Relief. One less thing to manage. 

Dinner had been made, and the kids had been fed hours ago. It was simple. Easy. The kind of meal that doesn’t require conversation if no one has the energy to sustain it. Gabe sits at the table to eat, and the kids insist on sitting too, asking for fruit. The air is heavy with emotions. 

Cato fills it, talking anyway. About practice. About a drill. About how next time Gabe comes to his practice, he’ll be faster. 

Gabe nods along, responding when needed, but the weight behind his eyes is still there.

Clara barely speaks. She just sits there observing. Observing her brother. Observing her dad. Observing you. Kids notice more than adults think they do. She whispers to you once about how ’daddy looks tired.’

Charlotte stays glued to you, quieter than usual, like she’s trying to match the room.

You do your best to keep the energy low. No pressure for conversation. No asking about the game. Just routine. Stability. The best kind of comfort you can offer—for now. 

Once he’s done his fruit, Cato brings out his hockey stick. Somehow, at night, the no hockey in the kitchen rule gets forgotten every time.

“Watch this,” he says, setting up a shot in the hallway just off the kitchen.

The puck—blue, soft foam, thankfully—bounces off the baseboard and rolls toward the kitchen. 

Cato looks up expectantly. 

Gabe is standing stock still at the kitchen island, staring at his phone, absorbed in whatever it is he’s reading.

“Dad?”

The moment passes, silence hanging a few seconds too long. Then Gabe blinks, looking up.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He steps into the hallway.

“Let’s see it.”

Cato lines up for the shot again. It’s not bad. It’s actually a lot better than he’d been a few weeks ago.

“Good,” Gabe says distractedly.

You watch as Cato’s smile fades a little, and you step in, trying to smooth it over.

“Try your balance this time,” you told him. “Remember what coach told you.”

Cato resets, focused again. 

You catch Gabe’s eye for a second. He knows what you’re doing. Keeping things steady. Keeping the moment from slipping too far. He nods once. Grateful.

Bedtime is quicker than usual. The energy in the house is low, and you’re certain that, despite your best efforts, the kids can feel it. Clara asks you to read two stories instead of just one. Charlotte refuses to be put in her crib until you’ve rocked and cuddled her longer than usual. By the time Cato’s getting to bed, it feels like the low energy has started to take a toll on you, too.

As you’re tucking him, Cato asks, voice quiet: “did they lose?”

“Yes,” you say.

He seems to think about it for a second before nodding decisively.

“That’s okay,” he says. “They’ll win later.”

The certainty in his voice tugs at something in your chest, and you wish that you could feel the same certainty he does.

When you finally make it back downstairs, the overhead light in the kitchen is on. And Gabe is standing there. Still in his dress shirt, suit jacket long discarded, sleeves rolled up and tie long gone. He isn’t doing anything. Just standing at the island, hands braced against the edge of the countertop. It’s like he’s run out of momentum and doesn’t know where to put himself next—it’s really telling because on nights when he’s home, he likes to do the bedtime routine with the kids.

“They’re down,” you say softly, trying not to spook him.

He nods.

A long moment passes. 

You’re debating what you should do when he speaks: “Bad stretch.”

The words are quiet and controlled, but there’s a frustration underneath. You don’t rush to fill the silence. Gabe continues after a moment.

“Media’s on top of it, like always. The team’s pressing. Guys are tight.” A small pause. “I’m tight.”

You lean back against the counter in front of the sink. 

“They notice,” you say.

His head lifts slightly, but he’s still not looking at you.

“The kids,” you clarify. “They feel it when you bring it home like this.”

The muscles in his jaw flex.

“I try not to.”

“I know.”

You aren’t trying to criticize him. Just tell the truth. 

Gabe looks down at the countertop again. For a second, he looks less like a hockey captain and more like someone who hasn’t had space to be anything but ‘strong’ for a long time.

“They don’t need you perfect Gabe,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move.

“They just need you here.”

Silence fills the kitchen. It’s not empty. It’s heavy.

He exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“Yeah,” he says.

The word is rougher than usual. More vulnerability in his voice. After a moment, he adds, “I hate when it follows me home.”

You nod in understanding. “Then leave it at the door next time.”

Those words earn you the faintest huff of air that might’ve been the beginning of a laugh.

“I’ll work on that,” he says.

You turn to start rinsing dishes, hands finding a cup first, trying to give him space. Behind you, you hear him move. Not toward the hallway or toward the stairs, or toward the loving room. He stays in the kitchen. His footsteps move a little closer. When you peek over your shoulder, you can see he’s rounded the kitchen island now, and he’s leaning against it instead of bracing against it. After a minute, he speaks again.

“They seem…okay,” he says.

“They are.”

There’s another pause. Then words that come a lot quieter than the previous ones.

“That’s you.”

You glance back at him.

“They’re okay because the house is steady,” he says. “Because you keep it that way.”

You don’t brush the words off this time. Because the way he says them, it isn’t casual. Its acknowledgement. It’s trust.

“I’m glad it helps,” you say.

He holds your eyes for a second, then he nods. 

“Yeah.” 

This time, the word doesn’t sound tired. It sounds relieved.

He stays in the kitchen while you do the dishes, picking up here and there to help out. The quiet that fills the house isn’t the same quiet it was earlier. Instead of the tense, heavy silence, it’s the softer kind that comes after everyone’s settled, after the day’s burned itself out and nothing is left but low lights and the hum of the fridge. 

You move through your routine automatically. Dinner leftovers into containers. Lunch boxes wiped down and emptied. Charlotte’s bottle was prepped and set out for the morning. It’s easier to keep moving than to think too much about the heaviness from earlier. Or the fact that he’d stayed downstairs, in the kitchen with you, when he usually goes upstairs. His deviation from his usual routine—checking on the kids, showering, and disappearing for the only part of the day that actually belongs to him—kinda throws you off.

When you turn from wiping the sink, he’s still there. Leaning against the opposite countertop. Arms folded loosely now. Not tense anymore. Just…staying. And when he catches your eyes, you pause your movements.

“Everything okay?” You ask.

He nods. Just once. “Yeah.”

But he doesn’t move from his spot. Neither of you speaks. The overhead kitchen light is off now, the over-the-stove lamp the only light in the room, casting it in a warm glow that makes everything feel smaller. Quieter. More private.

Gabe breaks the silence first. “They didn’t ask about the game.”

“No,” you say. “They could sense something was off. You know how perceptive your kids are Gabe. Clara said you looked tired.”

That makes something shift in his expression. A small crease appears between his brows as he frowns at you.

“They notice that too?”

“They notice a lot more than we think,” you say gently.

He exhales through his nose, almost a quiet laugh. “Great.”

But the tension behind it isn’t frustration. It’s the weight of being watched by three small people who love him without filters. You dry your hands on a towel as you finish up and lean against the counter across from him.

“They were so excited you were able to make time to come to practice,” you add.

“I saw.” He pauses. “I don’t get to do that enough.”

There’s no defensiveness behind the words. Just fact. Tiredness. And maybe a little defeat.

“You show up when you can,” you say. “That matters.”

His eyes lift to yours. For a second, he looks like he might argue, but something in your face seems to dissuade him. Then he shakes his head.

“They deserve so much more than when I can.”

You take a minute, choosing your words carefully. “They deserve someone who loves them. And someone who keeps coming back.”

You can see exactly when your words hit the mark. You see it in the way his shoulders ease, and the tension bleeds out a little more.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It stretches, slow and steady, like the house itself has settled into the moment. Gabe glances over to the hallway, where just upstairs, the kids are sleeping soundly.

“They sleep better,” he says. “They feel secure.”

He pauses again. Then he says something that shifts the air in the kitchen completely.

“I don’t worry when I’m on the road anymore.”

You don’t speak. You know what he means by those words.

He continues, voice quiet but steady, resolute.

“Before…I’d check my phone constantly. Between meetings. Between periods. Anytime time I had a spare minute, just waiting for something to go wrong.” A muscle ticks in his jaw as he remembers. “Now I don’t.”

His eyes meet yours.

“I know they’re okay.”

The words are simple. But the meaning underneath them is anything but. Trust. Not in the routine. Not in the house. In you. And you feel the weight of that settle deep in your chest.

“I’m glad,” you say softly.

He holds your gaze for a second longer.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

You turn to the calendar on the side of the fridge, more to give yourself a minute to breathe than anything else. Behind you, you can hear him push away from the counter. You’re expecting him to head toward the stairs, or maybe out to the living room. Instead, he moves closer to where you are, by the sink and picks up a dish towel. He starts drying the couple of things you’d left in the rack for yourself in the morning. You blink.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says.

The same words you’ve used more than once are being thrown back at you. Gabe doesn’t look at you while he works, just focuses on drying the dishes slowly, carefully, like it’s giving his hands something to do while his mind catches up with him. For a few minutes, you work side by side. Him drying things. Then passing them over to you. And you putting them away. Moving around each other with ease in the small space. It feels…domestic. Comfortable in a way that's almost dangerous. Because it doesn’t feel like employer and employee, it feels like two people who live the same life. When the last dish is put away, he stays where he is. Hands resting on the counter. Quiet.

“You’ve made this easier.”

You look at him.

“The season,” he clarifies, pushing out a breath. “Honestly, everything.”

His eyes are steady.

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

There’s no exaggeration in his tone. No attempts to make it sound bigger than it is. Which somehow makes the words land harder.

“I’m just doing my job,” you say.

He shakes his head at that.

“It’s more than that.”

The words are there. Neither of you is rushing to fill the space after them. Finally, he pushes away from the counter.

“I should get upstairs,” he says. “Early skate.”

You nod. “Goodnight, Gabe.”

He takes a few steps out of the kitchen. Then he stops just outside the doorway. He doesn’t fully turn back—just enough that you can see his side profile.

“Thanks,” he says.

Not for the dishes. 

Not for the dinner.

Not for the kids.

For all of it.

For the steadiness.

For the way the house feels when he walks into it now.

You give him a small smile.

“Goodnight solsken,” he says. 

Then he moves out of view completely, and you hear his footsteps as he ascends the stairs.

A few minutes later, the house is completely quiet. You turn off the last light, double-check the doors are locked, and head up to your room. At the end of the hallway, you pause. Because his bedroom door is ajar, the soft glow of a lamp spills out. And the low murmur of his voice. You can’t make out the words, but you know the tone, gentle, the one he uses when he thinks no one is listening or when he checks on his kids. 

As you stand there for just a second longer than you mean to, you realize two things. One, he doesn’t worry when he’s gone anymore. But when he’s home, he stays close, like he’s still learning how to trust that the life inside the walls of the house isn’t going to disappear on him. And two, he called you something other than your name for the first time since you’ve been here. What he said, you don’t know, but you’re almost one hundred percent certain he said it in Swedish, which was basically a guarantee that you wouldn’t understand. 

____________________________

The next night feels normal. Comfortably, quietly normal. 

Dinner is early because Cato had declared that he was “starving like hockey player,” which apparently for him meant eating twice as fast and then asking for a second helping five minutes later. 

Clara sat beside her brother at the table, carefully lining up the carrots on her plate before eating them one at a time, smallest to biggest.

Charlotte stayed close to your leg the entire time you were preparing dinner, periodically demanding to be picked up, only to want to be put down again immediately. 

Gabe made it home before dinner, which always shifts the energy in the house. Not louder. Just fuller. Cato talks more. Clara smiles more. Charlotte keeps checking that he’s still in the room. 

And he stays. Not hovering, or trying to control the routine, just moving through it alongside you. Filling cups, cutting food smaller when Charlotte started to grab it too fast. Wiping the table down without being asked.

