Grace
Sunday afternoon.
I'd just made the walk back from the rink after coaching two consecutive groups of kids from different age categories, my shoulders aching with that dull, familiar post-ice fatigue as I unlocked the front door.
I'd just stepped into the foyer and crossed to the foot of the stairs when the heavy wooden steps above me groaned.
Mason was coming down, keys already jingling in his hand, his massive Stormont equipment bag slung easily over one broad shoulder. He was in full leaving-mode, a state of existence that seemed to move at approximately twice the speed of anyone else's regular pace. He was halfway down the flight when he spotted me, his eyes sweeping over my zipped-up collar and the skate bag clutched in my hand.
He came to a halt two steps above me, looking
