The first morning of training camp in 2027, you woke up before your alarm.
For a few seconds, you didn’t move.
The room was still dim, soft blue light pressing against the curtains, Megan asleep beside you with one arm thrown across your waist like she had known you’d try to sneak out of bed before your thoughts got too loud. Your body knew what day it was before your mind fully caught up.
First official skate back.
First season back.
First time your name would be on the roster again after missing the entire prior season on maternity leave, then postpartum recovery, then slow, careful training that made you learn your body all over again.
You stared at the ceiling and listened to the baby monitor hum.
Not a baby anymore, not really.
Just over a year old now, bright-eyed and stubborn, walking in wobbly little bursts when she felt brave enough, babbling with full confidence, and still deeply convinced Noemi was the most important person in any room.
Megan stirred beside you. “You’re thinking too loud.”
You turned your head. “I’m not thinking.”
“You’re lying too loud too.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Good morning to you too.”
Megan opened one eye, then reached for you, tugging you closer until your forehead bumped her shoulder. “You okay?”
You had been asked that so many times over the last year that the words should’ve lost meaning. They hadn’t, not from her.
“I think so,” you said.
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no.”
Megan’s hand slid over your back, warm and steady. “You don’t have to prove everything today.”
“I know.”
“You say that like you’re agreeing, but your face says you’re about to try and win a roster spot you already have.”
You groaned softly. “I hate that you know me.”
“I love that I know you.” She kissed your temple. “And I love that you’re coming back.”
Something in your chest tightened.
Coming back had sounded simple when people said it. Reporters had said it like a headline. Teammates had said it like a celebration. Fans had commented it under every offseason post, filling your notifications with heart emojis and “can’t wait to see her back.”
They meant well.
But coming back hadn’t been one thing.
It had been pelvic floor appointments and strength sessions that humbled you. It had been your first jog ending in tears in the parking lot. It had been pumping between workouts, icing your hips, learning how to trust a core that felt rebuilt from scratch. It had been watching games from the couch with your daughter tucked against your chest while your whole body ached to be on the ice and begged you not to move at the same time.
You hadn’t missed a season because you wanted a break.
You had missed a season because your body had done something massive, and healing had taken longer than pride wanted to admit.
From the nursery, your daughter let out one sharp, offended sound.
Megan smiled. “Management is awake.”
“She heard us talking about the roster.”
“She’s very involved.”
“She’s mostly involved with stealing socks.”
“And Noemi.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m her mother,” Megan said, already sitting up. “Noemi walks into a room and our child acts like royalty has arrived.”
“She likes calm people.”
“I’m calm.”
You looked at her.
Megan narrowed her eyes. “I can be calm.”
By the time you got to the Fleet facility, your daughter had already thrown one sock somewhere in the car, rejected a banana pouch, demanded the banana pouch back, and screamed with joy when Megan handed her the tiny stuffed hockey puck Noemi had bought her “for hand strength,” which everyone agreed was an absurd excuse for buying a baby toy.
You stood outside the locker room with your gear bag on your shoulder and your stick in your hand.
Megan had offered to carry both.
You had said no.
She had looked personally wounded.
Your daughter sat on Megan’s hip, wearing a tiny Fleet hoodie, soft sneakers she kept trying to kick off, and one sock because the other had disappeared somewhere between the parking lot and the front door.
“You sure?” Megan asked now, softer than before.
You looked at the door.
Last time you had walked through it as a player, you had been pregnant and pretending your oversized sweatshirts were fooling anyone. Then you had come back with a three-week-old in a Fleet beanie that swallowed her whole. Then visits had become routine, your daughter passed carefully from teammate to teammate until she decided Noemi was the only person worth trusting with her very serious infant thoughts.
Now you were here to work.
To sweat.
To take contact.
To stop being the player who used to be there.
You shifted your gear bag higher. “I’m sure.”
Megan’s expression softened. “Still you.”
You swallowed.
She had said it through everything. Through pregnancy. Through labor. Through the first night home when you cried because your body didn’t feel like yours. Through the first time you put skates on again and had to sit down after ten minutes because your hips trembled.
Still you.
You opened the door.
The locker room erupted, but carefully, because everyone had learned Baby Fleet did not appreciate sudden chaos unless she was the one causing it.
Haley clapped both hands over her mouth. “She’s back.”
Aerin lifted her coffee. “About time. We’ve had nobody to complain correctly.”
“I’ve been gone one season,” you said.
“Exactly,” Sophie said. “A whole season of weak complaining.”