It’s easy. That’s the most dangerous part. It’s starting to feel easy.

Bedtime comes with the usual rotation. Bath. Pyjamas. One argument about which book counts as “the last one.” Cato’s the first one down, already half-asleep before you even make it to the end of the story. 

Clara’s still fully awake as you help her get ready for bed. You tuck her blanket up under her chin, smoothing the corner in the way she likes.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” you say softly.

She murmurs it back to you. As you straighten up to leave, you look at her one last time.

“Are you staying?” She asks.

You blink, a little caught off guard by her question. “I’m staying tonight, you know that.”

She shakes her head slightly, scrunching up her nose. 

“No. After. After hockey.”

The question is heavier than it should be. Because you don’t have a good answer. Your contract has an end date. Because temporary had been the plan from the beginning. You think for a moment, choosing your words with care.

“I’m here for the whole season,” you say. “That’s a long time sweetheart.”

Clara studies your face. 

You try to school your expression. Kids always have a way of seeing through the parts adults desperately try to soften.

“After?” She asks.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit, voice coming out weaker than you intended.

She goes silent for a moment. Then she nods once, like she’s filing your words away somewhere important.

“Okay.”

Her hand finds your sleeve before you can move away. She holds on for a second longer than usual. Then she let’s go.

“Goodnight,” she whispers.

“Goodnight, Clara.”

When you step out into the hallway, gently shutting her door behind you, he’s there. Leaning against the wall across from her room. You hadn’t heard him come up; he was on Charlotte's bedtime duty tonight. For a second, neither of you speaks. Like you’re both waiting for the other to make the first move. 

“She really ask you that?” He asks.

Your stomach drops at his tone, but you nod, answering anyway. “Yes.”

He looks toward Clara’s door, then over to Cato’s, and then back to Clara’s. His expression doesn’t change much, but that muscle in his jaw ticks.

“What did you tell her?”

“That I’m here for the season.”

“What about after?”

“I told her I don’t know.”

Silence stretches between you. The hallway is dim, lit only by the nightlights from the kids’ rooms and the one at the end of the hall by the bathroom. The house has settled into that late-evening stillness again. You can’t help but think that here, outside of the kids’ rooms—especially when they’re finally asleep—is the worst possible place to be having this conversation. 

Finally, he pushes off the wall.

“She gets attached,” he says.

His words are calm. But you can hear the underlying meaning. Concern. Maybe a warning.

“I know.” You nod. “So do you.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. You know you’re toeing a very fine line.

His eyes snap back to yours. The air in the hallway changes. Not sharp. Charged. He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his voice is lower.

“They need stability.”

It’s not really a response. It’s a redirect. A way to avoid addressing your comment at all. You don’t push.

“I understand.”

That seems to release something in his shoulders. He nods once. Then turns toward the stairs.

You expect that to be the end of the conversation. But when you come downstairs after checking on the kids one more time, he’s in the kitchen. Again. It’s starting to become a pattern. 

The overhead lights are off, leaving only the soft glow over the stove. He’s standing at the counter, hands resting on the edge. Thinking. When he hears you enter the kitchen, he glances up.

“They ask you that a lot?” He asks.

“About staying?”

He nods.

“Sometimes.

He looks down at the counter. You see the way his hands clench at the edge of the stone surface. 

“They didn’t use to ask that.”

You know that’s not about you. It’s about the space you’ve filled since being here.

“They feel safe,” you say. “They know the routine isn’t just going to change on them.”

He pushes a breath through his teeth, exhaling slowly.

“That’s what I was trying to build after the divorce, what I’ve been trying to build,” he says. “Something steady.”

He pauses.

“I just didn’t think it would come from someone temporary.”

The word sits between you. And it stings a little more than you expect.

Temporary.

Contract.

End date.

Reality.

You lean slightly against the opposite counter. “The season’s long.”

“It is,” he agrees.

But as he says the words, he doesn’t sound reassured. Actually, he sounds like someone who’s already thinking about what’s going to happen when it ends.

The silence that follows is heavier than the one’s you’ve shared with him before. Not uncomfortable, not really, just full of things neither of you is saying. That neither of you is ready to say. 

“They’re happier,” he says.

You don’t say anything because he’d said that to you before, but this time, there’s more behind it.

“And the house…” he pauses, searching for the right words. “…feels like something’s holding it together.”

His eyes meet yours.

“That’s you.”

You swallow thickly, trying to force down the emotion. “I’m glad it helps.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he lets the moment stretch—a little further than it should—before stepping back.

“Early morning,” he says.

It sounds like a weak reminder, more like an excuse. You don’t comment. You just nod.

“Goodnight.”

He heads out of the kitchen, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him stop fully just at the edge of the doorway. He stands there for a second, shoulders still, like he’s trying to balance something in his head. Then he disappears fully from your view.

Later, after everyone else—including you—is in bed, long after the lights are off and the house has gone quiet again, he moves through the hallway the way he always does. Checking doors. Nightlights. Blankets. Routine. But when he reaches your end of the hall, he slows. Your door is closed, no light spilling out beneath it, and it’s quiet. You were supposed to be temporary. Just for a season. A solution. A way to get through the hardest stretch of the year, nothing more. He’d built the season up in his head around that idea. No distractions, complications, or attachments that can’t survive past the playoffs. 

But as he stands there in the dim hallway, listening to the steady silence of a house that finally feels calm when he walks into it, he realizes something a lot heavier than he expected. The routines aren’t temporary anymore. The quiet isn’t temporary. The way the kids move through the house without tension, the way he’s stopped constantly checking his phone when he travels, the way the kitchen light is on without fail every time he comes home. None of it feels temporary. And the part he hadn’t planned for, the one he doesn’t know how to control, is that the house doesn’t feel like it’s just getting through the season anymore. It feels like it’s building something. And for once, he’s not sure what’s going to happen when the season ends.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[pucks-goals-penalties]

Chapter Four

note: Surprise! I can't believe I actually managed to get this done but here we are. Shockingly, the airport lounge and flights to Montreal, Ottawa, and LA gave me ample time to write this chapter and after a mini-work-crisis hair cut, I got it done. I hope y'all enjoy. Happy reading!

single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader

wc: 9.5k (est.reading time: 38min)

warnings: kids, single dad, mentions of food, overbearing dad (not gabe), slight jealousy, tension, mentions of divorce and ex-wife

⬅️ previous part | series masterlist | next part ➡️

The first thing you learn when living in someone else’s house is that you learn their rhythms and their routines a lot faster than you learn their stories. 

You learned which floorboard near the stairs to avoid after bedtime because it creaks.

You learned that Clara absolutely needs to choose her sparkly clip  before she gets dressed, not after, otherwise she’ll go still and quiet, which either leads to a complete meltdown or a mopey little girl the entire day. 

You learnt that Cato has exactly two speeds: all of them and asleep. 

You learnt that Charlotte is not a big fan of transitions. In fact, you could go so far as to say she despises them. She’s the happiest when all her people are in the same place, and she can see them all. 

You learnt—slowly, without it ever being explicitly said aloud—that Gabe likes the quiet and calm in the mornings, especially when the house doesn’t feel like it’s bracing for impact.

This morning is one of those. 

Charlotte’s perched on your hip, secure in one arm while you crack eggs into a bowl with your other hand. Her cheek presses against your shoulder like she’s made the executive decision that that is where she lives now. And every so often, she pats your collarbone with sticky fingers, like she’s reconfirming that you’re solid and real and still the one holding her. 

The kitchen smells of coffee and toast and the start of breakfast. Morning sunlight is slowly leaking through the stained glass window above the sink, painting the kitchen in an array of coloured reflections. 

Cato’s lunch is already packed. You’d done that before Charlotte demanded to be held. Clara’s lunch is half-packed because she’d insisted the night before that the apple slices need to be cut into stars, and no matter how much you wish you can, you just can’t do that one-handed. 

You’re halfway through whisking the eggs when you hear the footsteps softly echoing behind you. Not on the stairs. From the hallway. A lot earlier than they usually are. You turn your head slightly, just to double-check you’re not hearing things.

Gabe’s standing in the doorway, clad in a fitted long-sleeve and sweats, hair still damp, and a towel slung over one shoulder. His cheeks are faintly flushed, like he’s just finished his morning run. He stops in the same way that’s become a habit, just for a beat, taking in the stock of the room. 

His gaze lands on Charlotte—comfortable in your arms. The minute she sees him, she makes a small, pleased sound.

“Da,” she says.

He crosses the kitchen, no hesitation in his stride, leaning in to press a kiss to the messy hair on the top of her head, and whispers: “god morgon sötnos.”

Charlotte's response is to grab onto the neck of your shirt like an anchor, like she’s unwilling to leave your arms just because he’s here.

He notices. His mouth twitches at her behaviour like he doesn’t know whether to be offended at her reluctance to go to him or relieved at how comfortable she is with you.

“Morning solsken,” he murmurs.

“Good morning Gabe,” you reply.

He reaches for a mug and starts the coffee maker for himself, and then he pauses. Looks around the kitchen.

There’s a second mug on the counter, beside it a well-read looking book with a bookmark about halfway—yours—and his travel thermos is sitting on the counter near his keys, ready to be filled like it always is. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders ease. You can see the tension leave his body, even just a little bit. And you’re starting to recognize what that means, it’s relief dressed up as routine. 

Cato comes downstairs minutes later in his flannel Mickey Mouse pyjamas and hair that looks like he’d gone through a windstorm on his way downstairs—and the way he rushes into the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the tiles, doesn’t have you fully convinced that he hadn’t. 

“You’re here!”

“I’m here Busfrö, ” Gabe says, voice soft in the way he reserves specifically for the kids.

Cato’s gaze snaps over to the counter where you’re standing by the stove.

“Is that eggs?”

“Best day.” Cato grins.

Clara appears next, maybe ten minutes later, quiet like usual. Hugging her stuffed Bernie tight to her chest, like it might disappear. She stops in the doorway, glances at her dad, then walks straight to him and presses her forehead into his side without a word. 

Gabe’s hand comes down automatically, gently resting on her back.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Clara stays there for a moment, then wanders over to the counter, eyes scanning for her sparkly clip selection for her daily ritual. You gently direct her over to the kitchen table, where they sit at her usual spot. 

Charlotte shifts on your hip, taking in all of them with a level of concentration impressive for a one-year-old. Then she reaches for her dad again. And this time, she fully doesn’t let go of your shirt. Her small, sticky hands grab onto both you and Gabe, anchoring herself between the two points—like that’s the only feasible option to keep  everyone close. 

Gabe extends his arms slightly. “Want me to take her?”

You adjust her carefully, movements gentle as you try to juggle what you’re doing with looking after her. “She’s fine. I’m almost done here anyway.”

Gabe nods but stays where he is, leaning against the counter—near enough that when you turn back to face the stove, you can feel his presence behind you. Not hovering. Just…present.

For the first time, you register just how different it feels. Not the weight of being watched, but the weight of being  noticed.

When you step toward the fridge, you and Gabe happen to reach for the same thing at the same time. The carton of milk. Your fingers brush against his. It’s nothing really. A simple accident in a shared space. But the connection sparks anyway, quick and bright and fleeting, like static when you pull off a sweater. You and he both freeze for a fraction of a second. And you watch as his gaze flicks to your hand, then to your face, and your throat tightens in a way that creeps up on you. He clears his throat, and the moment shatters.

“You—sorry,” he says.

“No, it’s okay,” you reply, sidestepping to move out of the way so he can take it.

