By the time we finished shovelling, the driveway was finally clear, though my arms felt like they might fall off. The snowbanks we’d built along the edges were massive, glittering in the low afternoon sun like walls of sugar. I leaned on my shovel, catching my breath as Graham leaned back against the truck, looking entirely too relaxed.

“Not bad,” he said, brushing snow from his gloves. “For someone who kept stopping to make sure her lines were perfectly even.”

“It’s called doing the job right,” I shot back. “Unlike you, who nearly buried the mailbox.”
He smirked, clearly unbothered. “The mailbox survived. That’s what matters.”

Before I could retort, a snowball smacked the back of Graham’s shoulder. He froze, blinking in surprise, while I immediately burst into laughter.
“What the—” He turned to see Noah standing a few yards away, already grinning and packing another snowball. “Alright, kid. You just started something you’re not prepared to finish.”

“Bring it!” Noah challenged, darting behind a snowbank.

“Oh, it’s on,” Graham muttered, diving to scoop up a handful of snow.

The battle erupted in seconds, snow flying in every direction as I tried—and failed—to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Graham and I formed an uneasy alliance against Noah, but the kid was fast, darting around like a blur of determination.

After a particularly dramatic barrage, we all collapsed into the snow, breathless and laughing. Noah sprawled out like a starfish, his face flushed from the cold. “I totally won.”

“You wish,” Graham muttered, brushing snow from his jacket. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring out the big moves.”

“Big moves?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You missed more than you hit.”

He turned to me, his grin sly. “Careful, Clarke. Or I’ll make you regret that.”

Before I could answer, Noah sat up, shaking snow from his hair and brushing off his coat. “Do you think I’d be good at hockey? Like, could I play?”

Graham leaned back on his hands, studying him thoughtfully. “You’ve got the reflexes for it. Quick on your feet, good instincts. You’d probably make a decent forward.”

Noah considered this momentarily, his lips turning up in a small smile. “Maybe. But honestly? I think I like being a fan better. I’d rather be in the stands, keeping track of stats and sketching the game. It feels more like me.”

I tilted my head, intrigued. I didn't know Noah had any interest in drawing until now. “Stats and sketching?”

“Yeah,” Noah said, his tone light but honest. “I’ve been trying to sketch some of my favourite plays from last season. You know, catching the motion and the action.” He glanced at me, a bit sheepishly. “Like you do.”

My heart tugged. “I love that,” I said softly. “You should show me some of your sketches sometime.”

Graham smiled, a little wistfully. “Artistic talent runs in the family, huh?”

Noah shrugged but looked pleased. “Guess so. Hockey’s cool, but I don’t think it’s my thing.”

“Fair enough,” Graham said, his grin turning teasing. “But if you ever change your mind, I can give you some goalie tips. Best position on the ice, if you ask me.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to drawing, the idea of tiny hard pieces of rubber being shot at me repeatedly doesn't sound like a fun time,” Noah replied with a laugh, standing and brushing off the last of the snow. “Anyway, I’m going inside. You two can keep arguing about who’s worse. I’m getting the hot chocolate first.”

We watched him trudge toward the house, his boots crunching in the snow. Graham glanced at me, his expression thoughtful. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling faintly. “He’s figuring out who he is. He might be my annoying little brother, but he does make me proud.”

Graham was quiet for a moment. I didn’t realize I had struck a nerve and as soon as I realized the connection I felt like my foot was wedged solidly in my mouth. “Your sister would be so proud of you too, Graham,” I said softly. “I hope you know that.”

“She would,” he agreed quietly, before his gaze shifted, and he looked back toward the snowy yard, his earlier lightness fading.

We both set off toward the house, the crunch of our boots the only soundtrack to our inside thoughts. The yard seemed suddenly still, the air sharp with the scent of snow and winter. I glanced at Graham, who was staring off into the distance, his expression far away.

“Hey,” I said softly, nudging his boot with mine. “You okay?”

He nodded absently, but it didn’t feel convincing. “Yeah. Just thinking about tonight.”

“Tonight? Oh yeah, the tournament is starting isn't it?” I asked. “Big night, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, but his tone was reluctant. “A lot is riding on this one. Scouts’ll be there. Everyone’s watching.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” I said, watching him closely.

“It is,” he admitted, though his voice was lighter than his expression. “But it’s not just that. It’s my dad.”

I frowned, sensing something deeper. “What about him?”

Graham exhaled, the mist of his breath lingering in the air. “He’s got it in his head that hockey’s my golden ticket. Scholarships, maybe a pro contract. He’s been saying that since I was a kid.”

“Do you agree with him?”

His lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. “I used to. When I was younger, I loved hockey. The rush, the challenge… I couldn’t get enough of it. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being fun. Now, it’s just… something I do. For him.”

I hesitated, unsure how to navigate the vulnerability in his voice. “Why not tell him that?”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “And risk disappointing him? I can’t do that, Clarke. Not after everything.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my tone soft.

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the snow. “After we lost Georgia, my sister, my dad…” He paused, his breath hitching slightly. “He wasn’t the same after that. None of us were. Hockey became… this thing we clung to. He started pushing me harder, and I let him. Because it was the only time I’d see him look… not happy, exactly, but proud. Like I was doing something right.”

I felt my chest tighten at the rawness in his voice. “That’s a lot to carry, Graham. You can’t take all of that on yourself.”

“I don’t see another choice,” he said, his voice low. “If I quit now, it’s like… taking away the last good thing he has. And I can’t do that to him. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to give up your life to protect him,” I said gently. “You matter too. What you want matters.”

He looked at me, something raw and unguarded flickering in his eyes. “Maybe. But I don’t know if I can handle seeing him look at me like I’ve let him down.”

“You won’t,” I said firmly. “He loves you. And if he doesn’t understand right away, he will eventually. Because you’re not just his goalie, Graham. You’re his son.”

For a long moment, he just stared at me, the silence stretching between us. Finally, he smiled faintly, though it was tinged with sadness. “You’ve got a way of cutting through the crap, Clarke.”

“Part of my charm,” I said lightly, trying to lift the weight of the moment.

He stood, brushing snow from his coat. “We should get inside before Noah drinks all the hot chocolate.”

“Good plan,” I said. “And Graham? For what it’s worth, I think you’re a lot more than your save percentage. Don’t let anyone forget that.”

He paused, his gaze locking with mine. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “That means a lot.”

As we headed inside, the warmth of the house chasing away the chill, I couldn’t help but feel that Graham was carrying more than anyone should have to. It surprised me when I realized that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to help him find a way to set it down.