You laughed, and the sound loosened something in you.
Then your daughter gasped.
It was dramatic. Loud. Completely disproportionate to what was happening.
Noemi had stepped out from behind her stall.
She wasn’t doing anything special. She never did. She was just standing there with her water bottle in one hand, hair still damp from an early workout, face calm in that serious way that made people assume she wasn’t paying attention when really she was catching everything.
Your daughter pointed both hands at her.
“No,” she said, which was what she called Noemi most of the time, despite everyone’s best efforts.
Megan froze. “Unbelievable.”
Haley pointed. “Favorite aunt confirmed.”
“No,” Noemi said at once.
Your daughter pointed again, delighted. “No!”
Aerin grinned. “She’s literally calling for you.”
“She calls many things No.”
“Mostly you and actual no,” Sophie said.
Noemi looked at you, as if you might save her from the accusation.
You did not.
“She knows who she wants,” you said.
Megan turned toward you. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“A little.”
Your daughter began leaning out of Megan’s arms with full toddler confidence and absolutely no concern for gravity.
“Okay, okay,” Megan said, pulling her closer. “Don’t launch yourself.”
Noemi sighed like she was being forced into something deeply inconvenient, but she set her bottle down and held out her hands. “Fine. Come here.”
Megan handed her over with the reluctant dignity of someone surrendering a trophy.
The second Noemi had her, your daughter settled.
Completely.
One tiny hand gripped Noemi’s jacket collar. Her cheek dropped to Noemi’s shoulder, and she let out a satisfied sigh that made Haley actually bend at the knees.
“I can’t do this,” Haley whispered. “I can’t handle this.”
Noemi patted the baby’s back once, firm and practiced. “You lost a sock.”
Your daughter lifted her foot like she understood the accusation.
“Yes,” Noemi said seriously. “Again.”
“She talks to her like she’s reviewing a penalty kill,” Aerin said.
“She responds well to structure,” Noemi said.
Megan crossed her arms. “She responds well to betrayal.”
You leaned up and kissed Megan’s cheek. “She loves you.”
“She’d better.”
Noemi adjusted your daughter on her hip, completely at ease now, though she would deny it if anyone said so. “Go get dressed.”
You blinked at her.
“What?”
“You’re here to play,” Noemi said. “She’s fine.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
You looked at your daughter tucked safely against Noemi, then at your stall.
Your nameplate was still there.
For a second, the room blurred at the edges.
Megan noticed first. Of course she did. Her hand brushed the small of your back, not pushing, just grounding.
Under your nameplate, someone had taped a note.
WELCOME BACK, MOM.
Underneath it, in Haley’s unmistakable handwriting, someone had added:
BABY FLEET APPROVED.
You laughed, but your eyes burned.
“You guys.”
Haley sniffed. “Don’t look at me. I’m fragile.”
Aerin shrugged. “We needed the note. For morale.”
Sophie smiled. “For yours or ours?”
“Yes,” Aerin said.
You set your bag down in front of your stall.
Your stall.
For the first time in more than a year, you pulled your gear out for an official team skate. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Socks. Jersey. The familiar routine felt strange and sacred all at once.
Behind you, Noemi said, “No, you cannot eat the zipper.”
Your daughter protested loudly.
“No,” Noemi repeated. “Bad choice.”
Megan muttered, “She listens to her.”
“She listens to you too,” you said.
“She laughs when I say no.”
“That’s because you say it with less conviction.”
Megan looked offended. “I play defense for a living.”
“And yet our child has identified your weakness.”
Noemi, without looking up, said, “She is the weakness.”
The locker room went quiet for half a beat.
Then Haley made a strangled noise. “Noemi.”
Noemi frowned. “What?”
“You love her.”
“I did not say that.”
“You basically did.”
“I made an observation.”
Your daughter patted Noemi’s cheek with one soft hand.
Noemi’s face changed.
Barely.
But it did.
Her eyes softened. Her mouth pressed into the smallest smile.
You looked at Megan.
Megan was looking too.
Noemi caught both of you staring and immediately straightened. “Get ready.”
The first skate back was not graceful.
It was good.
But it was not graceful.
Your lungs burned earlier than you wanted them to. Your legs felt strong, then heavy, then strong again. Your timing was half a beat late in the first rush drill, and you overskated a puck so badly Aerin tapped the boards with her stick and called, “Vintage.”
You flipped her off with your glove.
Haley cheered. “She’s really back.”
Still, there were moments.