He pours the milk into Cato’s waiting cup, then hands it over. Cato doesn’t notice anything. Of course, he doesn’t. He’s busy eating his eggs like they might vanish if he doesn’t finish them fast enough.

Clara does notice, because, as you’ve started to notice, she notices  everything. She looks between you and her dad once, then her attention is drawn back to the array of hair clips awaiting her decision, and she concentrates on that with the solemn focus of someone selecting crown jewels for a royal event.

Charlotte makes a noise of disapproval at your lack of movement, wriggling slightly. You bounce her once, trying to settle her.

“Hungry?” You ask.

She presses her mouth to the fabric on your shoulder, then turns and grabs at the air in the direction of the counter and table, clearly not liking being left out. 

Gabe watches you shift her higher with one hand, the movement smooth, well-practiced now.

“You’re really good with her,” he says quietly.

You glance over at him. “It’s ‘cause she’s getting easier.”

His mouth twitches again; this time, you can tell there’s a smile he’s fighting back.

“She isn’t easy,” he says, like he’s correcting the record, even though he knows you know the answer.

You smile faintly and look back at the baby.

“She is with me.”

The words come out simple and honest, and you regret them as soon as you say them. Not because they’re untrue or exaggerated, but because the air between you and Gabe changes. Not sharply. Slightly. And you feel the way his eyes linger on you for what’s definitely longer than necessary. Then he looks away, eyes focusing on his other kids, taking a sip of coffee like it’s the most important thing he could be doing.

Charlotte reaches for him again, making impatient noises, insistent now.

He extends his hand, letting her grab onto his fingers.

She does. Still holding tight to your shirt with the other hand after she refused to go into her highchair. 

His gaze drops to her hands. Then it lifts again, focused on you.

“She doesn’t do that,” he says.

“Doesn’t do what?”

“Trust people like that. That fast…”

You’re not really sure what to say to that, so instead of making an ass of yourself trying, you don’t turn it into something bigger.

“She just knows who’s here. Who stays.”

He nods once. Your answer makes sense.

The remainder of the morning passes fairly smoothly. Shoes. Backpacks. Clara’s jacket zipped. Cato’s hair tamed—only after a vigorous combing session and spraying his hair with water so frequently it felt like you were trying to train a cat—enough to be acceptable. Charlotte refuses her car seat for exactly three minutes, and only settles when you hand her a teething ring.

Gabe moves through the routine alongside you in a way he didn’t when you first started. Not directing. Not rushing. Helping. And the more he does it, the more natural it feels. 

Like the house has always run with two adults in it.

That thought hits you unexpectedly, suddenly and sharply. Because it’s not true. 

Not before you came into the household. 

Not since the divorce became final. 

You have absolutely no clue what the house looked like in that in-between time—empty mornings, quiet breakfasts, him trying to do everything alone. But you could very well imagine it. You can picture him standing at the counter where you were just a little while ago, coffee in hand, trying to do way too much with way too little time. Trying his best to be two people at once. Dad and the captain. And then leaving the house to be observed and loved by thousands of strangers while still feeling like an absolute failure to the three small ones who matter the most.

Your heart squeezes painfully, and you try to swallow it down. It’s not your story to carry. At least,  not yet.

As Gabe grabs his bag by the door, Cato runs to him with his own lunchbox in hand.

“Dad,” he says urgently.

“Busfrö,”

“When you score today, do this,” Cato instructs, demonstrating an elaborate series of moves ending with a fist pump that looks like it could dislocate his shoulder.

Gabe smiles at his son anyway. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Clara shuffles over, slow but careful and hands him the sparkle drawing she made with her new markers the night before. He takes it carefully and slides it into his bag like he would a priceless piece of art. 

Charlotte then, not one to be left out, reaches for him again, whining. He leans down and kisses her forehead.

When he steps back, he looks at you.

“See you tonight,” he says.

The words are simple. But they’re not the same as before. There’s an ease to them now, like he’s certain you’ll be there. That the house will hold steady while he’s out.

You nod. “See you tonight.”

His gaze lingers on you for half a second. 

Then he leaves.

Even after you hear the door latch closed behind him, you stand still in your place for a moment longer than you need to. It takes Charlotte patting your shoulder again to break you from your stupor. 

You kiss the top of her head absentmindedly. 

Everything about the morning went normally. It was routine. Predictable. Domestic. And yet—the brush of his fingers against yours and the way they lingered definitely wasn’t. The way his eyes held yours for a few seconds too long. The way the space between you in the kitchen felt a lot smaller than it should have. Like the walls of the house narrowed themselves to make room for something unspoken.

You force yourself to exhale, pushing the breath forcefully through your lips.

No distractions.

That was  the rule.

And you’re only good at this job because you respect the rules and the boundaries.

Still, when you came back from school drop-off and after putting Charlotte down in her playpen, you returned to the kitchen. His coffee mug, the one he was using just this morning, is on the edge of the sink. He’d rinsed it out. Left it upside down on the drying rack.

A small ordinary thing. But it feels like a mark of him being there, present with you that morning, not just hurriedly passing through. 

Just being…here.

_____________________

The school pickup line later that day is a special kind of chaos. Not loud chaos—more like a low-grade, constant hum of engines revving forward, cars moving forward like two feet at a time.

Since the weather is nice for a fall day in Colorado, you made the decision to do the pick up on foot, also because the car situation with Charlotte this morning  did not  have you eager to experience the situation again. 

Charlotte is sat on your hip, warm and heavy, her small fingers clutching your sleeve like she still can’t believe you left the house, with her, without her carseat. She had been adamant about walking, but she didn’t make it very far before you had to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way.

Clara’s small hand is clasped with yours on your other side, walking carefully in her little boots. She’d insisted on her sparkly winter jacket even though it wasn’t that cold; her light rain jacket—also sparkly—would’ve been just fine,  but you’ve learned that trying to argue with Clara about sparkle-related choices is like arguing with a brick wall. 

When the final bell rings, Cato comes bursting out of his classroom door, barely sparing a wave and goodbye to his teacher, before running to you, backpack bouncing and hair somehow even messier than it had been before you brushed it this morning. 

The minute he spots you with his sisters, he grins.

You wave to his teacher, who acknowledges you with a nod, before redirecting her attention to the other kids in the class. And you shift your attention to the little boy standing in front of you.

“Did dad score yet?” He asks, like maybe it happened in the middle of his school day, and he completely missed it.

“Not yet buddy,” you say. “Tonight.”

Cato makes an approving sound. “Okay.”

He immediately launches into stories about his day, volume rising with every sentence.

Clara stays quiet, half-hidden behind your leg, as she listens to her brother speak. Charlotte watches the moving crowd around you with big, serious eyes. You shift her higher, adjusting your grip as she starts to slip.

“So you had a good day?” You ask Cato.

“The best,” he declares, then leans closer like he’s about to share a secret with you. “I made a new friend.”

“That’s really great, Cato.”

Cato nods with as much seriousness as he can muster. “His name’s Miles. He likes hockey too, said he saw Dad on TV. Told ‘im Dad is famous but he’s just Dad.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth. “That’s a very important distinction buddy.”

Cato nods and tugs on the sleeve of your jacket, trying to pull you in the direction of the sidewalk for the playground. 

You’re halfway across the grass when you hear a voice behind you call out, “Hey.”

You turn. 

A man approaches the three of you with a polite smile—mid-late thirties, maybe, finance bro puffer vest, holding a kid's lunch bag. He looks familiar to you in the way the school pickup faces start to after a while. 

“Sorry,” he says, slowing his pace as he reaches you. “You’re Cato’s—”

“Nanny,” you supply automatically.

His eyebrows lift in mild surprise, then he recovers, still smiling, but this time it’s different.

“Right. I’m Miles’ dad. Jordan.”

You shift Charlotte slightly on your hip. “Hi.”

He glances down at Clara, who’s still pressed against your side, and smiles at her too, careful not to push too hard.

“Your kids are great,” he says, tone warm, but it sounds a bit too saccharine. “Cato talks about hockey like he’s been doing it his whole life.”

“He basically has.”

Jordan chuckles.

“So,” he continues, eyes flicking briefly to you, “I was wondering if…maybe you’d want to bring them to the park sometime? Miles has been asking.”

The suggestion itself is normal. Completely harmless. Just the kind of thing parents do—try to coordinate playdates. But the way his smile lingers on you a second longer than necessary, and the way something in his tone shifts as he speaks to you, tells you this isn’t just about the kids. 

You try to keep your expression neutral as you think about how to respond.

“That could work,” you say, choosing professionally detached. “I’d need to check their schedule.”

“Sure,” he says quickly. “Of course. I just—yeah. Thought I’d ask.”

Cato is still talking about his day, and he still hasn’t noticed someone else has been talking to you. Clara is still pressed into your side, and she’s staring at Jordan with reserved curiosity. And you see the moment Charlotte decided to reach toward the zipper on his vest with interest, you gently pull her hand back and away from reach.

“Hey.”

Another voice calls out in your direction. This time, it comes from behind you. You know it’s not another parent. Deeper. Familiar. Controlled. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him, but you do anyway.

Gabe’s standing a few feet away, dressed in dark jeans, a well-fitting t-shirt, and a team jacket. His hair is still damp at the edges, and you know he must’ve rushed over from the training facility to get here on time. His face is calm, unreadable for the most part, but his eyes are sharp.

He isn’t supposed to be here. 

He rarely makes it. 

Cato sees him at the same time you do and absolutely explodes with excited energy.

“Dad!”

He sprints toward him, backpack swinging wildly, rapidly closing the distance between them. Gabe drops to one knee, conscious of his old injuries, arms opening automatically and catching Cato in a tight hug.

“Hey, Busfrö,” he says.

Cato pulls back immediately. “Why are you here?”

“I had the time,” Gabe says again—they’re the same words he’d used before, but there’s something else under them this time, something heavier, more meaningful.

Clara goes very still beside you. Then, with slow, cautious movements, she steps closer to her dad and looks up at him. He reaches out and rests his hand on the back of her head, touch gentle as always.

“Hi, Småglin,” he says, tone soft.

Clara leans into his touch like she’d been waiting for it all day. 

Charlotte, who’d been quiet in your arms the entire time, suddenly reaches toward him, making a small, excited sound.

Gabe looks at his youngest daughter. Then he looks at you. You shift her slightly, offering. He takes her, one arm secure under her legs, pulling her close to his body.

Charlotte’s hand immediately latches onto the collar of his jacket. Then—predictably—she twists to look back at you, confirming that you’re in fact still standing there and haven’t left. 

Gabe’s eyes follow her glance. 

He notices. 

You notice the smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth as he takes it in, the movement so slight you wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t looking.

It’s not irritation. It’s something else. Something he doesn’t name.

Jordan clears his throat.

You startle slightly, completely forgetting he was standing there.

“Hey,” Jordan says, extending a hand in Gabe’s direction. “Jordan. Miles’ dad.”

Gabe stands straight, balancing Charlotte easily on his arm, and takes Jordan’s hand. His grip is firm, polite.

But even from where you’re standing, you can see his grip might be just a little tight.

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “I know.”

Jordan blinks, a little thrown by the stiffness of the response, then laughs lightly.

“Right , yeah, of course you do.”

Gabe introduces himself formally, and then the conversation stills. 

Jordan’s gaze flicks over to you, then back to Gabe.

“We were just talking about maybe getting the kids together at the park or something,” Jordan says, like he’s trying to keep it casual. “They’ve been getting along great.”

“Good,” Gabe replies.

The word is neutral. It’s not dismissive, but there’s no way it could be mistaken for welcoming. 

You  feel the temperature shift in the space between the two men. 

