It was late on a school night in Vegas, and the apartment felt still in that way it only ever did after the lights at the rink had shut off and the gear bag had hit the floor. You sat at the kitchen table, arms crossed, a glass of water sweating in front of you. The fridge hummed low, the only real noise in the place besides the faint scuff of Marc-André’s socks as he walked back from the hallway, fresh out of the shower, hair still wet and curling at the ends. He was in an old Penguins hoodie — too big and faded around the sleeves — and a pair of beat-up shorts that should’ve been retired seasons ago.

He didn’t say anything right away, just sat across from you, stretching his legs out with a quiet grunt, like the day had worn into his knees. His eyes flicked toward you once, like he was waiting for you to start. You didn’t. So he leaned back in the chair and let the silence stay. It wasn’t tense, exactly. Just… awkward. You’d both gotten used to moving around each other on these kinds of nights — him coming home late, you already up doing nothing in particular, pretending to be busy so neither of you had to talk about whatever was actually in the air. Practice had run late. You hadn’t asked why. You didn’t want to hear about backchecking or line changes or anything that reminded you he had a whole world on the ice where you didn’t quite fit. And maybe he knew that about his son, maybe he didn’t.

Marc glanced at the glass in front of you, then raised an eyebrow. “That your dinner?” he asked, voice low and tired but not annoyed. “Water and silence?”