A puck came around the wall, fast and ugly, and your body moved before doubt could interfere. You read the bounce, caught it clean, shifted your weight, and sent a pass across the ice.
Tape to tape.
Megan caught it in stride.
For one perfect second, the whole rink felt exactly the way you remembered it.
Then Megan looked back at you with the biggest grin on her face.
You grinned too, breathless and aching and alive.
Behind the glass, your daughter slapped both hands against the window from Noemi’s arms.
“Mama!” she shouted, or something close enough to it that your chest nearly cracked open.
Haley gasped from the bench. “She knows.”
“She does not know,” Aerin said automatically.
Your daughter slapped the glass again, bouncing in Noemi’s hold.
Noemi looked down at her, then back at the ice. “She knows.”
Everyone turned toward her.
Megan pointed her stick at the glass. “So when Noemi says it, it’s true?”
“Yes,” Noemi said.
Your daughter squealed and pressed her tiny palm flat against the glass.
You laughed so hard you had to put a hand on your knee.
Megan skated over and bumped your shoulder gently. “How’s it feel?”
You took a breath.
Your body was tired. Your hips were going to complain later. Your chest ached from effort, and your legs felt like they were remembering something old while becoming something new.
But your stick felt right in your hands.
Your team was loud around you.
Your wife was beside you.
Your daughter was behind the glass, safe in the arms of the most serious woman in the building, who had somehow become her favorite person after her moms.
You looked at Megan. “Like I’m not trying to go back anymore.”
Her face softened. “No?”
You shook your head.
For so long, you had thought returning meant finding the player you had been before pregnancy. Before labor. Before sleepless nights and milk-stained hoodies and the strange loneliness of healing while the season moved on without you.
But you weren’t that exact person anymore.
You were something fuller now.
Player.
Wife.
Mother.
Still you, but expanded.
The whistle blew for the next drill.
Behind the glass, Noemi lifted your daughter’s hand in a tiny wave, her expression perfectly serious.
“Baby Fleet says go,” Haley yelled.
Your daughter kicked one sneaker against Noemi’s side and shouted, “Go!”
The whole bench lost it.
Noemi looked down at her, unimpressed and completely fond. “Yes. Go.”
You smiled, pushed off, and skated back into line.
The first morning of training camp in 2027, you woke up before your alarm.
For a few seconds, you didn’t move.
The room was still dim, soft blue light pressing against the curtains, Megan asleep beside you with one arm thrown across your waist like she had known you’d try to sneak out of bed before your thoughts got too loud. Your body knew what day it was before your mind fully caught up.
First official skate back.
First season back.
First time your name would be on the roster again after missing the entire prior season on maternity leave, then postpartum recovery, then slow, careful training that made you learn your body all over again.
You stared at the ceiling and listened to the baby monitor hum.
Not a baby anymore, not really.
Just over a year old now, bright-eyed and stubborn, walking in wobbly little bursts when she felt brave enough, babbling with full confidence, and still deeply convinced Noemi was the most important person in any room.
Megan stirred beside you. “You’re thinking too loud.”
You turned your head. “I’m not thinking.”
“You’re lying too loud too.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Good morning to you too.”
Megan opened one eye, then reached for you, tugging you closer until your forehead bumped her shoulder. “You okay?”
You had been asked that so many times over the last year that the words should’ve lost meaning. They hadn’t, not from her.
“I think so,” you said.
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no.”
Megan’s hand slid over your back, warm and steady. “You don’t have to prove everything today.”
“I know.”
“You say that like you’re agreeing, but your face says you’re about to try and win a roster spot you already have.”
You groaned softly. “I hate that you know me.”
“I love that I know you.” She kissed your temple. “And I love that you’re coming back.”
Something in your chest tightened.
Coming back had sounded simple when people said it. Reporters had said it like a headline. Teammates had said it like a celebration. Fans had commented it under every offseason post, filling your notifications with heart emojis and “can’t wait to see her back.”
They meant well.
But coming back hadn’t been one thing.
It had been pelvic floor appointments and strength sessions that humbled you. It had been your first jog ending in tears in the parking lot. It had been pumping between workouts, icing your hips, learning how to trust a core that felt rebuilt from scratch. It had been watching games from the couch with your daughter tucked against your chest while your whole body ached to be on the ice and begged you not to move at the same time.
You hadn’t missed a season because you wanted a break.
You had missed a season because your body had done something massive, and healing had taken longer than pride wanted to admit.