Jordan smiles at you again. “So—maybe I can get your number?”

It’s a reasonable request, at least for arranging a playdate, but the way his eyes stay on you makes it feel like it’s not purely about the kids. Like he’s maybe got ulterior motives. 

You open your mouth to answer—

And Gabe speaks first. 

“She’s working,” he says.

Gabe’s tone isn’t loud or aggressive, but it’s unmistakably final.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Jordan’s smile falters, just slightly, and something flashes behind his eyes before he recovers again.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, of course.” Jordan glances at you, then back to Gabe. “I meant for, you know, coordinating for the kids.”

“I’ll handle it,” Gabe says.

Jordan blinks. “Okay, sure. That works.”

Jordan looks at you one last time—something calculating in his eyes, but it disappears as quick as it came—then nods, gathering his son and steps back.

“Good seeing you,” Jordan says before walking away.

The moment he’s gone, you feel the air shift again. Not back to normal. Just…different.

Gabe adjusts Charlotte on his arm, gaze flicking to you.

“You okay?” He asks.

The question is quiet. Personal. Not about the schedule or the kids.

You swallow.

“Yes,” you say, tone carefully even. “I was just—he was asking about a playdate.”

Gabe nods once. Lines on his face were still emphasized by the tightness in his jaw.

“Hayley can coordinate,” he says.

Either way, the message is the same. And you’d known about it since signing the contract, maybe if you’d been able to get more than 1 sentence out, you would’ve been able to direct Jordan to the correct point of contact. 

You’re not the point of contact. 

You’re not supposed to be.

Professional boundaries. And that was deemed to be something that crosses the line. 

No distractions.

Still, your pulse is doing something it hadn’t been doing five minutes ago, before Gabe showed up. 

Cato breaks the tension instantly. “Dad, can we get ice cream?”

Gabe blinks like Cato’s question dragged him out of whatever moment he’d been stuck in. He glances down at his son.

“Before dinner?”

“It’s important,” Cato insists.

Clara, still quiet but not shy now that the stranger is gone, looks up at both of you. “I want sprinkles.”

Charlotte babbles enthusiastically, clearly in support of her siblings' excitement.

Gabe looks at you.

“Is that okay?” He asks.

It’s the first time he’s asked you that in a public setting, deferred to your authority in this way. Like your answer matters. Not just as staff. As…something else. You should’ve said no, you know that. Routine. Dinner. Sugar. But something about the way the kids’ faces light up at the prospect of sharing more time with their dad—and the way he’d shown up unexpectedly—makes you soften.

“Okay,” you say. “But they have to be small.”

Cato cheers.

Gabe’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But pretty damn close.

The ice cream shop is only a few minutes away. A cute little place you’d gone to a couple of times—pink brick, colourful decorations inside, and a constant stream of cycling flavours. 

When you walk in, the five of you together, it feels—more than you expected it to—like a family. Cato ordering loudly. Clara whispering her request into your sleeve. Charlotte still perched on his arm and still watching you with calm certainty. 

You try not to think about the way strangers have been glancing over since you walked in. Taking in the tall man with the familiar face. The kids. The way you move alongside them. You try not to think about what it looks like. But you feel the way he notices too. The way his gaze flicks over to you when someone looks too long, like he’s checking on you. The way his hand brushes your back lightly, once, when Cato darts in front of you, gently guiding you out of the way. 

A touch so brief it could’ve been accidental. Except it didn’t feel that way at all. 

Back in the car, Clara falls asleep with her head against the window, sprinkles still clinging to her upper lip—the same ones she’d refused to let you or her dad wipe away. Cato is humming to himself happily. Charlotte is dozing in her car seat, one hand outstretched and holding onto her brother, who happily offered her his hand. 

You’re sitting in the passenger seat of his car, hands folded loosely in your lap, staring out the window, trying to steady your thoughts and not think too hard about the fact that this is your very first time being in his car. 

Gabe is quiet the whole drive. He doesn’t look tense. He just looks like he’s thinking hard.

When Gabe pulls into the driveway, he kills the engine but makes no moves to get out right away. The silence stretches between you, heavy and slightly awkward.

The he speaks, not even looking at you:

“He doesn’t need your number.”

Your throat tightens again, this time with an underlying frustration bubbling to the surface. “It was for the kids.”

“I know,” he replies.

But his voice doesn’t change. It doesn’t soften. It says controlled, which almost makes you more frustrated. It’s like he’s continuously trying to keep himself from saying more than he should. And you honestly don’t know what to do with that. So, you choose the safest option. Extremely professional.

“Okay,” you say. “I will redirect him to Hayley or you if he asks again, like I would’ve earlier.”

He nods once.

Then he finally looks at you. His eyes are steady. Tired, but steady.

“Good.”

The word sounds way too sharp for how small the issue itself was, how small it should’ve been. 

But then again, the issue isn’t really Jordan. Not really. It’s about something else. Something is tightening under the surface of his carefully controlled persona he’s constructed. Something that absolutely doesn’t fit inside the list of rules he’d made.

He gets out of the car first, unbuckling and untangling Charlotte. You help Cato and Clara inside.

The house swallows the five of you back up, warm and familiar. As you move through the entryway, you feel it more clearly than you’ve felt it yet. The closeness. The tension. 

The quiet pull that has been forming between you and him is stronger every day. 

Not really a distraction. 

At least not yet. 

But it could easily become one.

___________________________

The day falls apart at 2:17pm. 

You only know the exact time because that’s when your phone began buzzing nearly non-stop. And when you looked at it, it was a number of schedule changes.

Hayley

Practice moved earlier

Film session added

Running late tonight

You stare at the message for a second, already running through the mental list. Cato has hockey practice at four. Clara has library story time at four-thirty. And Charlotte’s nap, which was really short and suspiciously light. Dinner. Bath. Bed. Usually, you have the routine running like clockwork, basically have it down to a science. But today, the gears in your well-oiled machine slipped.

Charlotte’s the first to break. After falling asleep in the car during after-school pick up and waking up just twenty minutes later, disoriented and furious, it spirals into one of her infamous meltdowns. Now, she’s clinging to your shoulder, face pressed into your neck, crying in short, angry bursts.

Clara stands beside the kitchen table, holding her two books ready for return, looking uncertain.

“Still going?” She asks quietly.

“Yeah, sweetie,” you say, bouncing Charlotte lightly, trying to calm her. “We’re still going.”

Cato rushes in from the living room, partially dressed in his hockey gear—at least the stuff that’s easy to travel in. 

“I can’t find my second skate!”

You close your eyes briefly, thinking about where it could possibly be. “Check the mudroom.”

“I did!”

Charlotte’s crying escalates. Clara moves closer to your side, now more actively hovering. Everything feels like it’s happening at once.

You shift Charlotte higher on your hip, and open the mudroom cabinet with one hand—the one you know for a fact is where all stray gear ends up—and find the missing skate where it always seems to end up, behind the extra helmets.

“Got it,” you say, handing it to Cato to put in his bag.

Charlotte’s face is still buried in your shoulder, tiny fingers gripping your shirt, but her body-wracking sobs seem to have slowed. 

Clara tugs lightly at your sleeve, whispering, “Don’t wanna miss stories.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

And you hope like hell that you’ll be able to keep your promise.

By 3:29, everyone is loaded into the car. Charlotte is still unsettled. Clara, clutching her picture books like a lifeline. Cato is vibrating with excitement and pre-practice energy. You’d hoped that traffic would be on your side today, but obviously, because you have to be somewhere, it crawls. 

You’re ten minutes behind by the time you actually park in the rink parking lot.

“Okay,” you say, moving quickly, gathering gear. “Cato, gear. Clara, we’ll go to the library right after drop-off.”

Charlotte protests the second you open her car door. You lift her, settling against your hip again. And when her arms wrap around your neck, she refuses to let go. 

You hurry the kids inside. 

The rink lobby buzzes with that pre-practice energy you’ve come to know surrounds the U7 team. 

You rush the kids over to the closest bench to their practice rink. Once they’re settled, you continue Cato’s routine—one-handed—checking socks, pads, skates, tape where needed. Charlotte stays attached, her small body clinging warm and tense against you, like glue. 

Cato leans forward to watch while you tighten his laces.

“Too tight?” You ask.

“No,” he says. “Tight is fast.”

You give him a tight smile, hoping he can’t see the tension underneath it.

Clara stands close beside you; out of the corner of your eye, you can see her watching the clock on the wall.

4:02.

You’re cutting it a little too close.

“You look like you could use a second set of hands.”

The voice comes from behind you. Familiar. You turn. Gabe’s standing there in team-issued athletic gear, hair almost soaking wet, and one shoe coming undone. Looking like he’d rushed over from their training facility again. 

For a second, you just stare in his direction.

“You’re early.”

“Film got moved. I had time,” he replies. 

Then his careful eyes take in the scene before him. Charlotte is clinging to you. Clara was hovering, clutching her books in her hand. Cato stood up, readying himself to wobble over to the ice. The tightness in your shoulders. Without so much as another word, he steps forward.

“I’ve got her,” he says quietly.

You hesitate. 

Charlotte doesn’t. She reaches for him as soon as he’s close enough.

Gabe lifts her, settling her against his chest. She fusses once, briefly, then calms, her hand grabbing onto the string of his hoodie. The lightness of your arms is almost shocking. You flex your hands once, stretching your arms and feel the tension ease from the muscles. 

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods once, then crouches beside you.

“I’ll finish this,” he says, reaching for Cato’s other skate before he wanders off with just one skate tied.

Cato lights up at the sheer prospect of his dad helping out. 

“Dad! Watch me skate—I’m faster now!”

“I know,” he says.

His hands move effortlessly, tightening the laces the way someone who’s done it a thousand times would. And he has. Ten times over.

You shift toward Clara.

“Library?” You ask softly.

She nods, relief flickering across her face. But she doesn’t move yet. Her eyes keep drifting over to where Gabe’s standing. Toward Charlotte.

Cato wobbles over to the ice and skates off, not even five minutes later.  

Charlotte stays in Gabe’s arms, on the verge of falling asleep. 

Clara slips her hand into yours. 

The three of you walk toward the library together. It’s not something you’d planned for the afternoon. You were expecting to split up. Instead, Gabe falls into step beside you like it’s the obvious thing to do. Like there’s no other choice. Charlotte’s head was resting on her dad’s shoulder, small snores slipping through her lips every so often. Clara’s walking between you and her dad, swinging your joined hands slightly.

The quiet closeness of the moment hits you like a brick wall. It’s too easy. Too natural.

Story time at the library ends 40 minutes later. Clara leaves with two new books and a small, sparkly sticker, her worry from earlier completely gone. Charlotte had fully fallen asleep about halfway through the first story, still cozy in her dad's arms. When the four of you step back into the lobby, he’s already shifting Charlotte carefully, adjusting his hold on the sleeping baby.

“I can take her,” you offer.

“I’ve got her,” he replies.

The words are automatic. They’re not territorial, just steady.

You nod.

The moment should dissipate. It should be over. It lingers between you anyway.

When you get back to the rink, practice is still going. Parents lining up by the boards to watch the last little bit. 

You move to stand beside Gabe. Charlotte sleeps between you, her weight mostly resting against his arm, but partly against your shoulder as you lean over to adjust her blanket. Your hands brush his. This time, neither of you pulls away immediately. The contact stays. Warm. Still. Charged. His eyes drop to where your fingers lightly rest against his wrist. The noise of the rink fades, and the moment melts into just the two of you. Too close. Way too aware. 

Charlotte drifts in her sleep. 

The moment breaks. 

