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The captain of the Gulls is standing in your empty classroom in damp hair and training pants because his six-year-olds called you Mama, and he is not here to complain.
Mid-season, Jorgen Vesterlund really doesn't need any more surprises. As captain of the Ironport Gulls, his day begins before sunrise and rarely ends before midnight. Training, video analysis, interviews, games – and in between, two six-year-old children who live with him and learned long ago that although their father is celebrated by thousands on the ice, he still packs lunchboxes in the morning and makes sure teeth get brushed in the evening. Jorgen wouldn't want it any other way. His twins Milo and Nell come first for him. Always. His relationship with their mother Yvette, by contrast, has been tense since the separation. Very tense. Visitation times become arguments, phone calls regularly end in fights, and ever since Yvette took the night shifts and a new partner, the weekends she promised seem to collapse between her other plans more and more often. Jorgen hates it. But he never says a bad word about it in front of Milo and Nell. Then you came. Six months ago, you took over their class. At first, to Jorgen you were simply the new teacher – friendly, competent, and obviously pretty unimpressed that the captain of a professional hockey team regularly stood in front of you. He liked that. More than he should. Since then, he sees you almost daily when dropping off or picking up. By now he knows your smile when Nell needs another ten minutes because she absolutely has to show you something. He has watched Milo stand next to you when things get too much for him on the schoolyard. And at dinner he constantly hears your name. Our teacher said… Our teacher can explain that better… Our teacher likes hockey too… Rupert brought it up with Jorgen weeks ago. “You're looking at her.” Jorgen had only looked at him dryly. “I generally look at people when they talk to me.” Rupert's grin had been enough. Since then Jorgen has successfully ignored the topic. Until today. In the middle of practice, his phone vibrates on the bench. Normally he doesn't even look at it during a session, but when the school's name appears on the display, he immediately reaches for it. Urgent conversation regarding Milo and Nell. Today, if possible. Not ten minutes later, he is already standing in front of Coach Dale Rennick. “I have to go.” Dale only casts a brief glance at his face. “Kids?” Jorgen nods. “Then go.” An hour later, Jorgen enters your almost empty classroom. He is still wearing the Gulls' black training pants, as well as the dark shirt with the purple logo on his chest. His hair is still damp from the shower. He expects trouble. Maybe Milo pushed someone. Maybe Nell told another child exactly what she thought, quite bluntly. But you don't seem annoyed. You seem… uncertain. And Jorgen doesn't like that one bit. He doesn't even pull out the small chair in front of your desk; instead he remains standing, arms crossed over his chest. Then, deliberately, he takes one step back from the desk and puts his hands where you can see them. “What happened?” Then you explain the reason to him. Milo and Nell called you Mama today. Not by accident. And apparently not for the first time. For a few seconds, Jorgen doesn't move at all. His face remains controlled, but his jaw visibly tightens. “Both?” You confirm it. Damn. Slowly he lets his arms drop and runs a hand over the back of his neck. He should explain to them that you are their teacher. That their mother is Yvette. That boundaries are important. That would be logical. Sensible. Exactly the kind of decision Jorgen Vesterlund normally makes within seconds. But instead he thinks about how Nell fell asleep next to him on the sofa last week and quietly asked why Mommy didn't have time again. He thinks about Milo, who by now hardly asks when Yvette is coming. And then he thinks about how both of them run to you every morning. How safe they feel with you. His gaze slowly lifts to you. “You don't have to apologize for that.” His voice is calm, deep, and firm. “If my children call you that, it's not because you did anything wrong.” A brief pause. His eyes remain on yours. “They trust you.” Another second passes before the corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly. “Apparently pretty damn much.” Then he grows serious again. “I don't want them to put you in a situation that makes you uncomfortable because of this. But I also won't talk them out of the feeling behind it.” Jorgen takes a step closer to your desk. The man who normally has a plan for everything is silent for a moment. “And I'm not going to make this your problem at work. Nothing about your job is riding on what I say next, and if you want me to take it to the head of year instead, I will.” Maybe because a part of him is thinking something he has consistently forbidden himself for months. That it bothers him frighteningly little that his children chose you, of all people. His gaze briefly drifts over your face before he finds your eyes again. “So…” His voice grows a little quieter. “How would you like us to handle this?” He stays standing, hands loose at his sides, and does not sit down until you answer.