From the nursery, your daughter let out one sharp, offended sound.
Megan smiled. “Management is awake.”
“She heard us talking about the roster.”
“She’s very involved.”
“She’s mostly involved with stealing socks.”
“And Noemi.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m her mother,” Megan said, already sitting up. “Noemi walks into a room and our child acts like royalty has arrived.”
“She likes calm people.”
“I’m calm.”
You looked at her.
Megan narrowed her eyes. “I can be calm.”
By the time you got to the Fleet facility, your daughter had already thrown one sock somewhere in the car, rejected a banana pouch, demanded the banana pouch back, and screamed with joy when Megan handed her the tiny stuffed hockey puck Noemi had bought her “for hand strength,” which everyone agreed was an absurd excuse for buying a baby toy.
You stood outside the locker room with your gear bag on your shoulder and your stick in your hand.
Megan had offered to carry both.
You had said no.
She had looked personally wounded.
Your daughter sat on Megan’s hip, wearing a tiny Fleet hoodie, soft sneakers she kept trying to kick off, and one sock because the other had disappeared somewhere between the parking lot and the front door.
“You sure?” Megan asked now, softer than before.
You looked at the door.
Last time you had walked through it as a player, you had been pregnant and pretending your oversized sweatshirts were fooling anyone. Then you had come back with a three-week-old in a Fleet beanie that swallowed her whole. Then visits had become routine, your daughter passed carefully from teammate to teammate until she decided Noemi was the only person worth trusting with her very serious infant thoughts.
Now you were here to work.
To sweat.
To take contact.
To stop being the player who used to be there.
You shifted your gear bag higher. “I’m sure.”
Megan’s expression softened. “Still you.”
You swallowed.
She had said it through everything. Through pregnancy. Through labor. Through the first night home when you cried because your body didn’t feel like yours. Through the first time you put skates on again and had to sit down after ten minutes because your hips trembled.
Still you.
You opened the door.
The locker room erupted, but carefully, because everyone had learned Baby Fleet did not appreciate sudden chaos unless she was the one causing it.
Haley clapped both hands over her mouth. “She’s back.”
Aerin lifted her coffee. “About time. We’ve had nobody to complain correctly.”
“I’ve been gone one season,” you said.
“Exactly,” Sophie said. “A whole season of weak complaining.”
You laughed, and the sound loosened something in you.
Then your daughter gasped.
It was dramatic. Loud. Completely disproportionate to what was happening.
Noemi had stepped out from behind her stall.
She wasn’t doing anything special. She never did. She was just standing there with her water bottle in one hand, hair still damp from an early workout, face calm in that serious way that made people assume she wasn’t paying attention when really she was catching everything.
Your daughter pointed both hands at her.
“No,” she said, which was what she called Noemi most of the time, despite everyone’s best efforts.
Megan froze. “Unbelievable.”
Haley pointed. “Favorite aunt confirmed.”
“No,” Noemi said at once.
Your daughter pointed again, delighted. “No!”
Aerin grinned. “She’s literally calling for you.”
“She calls many things No.”
“Mostly you and actual no,” Sophie said.
Noemi looked at you, as if you might save her from the accusation.
You did not.
“She knows who she wants,” you said.
Megan turned toward you. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“A little.”
Your daughter began leaning out of Megan’s arms with full toddler confidence and absolutely no concern for gravity.
“Okay, okay,” Megan said, pulling her closer. “Don’t launch yourself.”
Noemi sighed like she was being forced into something deeply inconvenient, but she set her bottle down and held out her hands. “Fine. Come here.”
Megan handed her over with the reluctant dignity of someone surrendering a trophy.
The second Noemi had her, your daughter settled.
Completely.
One tiny hand gripped Noemi’s jacket collar. Her cheek dropped to Noemi’s shoulder, and she let out a satisfied sigh that made Haley actually bend at the knees.
“I can’t do this,” Haley whispered. “I can’t handle this.”
Noemi patted the baby’s back once, firm and practiced. “You lost a sock.”
Your daughter lifted her foot like she understood the accusation.
“Yes,” Noemi said seriously. “Again.”
“She talks to her like she’s reviewing a penalty kill,” Aerin said.
“She responds well to structure,” Noemi said.
Megan crossed her arms. “She responds well to betrayal.”
You leaned up and kissed Megan’s cheek. “She loves you.”
“She’d better.”
Noemi adjusted your daughter on her hip, completely at ease now, though she would deny it if anyone said so. “Go get dressed.”
You blinked at her.