You pull your hand back first, and he adjusts his hold on his daughter, returning his gaze to the ice.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

And you’re not sure if he means the blanket. Or the day.

After practice, the routine moves quickly again. 

Gear packed. 

The kids are loaded into the car. Charlotte is back in her car seat, so much calmer than earlier today. Clara is thumbing through one of her library books, humming to herself. Cato is talking nonstop.

You were expecting Gabe to leave after helping. He must’ve had something he was supposed to be doing. Instead, he stays. He follows your car home. Carries Charlotte inside after she falls asleep in her car seat. Helps Cato unpack his gear. Helps Clara with her books. No discussion or plan. Just…staying. Being present.

Dinner comes together a lot faster with two adults moving through the kitchen instead of one. Passing plates. Refilling cups. Working around each other without speaking. 

At one point, you both reach for the same drawer. Again.

Your hands meet. Again.

This time, though, neither of you freezes. You just shift around each other. Maybe a little closer than necessary. Fully aware of it. Neither of you acknowledges it.

After the kids are in bed, the house goes quiet. 

You’re standing at the sink, rinsing dishes before putting them into the dishwasher. 

He’s leaning against the counter behind you. Not leaving. Not saying anything. The two of you spend a few minutes staying like that, in the silence, before he breaks it.

“Today would’ve been an absolute mess without you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “It worked out.”

He shakes his head slightly. 

“No,” he says. “It works because you’re here. Making it work.”

The words land like stones on a pond. Heavy. 

You turn back to the sink. 

Neither of you moves away. The space between you feels smaller than the kitchen. Closer. Charged. And for the first time, the quiet shared between you doesn’t feel comfortable. It feels like something is building faster than you can catch up.

It doesn’t take much longer for the house to feel like it’s fully settled for the night. Cato needed an extra glass of water. Clara had changed her mind about which stuffed animal was the  right one halfway through her bedtime story, and demanded a restart when she had the  right one. Charlotte had woken, just once, long enough to make sure someone came to check and comfort her, falling back asleep the minute she was lifted into your arms.

By the time the last big light is turned off upstairs, it feels like you’ve earned the quiet.

You move through the kitchen on autopilot, prepping everything for the morning. Counters and the kitchen table wiped down. Lunch boxes rinsed and wiped out. Turning on the dishwasher. The soft glow over the stove is the only light still on by the time you’re done. 

You long expected Gabe to have gone upstairs already. After long days, he usually does, you’ve basically memorized his routine at this point—quick shower, set the early alarms, sleep, repeat. A rhythm that never really stops.

But when you turn around, he’s still there, where he was earlier. Leaning against the counter behind you. In a slightly different spot, which leads you to believe he’d left the room at some point and still decided to come back. His arms are crossed loosely now. And he’s watching you, not in a creepy or intrusive way, but observing. Trying to be present. 

You dry your hands slowly on a tea towel, trying to assess his mood before speaking.

“Everything okay?” You ask.

He nods once.

“Yeah.”

But he doesn’t move. It feels like he barely blinks. The quiet stretches. It feels like it's almost back to normal, not tension-riddled as it’d been earlier in the evening. But definitely a heavier silence than the usual end-of-day silence.

Finally, he speaks.

“Thanks. For today.”

You lean back against the counter across from him. “It was just a busy day.”

He shakes his head. “It was an absolute shitstorm of a day. And, yet, somehow you managed to keep it from feeling like one.”

The words themselves are simple. But tonight, his voice is different. Lower. Less guarded. 

You shrug lightly, trying to keep your emotions grounded. “That’s the job.”

His eyes stay on you. “It’s more than that.”

The air shifts. It's subtle, but unmistakable. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The kitchen feels smaller than before. Closer. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of the space between you. It almost feels like it had a few hours earlier, the weightiness. 

He pushes away from the counter slowly. Walks to the sink. Picks up a glass. Fills it. All routine movements, but he doesn’t leave afterward. Instead, he stays near the sink, only a few strides from where you’re standing.

“You’re good with them,” he says. 

“I’d hope so by now. But seriously, they’re good kids.”

“They’re calmer,” he says, and his eyes meet yours again. “When you’re here.”

Something tightens in your chest. You don’t know what to do with the tone he used for those words. Or the words themselves, for that matter. He said them like your presence isn’t just helpful. But like it matters.

“I’m glad,” you say quietly.

He nods, but he doesn’t look away.

The moment stretches longer than it should. You’re aware of everything suddenly. The quiet hum of the refrigerator. The soft lighting in the room. The way he’s standing closer now, without either of you meaning to move closer. The way his eyes keep dropping—albeit briefly—to your mouth before bouncing back up to your eyes. 

Your pulse picks up.

This isn’t routine. This isn’t an employer and nanny standing in a kitchen at the end of a long day, debriefing. This is something else. Something that both of you have yet to name.

Charlotte makes a small sound, and it echoes through the baby monitor on the counter in the space between you. Both of you glance toward the screen at the same time. She settles again.

The moment doesn’t.

He steps closer. Not much. Just enough that you can clearly see the carefully trimmed beard lining his jaw. The tiredness at the edges of his eyes. The way his shoulders are still carrying the day.

“You take care of everything,” he says, voice quiet.

You swallow, “I try.”

A pause. When he speaks again, his voice is even softer.

“Who takes care of you, Solsken?”

The question catches you off guard. 

You blink, your answer automatically. “I’m fine.”

Gabe’s gaze doesn’t change. Like, he doesn’t quite believe your words. Like he’s really seeing you the same way you’ve been seeing him—past the surface, into the exhaustion you don’t talk about.

The quiet deepens.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

His hand lifts slightly. 

Slow. 

Careful. 

Like he’s not entirely sure of his movements, of whether or not he should. For a second, you think he might stop. But his fingers reach your face. 

Touch light. 

Barely there. 

He brushes a stray piece of hair from your cheek. The touch is gentle. Intentional. And it lands like a spark.

Your breath catches.

His hand stays there longer than necessary, lingering. His eyes drop again. Not to the hair. To your mouth.

The space between you feels fragile like fine china. One step closer and you’d be in the middle of something you can’t take back.

Gabe sees it. Whatever emotions are on your face. Whatever is crackling in the air between you. And you know the second it happens because his expression turns. Not cold or distant. Controlled. 

He lowers his hand slowly. Then steps back. And the distance returns all at once, like a door shutting. His jaw clenches.

“I can’t,” he says.

The words aren’t sharp. They’re careful. Measured.

“I can’t have distractions right now.”

That sentence lands like a slap. Not so much because it’s harsh, but because it’s honest, and you’d almost cost yourself everything. He’s not pushing you away. You know that. He’s holding himself back. The season. The pressure. The rule he’d built his life around for the longest time. No distractions, complications or risks.

You nod. Professional. Calm. 

“I understand,” you say, voice coming out a lot steadier than you’re feeling.

The kitchen feels bigger now. 

Colder.

He nods once. “Good.”

The way he says that word sounds like it cost him something. He turns toward the hallway. Stops. Doesn’t look back. Then he walks upstairs.

You stand there for a long few moments after he leaves the room. The baby monitor softly hums static sounds. The kitchen light is faintly buzzing overhead. Everything looks exactly the same. But the air feels different. Because the line had been there since the start. Professional. Employer. Temporary. And now, you both know exactly where it is. And exactly how close you’d both come to crossing it.

————————

Upstairs, he moves slowly down the hallway. Checking doors. Nightlights. Routine dad things. But when he reaches his room, he stops. Hand resting on the doorframe. Bracing his bodyweight. Eyes closer for a second. Because the truth is—whatever is between you and him, it doesn’t feel like a distraction. It feels like relief.

And that’s exactly the problem.

______________________

The distance between you starts bright and early the next morning. It's not dramatic. That would’ve been a lot easier. There was no awkward conversation. No stumbling apology. No mention of the kitchen or last night or the moment that came way too close to becoming something else. 

Gabe was just…different. Polite. Professional. Controlled in a way that even he hadn’t been before.

“Morning.” “Thanks.” “Schedule’s the same.”

Short sentences. Absolutely no lingering in the same space. And no staying in the kitchen longer than necessary. 

He still helps Cato find his missing glove so he can repack his gear bag. Still kisses Clara’s head the same. Still takes Charlotte when she reaches for him. 

When his eyes meet yours, they move away quickly. Like he’s being careful not to let anything stay there too long. You tell yourself it's a good thing. That this is the boundary. This is exactly what  no distractions  looks like. 

Still, the house feels a lot colder.

The kids say something to you before you’ve even realized they’d noticed.

Cato’s the first.

“Dad’s busy again,” he says quietly while you help him with his skates that afternoon.

“He has a lot going on,” you say, mindful to keep your tone gentle.

Cato nods, but he doesn’t look like he believes you. Clara doesn’t actually say anything to you; she just stays closer to you than usual. And Charlotte clings to you, more than she has in weeks, like she can feel the tension thrumming in the house. 

_______________

Friday morning comes with a different kind of energy. Not tense. Just transitional. Three small overnight bags sit by the front door.

Clara had packed three stuffed animals and two books “just in case.” Cato packed his mini stick, even though he won’t need it, and you’re certain he already has some over there. Charlotte wanders between the rooms, unsettled, like she can feel the routine shifting.

It’s their mom’s weekend. Every month, usually at the beginning, but it's flexible, they spend the weekend at her place. You’d only been with the household for two of the weekends so far, but you’ve already learned just how much they change the house. 

Gabe moves through the morning quietly. Efficiently. Careful. Not rushing the kids. Not lingering either. 

At the door, Clara hugs him longer than usual.

“Sunday,” he reminds her softly.

She nods.

Cato gives him a quick hug, then runs toward his mom's car parked in the driveway. 

Charlotte goes last. He holds her for a moment longer, presses his mouth to her hair, then hands her over to you. His fingers brush yours during the handoff. Both of you pulled back immediately like you’d touched smouldering coals. 

The house is quiet when you come back inside. 

Not quiet.

Silent.

No new toys scattered across the floor. No cartoons in the background. No small voices calling for you from the next room. 

You set down the rubber boot you’d taken from Charlotte when you took her to the car and look around. You stand in the entryway for a second longer than you meant to. Then turn toward the kitchen.

Routine.

Clean up.

Reset.

That’s what you do.

Gabe comes back earlier than usual. You hear the door, then the quiet drop of his keys into the dish, then his footsteps slow as he walks into the living room.

You step into the hallway. 

“They got there,” you say.

He nods once.

There’s a lull as he looks around the room, the quiet pressing in more persistently now.

“They’re loud,” he says after a moment.

You almost smile, almost. “Yes.”

“I always forget just how much noise they make.”

You lean against the wall in the doorway. “It’s always weird the first few hours.”

He nods. But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, like he’s not sure what to do with the house that doesn’t  need anything from him.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a strange kind of stillness. You make dinner. out of habit. He eats it at the counter. Out of habit. The routines are still there, but without the kids, the space between you feels like a fissure rather than a crack. Because there’s nothing else filling it. No interruptions. No reason not to notice the quiet. No reason not to notice each other.

Later, you’re loading the dishwasher when he speaks.

“You don’t have to stay this weekend.”

You look up. 

“I’m live-in…” You say.

He nods. “I know. I just mean…you don’t need to stick around if you’ve got plans.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t,” you say.

The words hang there.

He studies your face for a second before nodding. 

“Okay.”

Neither of you says anything after that. But you feel the air shift again. Because now, the quiet isn’t temporary. It’s just the two of you with no one else to fill it.

