April 18, 2002

“You look excited,” Denya mused, glancing over to him. Timothy Ramone sat beside him, his black curls mussed by hockey, sweat plastered them to his forehead. His blue eyes shone like jewels in his face, sparkling and rimmed with thick, black lashes. He was handsome enough, enough to make all the girls look twice, even when he was roughed up and dirty from hockey. Denya admired that in him, even as he tried his best not to attract attention.

“Kuznetsov, I’m planning on celebrating my retirement, not mourning it. I’m going home to Ontario and not coming back,” Ramone laughed without regret. “After that loss in Toronto, I’m finished.”

“I wish your last year could have been a Cup.”

He just shrugged, pulling off an elbow pad. “It can’t be the Cup every year, Kuznetsov,” his smile never faltered, and there was no regret in his grin. “Besides, my beautiful little girl is coming to visit me! I regret nothing.”

This was news to Denya. “You have a little girl?” He imagined someone much like Tim, with curly black hair, but with a girlish pout on a cute little face. I wonder how old she is? His mind built a picture of a child, awkward and unfinished, probably somewhere about eight or nine.

Tim was only thirty-seven, after all.

“My little girl,” Ramone’s grin grew. “You’ll have to help me keep an eye on her, Kuznetsov . She’s always getting into things.”

His revelry poked sharp pains of homesickness into Denya’s stomach, but he smiled through them, determined not to ruin his A’s moment. It’s amazing he can still smile like this, even after losing so terribly this evening.

The Islanders had dragged this first series of the playoffs into the seventh game, and went down fighting. The loss was devastating, and the team sulked. The attitude in the locker room was thick with defeat, a stunning contrast to the shinning excitement in their little corner of it.

The team dressed quickly, leaving the locker room empty and ready to head home, to New York.

Ramone wouldn’t be joining them.

He’d stay in Toronto to catch a flight to Ontario, hoping to catch a day or two with his wife before having to clean out his locker, for the last time.

Denya walked him out, ready to turn and give him some sort of farewell speech, but stopped short, his words cut off before they could even form in his mouth.

Someone had squealed.

Loudly.

“Katherine!” Tim threw open his arms, and a woman ran into them, lifted off her feet by their momentum.

Denya watched as they twirled around, her black hair tumbling side to side in a river of curls. I wonder if this is his wife. She’d been in Ontario the whole seven months he’d played for New York, and Denya had never met her.

“Denya! Come meet my daughter!”

Daughter!?

That “girl” had to be an adult!

“This is the boy that promised to watch over you while you’re still in New York, pumpkin.”

She smiled, her silvery blue eyes a washed out shade of her father’s. “You don’t have to assign me guardians, daddy.” But she held out her hand anyway, and Denya took it, hesitantly.

Oh my god.

Haha, I had to repost this chapter because I realized I'd used the Islander's 2003-2004 playoff info instead of the 2001-2002 season. Hah! No Matt Sudin! But it's been fixed. No problems.

.:mina:.