“What?”
“You’re here to play,” Noemi said. “She’s fine.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
You looked at your daughter tucked safely against Noemi, then at your stall.
Your nameplate was still there.
For a second, the room blurred at the edges.
Megan noticed first. Of course she did. Her hand brushed the small of your back, not pushing, just grounding.
Under your nameplate, someone had taped a note.
WELCOME BACK, MOM.
Underneath it, in Haley’s unmistakable handwriting, someone had added:
BABY FLEET APPROVED.
You laughed, but your eyes burned.
“You guys.”
Haley sniffed. “Don’t look at me. I’m fragile.”
Aerin shrugged. “We needed the note. For morale.”
Sophie smiled. “For yours or ours?”
“Yes,” Aerin said.
You set your bag down in front of your stall.
Your stall.
For the first time in more than a year, you pulled your gear out for an official team skate. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Socks. Jersey. The familiar routine felt strange and sacred all at once.
Behind you, Noemi said, “No, you cannot eat the zipper.”
Your daughter protested loudly.
“No,” Noemi repeated. “Bad choice.”
Megan muttered, “She listens to her.”
“She listens to you too,” you said.
“She laughs when I say no.”
“That’s because you say it with less conviction.”
Megan looked offended. “I play defense for a living.”
“And yet our child has identified your weakness.”
Noemi, without looking up, said, “She is the weakness.”
The locker room went quiet for half a beat.
Then Haley made a strangled noise. “Noemi.”
Noemi frowned. “What?”
“You love her.”
“I did not say that.”
“You basically did.”
“I made an observation.”
Your daughter patted Noemi’s cheek with one soft hand.
Noemi’s face changed.
Barely.
But it did.
Her eyes softened. Her mouth pressed into the smallest smile.
You looked at Megan.
Megan was looking too.
Noemi caught both of you staring and immediately straightened. “Get ready.”
The first skate back was not graceful.
It was good.
But it was not graceful.
Your lungs burned earlier than you wanted them to. Your legs felt strong, then heavy, then strong again. Your timing was half a beat late in the first rush drill, and you overskated a puck so badly Aerin tapped the boards with her stick and called, “Vintage.”
You flipped her off with your glove.
Haley cheered. “She’s really back.”
Still, there were moments.
A puck came around the wall, fast and ugly, and your body moved before doubt could interfere. You read the bounce, caught it clean, shifted your weight, and sent a pass across the ice.
Tape to tape.
Megan caught it in stride.
For one perfect second, the whole rink felt exactly the way you remembered it.
Then Megan looked back at you with the biggest grin on her face.
You grinned too, breathless and aching and alive.
Behind the glass, your daughter slapped both hands against the window from Noemi’s arms.
“Mama!” she shouted, or something close enough to it that your chest nearly cracked open.
Haley gasped from the bench. “She knows.”
“She does not know,” Aerin said automatically.
Your daughter slapped the glass again, bouncing in Noemi’s hold.
Noemi looked down at her, then back at the ice. “She knows.”
Everyone turned toward her.
Megan pointed her stick at the glass. “So when Noemi says it, it’s true?”
“Yes,” Noemi said.
Your daughter squealed and pressed her tiny palm flat against the glass.
You laughed so hard you had to put a hand on your knee.
Megan skated over and bumped your shoulder gently. “How’s it feel?”
You took a breath.
Your body was tired. Your hips were going to complain later. Your chest ached from effort, and your legs felt like they were remembering something old while becoming something new.
But your stick felt right in your hands.
Your team was loud around you.
Your wife was beside you.
Your daughter was behind the glass, safe in the arms of the most serious woman in the building, who had somehow become her favorite person after her moms.
You looked at Megan. “Like I’m not trying to go back anymore.”
Her face softened. “No?”
You shook your head.
For so long, you had thought returning meant finding the player you had been before pregnancy. Before labor. Before sleepless nights and milk-stained hoodies and the strange loneliness of healing while the season moved on without you.
But you weren’t that exact person anymore.
You were something fuller now.
Player.
Wife.
Mother.
Still you, but expanded.
The whistle blew for the next drill.
Behind the glass, Noemi lifted your daughter’s hand in a tiny wave, her expression perfectly serious.
“Baby Fleet says go,” Haley yelled.
Your daughter kicked one sneaker against Noemi’s side and shouted, “Go!”
The whole bench lost it.
Noemi looked down at her, unimpressed and completely fond. “Yes. Go.”
You smiled, pushed off, and skated back into line.
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