That night, the house feels too big. You can hear everything. His footsteps upstairs, the water running in his shower, the low murmur of a broadcast from his room. And you can hear everything that's missing too; no small voices, no bedtime routines, no attending to someone's needs every five minutes. But underneath all of it is awareness. That the distance he’d put back between you is still there. That moment in the kitchen didn’t go away; it was just pushed back. And now, with the house empty and the weekend stretching out ahead of you, there’s nothing left to hide.

—————

Upstairs, he’s standing in the hallway outside the kids’ rooms. Even though they aren’t here. Even though he knows they aren’t here. Its habit. He checks the doors anyway. Then he looks down the hall, toward your door. Closed. Quiet. Professional. Temporary. That is what this arrangement was supposed to be. And yet, the silence in the house doesn’t feel like relief; it feels like cutting off one of the most important pieces. 

____________

The quiet is different at night. During the day, you can keep busy. Laundry that isn’t urgent can be done anyway, counters that are already clean can be wiped again, and grocery lists written out of habit rather than necessity. But at night, the house stops pretending it needs anything. And that, that’s when the silence really settles in.

You’re halfway through making tea when you hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs. Not the quick, distracted kind he usually has when he’s moving between things. Slower. Uncertain. Like he hasn’t decided where he’s going quite yet. You don’t turn right away. The kettle clicks off with a soft snap. Tendrils of steam curl between you and the cabinet.

“You still up?” His voice comes from behind you.

You glance over. He’s standing at the edge of the kitchen, wearing sweats and a worn t-shirt, hair tousled and messy, like he’d been running his hands over it. No phone in hand. Just…here.

“Yeah,” you say. “Couldn’t sleep yet.”

He nods, walking further into the kitchen and over to the fridge. He opens it without really looking at anything inside, then he closes it again. 

The movement feels less like he’s hungry and more like he’s restless and doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You want tea?” You ask, voice soft.

There’s a small pause.

“Sure,” he says.

You grab a second mug without thinking. The normality of this hits you a second later. Two mugs. Two people. No kids. No noise. Just the two of you standing in the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hand him the mug. Your fingers brush again. Both of you notice. Neither of you pulls back right away. Just a half-second longer than necessary. Then he takes the mug and steps back.

“Thanks.”

You nod, leaning against the counter across from him. The kitchen lights are low. The rest of the house is dark. 

It feels smaller like this. 

Closer.

He takes a slow sip, then glances toward the living room.

“You watching anything?” He asks.

“Not really.”

“…I was going to put a game on.”

“…you can, if you want.”

It’s not an invitation. Not exactly. But it also isn’t  not one.

You and Gabe end up on opposite sides of the couch. At first. The TV is playing quietly—some metro division game that neither of you is really watching. You’re sitting with your feet tucked under you, tea warm in the mug cradled in your hands. He’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the TV’s lights flickering across his face.

The space between you feels deliberate.

Careful.

Professional.

And yet—the house is so quiet that every small movement feels 100x louder.

When he leans back, his shoulder comes a little closer.

When you shift, your knee brushes the edge of the cushion near his.

Neither of you moves away.

Halfway through the first period, he cracks the silence between you.

“They hate the quiet too.”

You glance over at him.

“The kids,” he adds. “The first night at their mom’s. They always call.”

You nod.

“They miss the routine,” you say, adding, “they miss you.”

His jaw ticks. “Yeah…I miss them too.”

The words come out like he hadn’t meant to be that vulnerable in front of you. Like they’d slipped past whatever control he’d been holding onto this past week. 

The air between you tightens. 

You don’t respond right away. Because you don’t know how to respond to that without changing the shape of the room. 

After a moment, he clears his throat. “They like knowing everything stays the same here.”

The words come quickly. 

A redirection. 

Back to safe ground.

You nod. “They feel secure.”

He’s not looking at the TV anymore, he’s looking at you.

The game keeps playing, and neither of you is paying it any mind anymore. The space between you has shrunk without either of you noticing it happening. Your shoulder is closer to his now. Your feet have shifted toward the middle of the couch. And when you reach over to set your empty mug on the coffee table, your hand brushes his knee.

You freeze.

So does he.

The contact is light. Accidental. 

But neither of you moves right away. 

His gaze drops to where your hand rests. Then slowly lifts up to your face.

Your pulse picks up. Again. 

It’s that same charged quiet from the kitchen the other night. Except this time, there are no kids upstairs. No routine waiting. No distractions.

Gabe leans back slightly. Not away. Just enough that your shoulders are almost touching. Close enough that you can feel him through the well-worn fabric of your hoodie. 

Neither of you speaks. The TV crowd is roaring faintly in the background. The rest of the house remains perfectly still. After a long moment, you hear him exhale slowly.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he says quietly.

The words aren’t harsh. They’re careful. Not pulling away yet. Just acknowledging the line, the rule, and just how close you are to disintegrating it.

You nod.

“I know.”

Neither of you moves. The space stays the same. Close. Warm. Dangerous. Another minute passes, then he does move. Slowly. He leans forward, reaching for the remote, and mutes the TV. The sudden quiet feeling louder than the game had been. He sits back again. Turns toward you. Closer now than either of you had been before. His eyes drop once—to your mouth—then back up.

You can feel your breathing become more shallow. 

This is the moment.

The one you can’t come back from.

The one the rule was built to prevent.

His hand lifts, hovering near your arm, before stopping short. You watch the same muscle tick in his jaw as he hesitates, avoiding your gaze this time.

“I meant it,” he says quietly. “No distractions.”

The words feel heavier than they did in the kitchen. Maybe because this time, you both know exactly what the distraction would be.

You nod. Professional. Calm. Composed.

“I understand.”

He lowers his hand and stands up from the couch. The distance comes back all at once.

“I should get some sleep,” he says.

You nod again. “Goodnight.”

He hesitates, just for a second. “Goodnight.”

Then he goes upstairs.

You sit there for a long time after the lights go out upstairs. The couch still warm from where he had sat, long gone cold. The silence presses in again. The space between you is back with a vengeance. The line is still fully intact, but definitely thinner now. Because the truth is, it didn’t feel like a distraction. It felt like something the both of you need. And the weekend is nowhere close to being done yet.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[pucks-goals-penalties]

Chapter One

note: hey y'all! this is the first part to the series, it took a bit longer than I expected it to but I'm overall happy with it. Enjoy! Happy reading!

single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader

wc: 6k (est. reading time: 24min)

warnings: kids (Cato, Clara, Charlotte), single dad,

series masterlist | next part ➡️

You come across the job posting at midnight. 

You’re not really looking for anything dramatic, just something different—just scrolling through the job websites with your laptop balanced on your knees, half-watching the movie playing quietly in the background. The post is so minimal you almost scroll right past.

Seasonal work. Temporary placement. Live-in nanny needed. Three kids. Unpredictable schedule. Privacy expected. Must be comfortable with public figures.

There’s no name attached. No salary listed. Just a contact email. That alone makes you pause for a second. You’ve worked with families before—long hours, usually short contracts, and attachments you’re not supposed to make. But there’s just something about the way this one is written that stops you from scrolling past. So you send an email requesting further information and hope for the best.

Days pass before you hear anything back. Morning coffee in hand, leaning against your counter, scrolling through your email. The response is sitting there. Came in at 6:42am. You almost delete it, assuming it’s spam, before taking another read through. As soon as you read the team name, the name of your employer, you pause. And then just stare at your screen for a long time. Because even though you don’t follow hockey avidly, you know the name. Most people in Colorado do. Team captain. One of the faces of the franchise. Played through a serious injury in the 2022 post-season, leading the team to the cup, but as a result, was kept out of the game for almost 3 seasons. Fought like hell to come back. 

The message in the email itself is relatively short.

Thank you for your interest. AT this time, you are on the short list for the position. Find below more information relevant to the position. The schedule this season will be extremely demanding. We are looking for a temporary, live-in nanny from September through to the end of the playoffs. Three children ages five, three, and 11 months. Travel flexibility is not required. Discretion and professionalism are considered essential skills and will be a deciding factor. NDA and criminal record checks are mandatory. Interview times available this week, please respond if still interested. At the end of the email is a signature from what you assume to be a team staffer or personal assistant.  At the bottom of the email, just below the signature, is one line in bold that makes you hesitant. Important: during the season, the household operates under a strict no-distractions policy.

You’re not entirely sure what that means, but you reply to the email anyway.

_______________________________________________

The house is big. Exactly what you’d expect from a professional athlete. But it’s not flashy. Not one of those glass-and-marble mansions that look like they’re trying to be a sports car showroom rather than a home. It sits back from the road, multi-story, with wide windows, and a yard that clearly sees actual use instead of just landscaping maintenance. There’s a small plastic hockey net tipped over near the top of the driveway. A tricycle toppled over, resting on its side near the stairs, and a sparkly pink scooter was abandoned not too far from it.

As you knock on the door, you’re suddenly aware of how quiet the neighbourhood is. You’re not left waiting on the stoop long; the large door swings open almost immediately. A woman in her thirties, tablet in hand, stands in the doorway, professional smile pasted on her face. 

“You must be here for the interview. I’m Haley.”

You introduce yourself with a firm handshake and step inside. The house smells faintly like coffee and wax crayons and like something’s baking in the oven. Not exactly what you’d expected.

“Before he comes down,” Haley says, already walking toward what seems to be the kitchen, “I want to go over a few things so we don’t waste anyone’s time.”

Those words don’t sound ominous at all. Still, you can’t say you don’t appreciate her efficiency. She turns to face you.

“His schedule is not normal,” she says plainly. “He has practice most mornings. Games usually several nights a week. There will be travel stretches. Media. Team obligations. Some nights he probably won’t be home until very late.”

You nod along to her words, expecting most of what she’s said so far.

“What he needs,” she continues, “is to have some semblance of stability for the kids. Routine. Someone calm. Someone who will not bring drama into the house. During the season, he lives very…focused. Not many social events. No dating. No outside disruptions. The rule in this house is no distractions.”

Ah. So that’s what that last line meant.

You keep your expression neutral. “I’m here to work. That won’t be an issue.”

Haley studies you for a moment, then gives a small nod, like you passed a test you didn’t know you were taking. “Good. Because when he’s in hockey mode—and playoff mode—everything else comes second. Except his kids, Cato, Clara and Charlotte come before everything.”

You don’t have a chance to respond. The sound of small feet thundering down the hallway meets your ears, and then a blur of energy rushes into the kitchen.

“Haley! I found my—”

The boy stops talking as soon as he sees you. He looks like he’d be the oldest, so most likely the five-year-old. Bright blue eyes. Wearing an Avs jersey. He’s a spitting image of his dad. 

“Are you the new nanny?” He asks, looking you up and down with the seriousness of someone evaluating a new teammate.

“Possibly,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “Are you the boss?”

His face scrunches as he thinks about that. “…Yeah.”

Haley sighs. “Cato, where’s your sister?”

With his attention redirected, he immediately forgets about your existence. “She’s hiding in the living room because Charlotte keeps trying to grab her sparkles.”

The shadow of a small figure casts into the kitchen as she appears in the doorway, clutching a glittery headband like it’s a priceless treasure. Clara. She peeks at you, then ducks halfway behind the wall. 

Then comes the crying. The unmistakable, full-bodied wail of an infant who has strong opinions about something. 

At the sound, Haley glances toward the stairs. “That’ll be him,” she says quietly.

Turning slightly in your seat, you see him standing in the doorway. 

Gabriel Landeskog. He looks exactly like he does on television and nothing like he does on television at the same time.

Tall. Broad Shoulders. Team-branded athletic gear—a hoodie and shorts that look more fitted than they’re probably supposed to. Hair still damp like he’d just finished a workout. But up close, in person, you can see the dark shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion in his face. The kind that doesn’t come from just one or two nights of bad sleep. 

He has Charlotte on his hip. Her face is red from crying, tear tracks slowly drying on her cheeks, tiny hands iron-fisting the front of his sweatshirt. Definitely not a happy camper. And she definitely doesn’t look like a baby who tolerates strangers. 

He adjusts her automatically as he walks in, the movement practiced and familiar.

“Sorry,” he says, voice calm but tired. “She’s been like this all morning.”

Haley gestures toward you. “This is the candidate I mentioned.”

His attention shifts from Haley to you. The “captain” look appears instantly. Focused. Assessing. Controlled. 

You stand to greet him.

He nods once. “Thanks for coming.”

It’s not entirely unfriendly, but it’s not warm either.

Charlotte buries her face further into his chest and whimpers. In response, he bounces her slightly, quieting her cries, still watching you.

“I’ll be honest,” he says. “I appreciate you coming out. I don’t have time for a long interview.”

You appreciate the straightforwardness.

“What I need,” he continues, “is someone reliable. Calm. Good with kids. Someone who understands that during the season, for the most part, my focus has to be on hockey.” His hand moves automatically over Charlotte’s back, and he glances at the older two before he speaks again. “They will always come first, but my schedule is what it is.”

You nod. “That’s why you’re looking for help.”

Instantly, you can tell that those words are better received than flattery would have been.

“What experience do you have with infants?” He asks.

Before you can answer, Charlotte lifts her head from its spot on his chest. She notices you. And then, very dramatically, she starts crying harder. He sighs under his breath. “She doesn’t really like new people.”

“She hates everyone.” Cato pipes up helpfully. 

Clara nods solemnly at his words.

That doesn’t nothing to bolster your confidence in the interview.

Charlotte reaches out—not toward you, though. Toward the doorway. Toward escape. Her cries turning into the escalating, panicked kind that really only end one way. Without thinking about it, you stand and step closer to the father-daughter duo.

“May I?” You ask, gently.

He hesitates. You see it in his movements. Not because he doesn’t want help, that much is obvious, but because Charlotte clearly doesn’t want you. But another sharp cry has him shifting her carefully toward you. 

The second she’s out of his arms, the crying spikes. It lasts exactly two seconds. You don’t bounce her. Don’t shush her loudly. Just adjust her head against your shoulder, secure and steady, one hand resting lightly at the back of her head.

“Hi there,” you murmur.

Charlotte hiccups. 

Pauses. 

Then, slowly, her tiny fingers curl into the neck of your shirt.

The crying stops, and the kitchen goes very quiet.

Cato’s mouth falls open. “She never does that.”

Clara’s staring at you like you’d just performed a magic trick with her baby sister as your assistant.

And when you look up, you can tell he’s not assessing you anymore. ‘Captain’ mode’s been shut off, and instead he’s watching you like something just shifted. Small but important. 

Charlotte lets out a soft sigh against your shoulder and doesn’t move. Her small body stays tucked against you, cuddling more if that’s possible, and her hand tightening on your shirt like she’s decided that you’re acceptable.

The silence in the room stretches just long enough to be noticeable, almost, but not quite to the point of awkwardness. Cato, of course, is the first to break it.

“Keep her?”

Clara nods at her brother's words, clutching tighter to her sparkly headband and bringing it to her chest. “Yes. She’s good.”

Haley presses her lips together like she’s trying not to smile. He doesn’t, but something in his posture changes. Not dramatic. He’s not relaxed. Hasn’t suddenly become warm or easy. But you can tell his guarded edge has softened, just slightly.

“Charlotte,” he says, stepping closer.

But she doesn’t reach back for him. That seems to surprise him more than anything. He watches for a moment longer, just observing, before looking at you. “Do you want to sit?”

But the question sounds a lot less like an interview question and more like a decision. 

You settle at the kitchen table, in the seat you were previously occupying, with Charlotte still against you. She stays there without protest, occasionally patting your shoulder with slow, distracted movements. 

Across from you, he sits down. Haley moves over to the kitchen island but doesn’t leave—clearly still a part of the process. 

Cato drags a chair down the length of the table to sit next to you. Clara climbs into the one on your other side. 

What had started off as a straightforward interview is now becoming one of the most interesting group interviews you’ve participated in.

Gabriel folds his hands on the table and clears his throat. “I’m going to be direct, this job is temporary. Through to the end of the season with the possibility of extension if we make a deep playoff run. I’m not looking for someone who wants to redesign the house or change everything about how we do things. The kids have routines. They need the consistency.”

“I understand,” you say. “I work around your family, not the other way around.”

There’s another small shift in his expression, but it disappears as fast as it appeared. He asks you practical questions next. Your experience, infant care, overnight routines, handling multiple children at once, emergencies, and discipline philosophy. You meet each question with an answer, carefully and thought out and straightforward. No over-explaining. No trying to impress. You’d learned a long time ago that calm, assuredness will always be better received than over-the-top enthusiasm. 

At some point during the questioning, Charlotte had started playing with the edge of your sleeve. Every now and then, he glances at her. Like he’s still waiting for her to change her mind and start crying again. She doesn’t.

“What about schedule flexibility?” He asks.

“I’m live-in,” you say. “I expect the hours to change with your season. If something comes up and I need time off, I will give as much notice as possible to give you time to make other arrangements.”

“Good. You’re right, they will. Some days I’ll be home early. Some days I won’t get to see them at all before they’re asleep. There’re gonna be road trips and back-to-backs. Playoffs, if we get there, will be something else entirely.” He hesitates for the first time when speaking. “I don’t miss things because I want to.”

There it is. You knew it was coming. But this is different than all the other times you’ve heard those words thrown at you. This time, they’re not defensive. They’re honest.

“I know,” you say quietly.

Gabriel’s eyes flick up to yours. 

You don’t look away, holding his gaze. 

After a moment, he nods once and moves on. It’s then that Haley steps in, pulling something up on her tablet while moving closer.

“Let’s go over logistics,” she says.

The practical side comes quickly. You’ll have a semi-separate living area above the garage—bedroom, bathroom, and a small living area. Full access to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Salary and bonus structure is more than generous, with a continuation into the playoffs/postseason should the team make it. The household calendar is to be synced to your phone. Emergency contacts. Paediatrician. Team travel schedule will be shared on a monthly basis. 

Then Haley’s tone shifts slightly. “There is one more thing we need to be very clear about.”

Gabriel leans back in his chair, jaw tightening just a little. 

“During the season, as we’ve already mentioned, his focus is solely hockey and the kids. The household stays very structured. Quiet. As low-drama as possible.” Haley glances over at him.

He takes over. “I don’t host parties. I don’t date during the season. I try my best not to bring work stress home.” His voice stays calm, controlled. “But I need the house to be a place where I don’t have to manage anything extra. What that means, is no outside complications. No guests without notice. No posting on social media about the kids. No talking to the press. No…blurring professional lines. No distractions.”

The words hang in the air. They’re not accusatory. Just a clear set of boundaries and expectations.

You shift Charlotte slightly as she starts to slide down your shoulder. “I’m here to take things off your plate, not add to it.”

Another quiet moment passes. 

Then he nods. “Good.”

The kids, who had clearly lost interest in the serious part, started whispering to each other. Cato leans closer to you.

“You know how to play mini-sticks?” He asks.

“A little,” you say.

Your answer makes his eyes light up. 

The gentle touch of a hand on your forearm catches your attention. You see Clara staring at you patiently, waiting for her turn.

“Yeah sweetie?”

“Do you read bedtime stories?” She whispers.

“Yes.”

She leans her head against your arm at your answer, like that, just answered everything.

Across the table, their father watches the whole exchange. You have more of a connection with the kids than any of the previous nannies had. He isn’t smiling, but the sight has made some of the tension in his shoulders ease.

Haley sets her tablet down. “I think the next step should be a quick walk-through. If you’re comfortable.”

Charlotte makes a small sound of protest as you stand up. Gabriel immediately reaches for her. This time, when he takes her back, she fusses. Just a little, but obviously more than usual. 

His eyebrows lift slightly. “She’s usually…attached.”

“She still is,” you say. “She just likes to know where her people are.”

Those words earn you the first almost-smile for the afternoon.

The house tour is practical. It starts in the kitchen, where you already are. Then moves onto the laundry room. The main bathroom. Then the playroom. The living room. Moving upstairs. Furthest down the hall is his bedroom—where you won’t be needing to go—with a spare bathroom beside and a guest room beside that. Then the kids' rooms. They all look professionally styled. First, Cato’s, mature but still full of all his favourite toys and drenched in his favourite colour—blue. Then Clara, the sweetest purple princess bedroom without being too overwhelming. And finally, Charlotte’s room, tasteful pink wallpaper with butterfly decals. Their rooms are organized and lived-in, filled with everything they could possibly want. A child’s dream. But there are some smaller things you notice. An extra nightlight setup in Clara’s room. The two identical Bernie stuffies in Charlotte’s crib. A settee in the hallway between the kids' rooms with a pillow and blanket carefully arranged atop it. Pictures of the kids and family photos adorn the walls. Lastly, back at the start of the hallway is the entrance to the loft above the garage. Haley pushes the door open and leads you into a small hallway leading to the loft space. She also points out the stairs that lead down to the garage, letting you know that there is a semi-separate entrance. 

As she opens the door to the actual loft space looks like something out of magazine spread. Haley speaks as you take in the area. “It’s usually pretty quiet up here, which helps when he gets home late.”

Late. 

There’s that word once again.

“How late?” You ask.

He’s the one who answers this time. “Sometimes midnight. Sometimes later.”

“On game days?”

“Yes. But also after travel, sometimes after media or other team obligations.” He’s leaning against the doorway, Charlotte still perched in his arms but now happily looking around. “You won’t see me much some days.”

It’s not a warning. The words sound more like an apology.

“That’s okay. I’m here for the kids.”

His gaze holds yours for just a tad longer than necessary. Then he nods.

The impromptu tour ends back where it started, in the kitchen. The kids run off immediately. Cato, in the direction of the living room, shouting about his hockey stick with Clara close behind, announcing something about glitter. 

Haley checks her watch. “I have a call in ten minutes. So if there are any final questions…”

You hesitate, then ask the one question that’s been circling. “What does a good season look like for you? At home, I mean.”

He doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, he looks over in the direction of the living room where the kids’ voices echo. “They’re fed. They sleep well. They’re happy when I walk in the door. And the house feels…calm.”

Not spotless.

Not perfect.

Calm.

You nod. “I can do that.”

He studies you for a moment. 

Looks at Haley, and then back at you. “When can you start?”

———————————————————————————

Three days later, you’re moving into the house. Haley’s been handling most of the logistics. When your stuff should arrive. The paperwork that needs to be filled out. A Color-coded schedule is already ready for you in print and to be synced onto your phone before you’ve even started to unpack. 

He isn’t home when you get there.

Haley explains it casually, like it’s not something worth remarking. “Practice ran long. He’ll be back late.”

You nod and start to move stuff into the general areas you think they’ll go. The bedroom is exactly as promised—quiet, clean, furnished and decorated like something out of a magazine. Neutral walls. A bed that looks barely slept in, like it’s mostly been there as a decoration. 

Your presence feels…tentative. Like the house is holding its breath, waiting to see if you’ll last.

Just outside your door, chaos announces itself without warning. Cato comes barreling through the door, socks skidding across the hardwood. 

“You’re back!” He shouts, like you’ve been gone for weeks instead of days.

Clara follows behind him at a slower pace, holding a Barbie by one leg. Charlotte appears last, crawling determinedly, her face brightening as she sees it's you.

You pause your unpacking and crouch down, arms open. She doesn’t hesitate. Her small body presses into you, familiar. Secure. Something in your chest softens at her actions.

“Okay,” Cato declares. “You live here now. So, you have to watch me score goals.”

“I suspected as much,” you say.

He rushes out of the room again.

By dinner time, you have seemingly figured out the rhythm of the Landeskog household. Cato needs movement before sitting still. Clara needs quiet reassurance. And Charlotte needs proximity—not constantly being held, just awareness. The moment you leave the room, she notices, and she makes sure you know it.

You make something simple for dinner. Pasta. Vegetables. Nothing fancy, but the kids enjoy it. They even stay sitting at the table to eat it. Cato tells you all about his hockey practice. Clara tells you, face extremely serious, that she needs more glitter. And Charlotte drops half her food off the highchair tray, laughing at the noises it makes when it hits the floor. 

It all feels…normal.

Definitely easier than you expected it would.

Bath time at seven-thirty. Bedtime stories at eight. Clara insists on reading If You Give A Mouse A Cookie twice, with an encore of If You Give A Moose A Muffin. Charlotte fell asleep against your chest, fingers curled into your shirt like before, about halfway through the second story, waking up only when her siblings were making noise for bed. Letting her crawl around, you tuck the other two into bed with promises of breakfast and good dreams and extra nightlights. Back downstairs after a bottle of milk, Charlotte settles against you again, falling asleep quickly. 

The house is quiet.

Too quiet, maybe.

It’s a little after nine-thirty when you hear the door. Keys. A soft thud. Footsteps.

You stay where you are, Charlotte warm and heavy against you, small puffs of air ghosting your neck as she sleeps. You don’t want to disturb her. He appears in the doorway moments later. Hair is damp again. Team-branded jacket. Bag slung over one shoulder. He freezes when he sees you and Charlotte.

“She asleep?” He asks quietly.

“Yes.”

He nods and steps closer, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. 

“She usually wakes when I come in,” he murmurs.

“She heard you. She just knows she’s safe.”

He watches her for a moment, expression unreadable.

“Thanks,” he says. Not perfunctory. Genuine. Real.

You shift slightly, arm starting to fall asleep. “Do you want me to put her down?”

He hesitates. Then he shakes his head. “I’ve got her.”

As you pass her over into his waiting arms, she stirs—just barely—and makes a small sound of protest. His arms tighten instinctively, cradling her more.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against her head, more to himself than to her. “I’ve got you.”

Whether it’s his heartbeat or the sound of his voice, she settles.

He lets out a slow breath.

“Tough day?” You ask.

He shrugs, movements controlled to not wake the sleeping baby. “Long.”

That just seems to be the word he lives with. You share good nights, and he disappears, carrying her upstairs. Staying seated on the couch, you listen to his footsteps fade and the latch of his door closing before locking up and heading to bed yourself.

————————————

Over the next few days, a clearer, distinct pattern settled in. Mornings are fast. Breakfast. Practice gear. Rushed goodbyes. Cato goes to school. Clara attends pre-school a couple of days a week. Sometimes he would make it home before bedtime. Sometimes he wouldn’t. On the days he does, he never disrupts the routine. He moves quietly and carefully like someone used to coming home to an empty house.

The first night the kids really notice he misses bedtime, Cato tries to act like it doesn’t bother him. Clara asks you where her dad is, twice. And Charlotte is more fussy than she’s been on previous nights. It’s the first night where the excitement of a new person in the household—you—has worn off. So, you don’t explain or try to overdo it.

“He’ll see you in the morning,” you explain softly.

You manage to get the kids to settle in bed with the promise of pancakes in the morning and that their dad will come and check when he gets home, even if they’re already sleeping. 

Later that night, you find him in the kitchen. It’s nearly midnight. He’s standing at the counter, staring at nothing, still in outside clothes. 

There was food waiting for him—you left him a plate of dinner in the fridge without comment. 

He noticed it.

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

“I know,” you reply. “I thought it might make your life just a little easier.”

He nods, accepting your words without argument. You don’t really know if he agrees or if he’s just too tired to say anything to the contrary.

He eats in silence.

You putter around the kitchen.

It’s not awkward. Just…quiet.

“You settling in okay?” He asks, breaking the silence (startling you just a little).

“Yes.”

The quiet settles again.

“The kids?”

“They’re good,” you say. “They miss you.”

His jaw tightens. “I know.”

You don’t say they understand. Because they don’t. Not really. You know that, and he knows that. 

After he finishes eating, he stands and rinses his plate.

“I’ll be gone early tomorrow, probably before breakfast,” he says.

“Okay.”

He hesitates, hands still pressed against the counter.

“Thanks,” he says again. 

It’s like the word is carrying more weight than he’s letting on. He says goodnight before turning and starting out of the kitchen.

“Goodnight, Gabriel,” you say, already aware that he wanted to be on a first-name basis.

He pauses in the doorway, looking at you. “Call me Gabe.”

You nod and then watch him head upstairs. And for the first time at this job, you understand something important. This hadn’t been a house missing noise or life, but rather it’s been a house missing someone being here.

That night, you lie awake longer than expected. Not because you’re uncomfortable, in fact, the bed in your room is comfier than any mattress you’ve ever slept on. But because you just can’t get past the way he moves through his own house—like a guest rather than someone who actually lives there, in a constant state of trying not to disturb anything. And how easily the kids had warmed up to you, let you in. It makes you wonder how long it has been since someone stayed. Really stayed.

————————————————————-

There is one lesson you learned rather quickly here: mornings in the Landeskog household start before the sun comes up.

The first time you came downstairs at 5:45, the kitchen light was already on. Gabe was standing at the counter, clad in athletic wear, ready for practice, mug of coffee in one hand and phone in the other. The house is completely quiet—full of the kind of silence that only exists before the kids wake up.

He looks up when you enter. “You don’t have to be up this early.”

“I know,” you reply. “But they will be soon and I’d like to have a little caffeine in me before then.”

That earns you a small nod.

For a minute, neither of you speaks. The coffee maker hums softly. Outside, the sky was just starting to turn grey.

“Still settling into the routine okay?” He asks.

“Yes.”

The air stills again, silence settling between you. When he speaks, his voice is a lot softer than before. 

“Thank you. For last night.”

“You’re welcome.”

The way he hesitates makes you think he might say something else. He doesn’t. Instead, he rinses his mug out, grabs his bag, and heads for the door. He stops in the hall just before he’s out of your sightline.

“Cato has hockey practice at four,” he says. “And he’ll remind you. Repeatedly.”

“I’ll be ready.”

A deep breath. A nod. And then he’s gone out the door.

As the latch clicks behind him, the house settles back into the usual morning stillness.

By seven, that stillness is long gone. Cato needed breakfast as soon as he woke up, and was also determined to explain to you, in great detail, why professional players should practice their wrist shots more. Clara wanted her cereal in the sparkly bowl and was deeply concerned when Charlotte tried to reach out and grab it. Charlotte just wanted to be held. Then put down. Then held again. It was absolute chaos. Comfortable chaos. But still chaos.

You moved through it easily—refilling cups, wiping hands, getting them dressed, tying shoes, and reminding Cato that sticks are not indoor equipment. Getting Cato to school was a lot less chaotic than the morning had been. And it was on the drive home that you realized the tension you’d expected to feel, the resistance, isn’t there anymore. The kids were fully comfortable and treating you like a part of the routine, like you belonged.

That afternoon goes exactly as predicted. On top of the four reminders Cato gave you on the way to school, he gives you another three upon pickup. Clara brings a bag of books ‘just in case’. And Charlotte clings to you the entire time, face tucked into your shoulder as you stand near the boards watching. 

Cold air. The sound of skates cutting ice. The not-so sharp crack of sticks hitting pucks. 

Cato skates hard. Determined. Serious in a way that only five-year-olds trying to be like their dads can be. The concentration and determination really make you see a lot of Gabe in Cato. When practice is finished, he skates straight over to where you’re standing. 

“Did you see my shot?” He asks breathlessly.

“I saw all of them, superstar. Let’s get you home.”

The grin spread across his face could have powered the entire building.

You aren’t expecting Gabe to be home early. So when you pull into the garage and see his car already parked there, you pause for a second. Corralling the kids inside, you find the house is quiet. You see him in the living room. Laptop open. Game footage paused on the screen. Notes spread across the coffee table. He looks up as soon as the chaos hits his ears. Cato runs straight to him.

“Dad! I scored!”

Gabe doesn’t hesitate. He closes the laptop right away and opens his arms.

“Yeah?” He says, pulling Cato in closer. “Let’s hear all about it.

Clara hovers by the side of the couch, waiting for her turn.

Charlotte crawls over to him and pulls herself up, reaching for him. He picks her up automatically—and she goes. But after a few seconds, she twists in his arms, looking for something. Her eyes find you, and she reaches back.

He notices.

He pauses for a half second, then hands her to you without comment, his attention never fully wavering from the practice tales Cato is regaling him with.

Charlotte settles in your arms instantly. Gabe watches out of the corner of his eye for a minute longer than necessary. 

Then he turns back to Cato. “Show me your shot form.”

Dinner that night feels different. Probably because he’s there for the entire thing. At the table. Listening to stories. Asking Clara about her day, about the books she’s read, and the crafts she’s done. Letting Charlotte smear food across his arm and sleeve without reaction. It kind of makes you feel like an intruder, moving in on a private family moment. But every now and then, Gabe’s attention drifts. Not away from the kids. Toward you. Not in a personal way, but in an observational way. Like’s taking inventory. The way you anticipate when Clara needs help, and the way you cut Charlotte’s food into just the right-sized pieces and the way Cato talks about you all through dinner like you’re always going to be there. 

Once the kids are bathed and tucked into bed, you come back downstairs to start clearing the kitchen. First order of business, clearing the table.

“I’ve got that,” he says, quickly standing and grabbing a stack of plates before you can get there.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

He stacks the plates anyway. 

For a few minutes, you and Gabe work side by side in the kitchen. Quiet. Comfortable. Again, he’s the one to break the silence.

“The house feels different.”

You glance up, startled.

“Better,” he adds quickly, like he’s trying to lighten the weight of the words. “Calmer.”

You dry your hands on a towel. “I’m glad.”

He nods. “They like you.”

You can hear the unspoken words beneath his statement. I didn’t expect that.

“Well, I like them,” you say.

That statement earns you the closest thing to a real smile from him yet. It’s small and tired, but it’s genuine.

Later that week, you hear him come home again—later than before. The kids have been asleep for a few hours. The lights are low. You left the kitchen lamp on without thinking. He stops when he sees it, quietly shuffling into the room.

“You don’t have to stay up,” he says, seeing you standing at the sink, washing a bottle.

“I wasn’t,” you say. “Just finishing up.”

He glances over at the counter. In the middle of the island, there’s a plate covered with foil. His dinner. You didn’t mention it or point it out. 

He stands there for a moment, just looking at it. Then he says quietly: “Thanks.”

This time, the word sounds a little different. Not just polite or professional, but grateful.

Over the baby monitor, you hear Charlotte start to fuss as she stirs in her sleep. Bidding Gabe a goodnight, you hurry up to check on her. When you go in, she doesn’t reach for the empty air beside her crib; she rolls over and soothes herself. 

From the top of the stairs, you can see the kitchen lamps' warm glow spill out of the doorway. It’s stayed on a little longer than usual. 

For the first time since you’d arrived, it doesn’t feel like the house is waiting to see if you’ll last. It feels like it’s already made room.

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto