Page 11 of Pucker Up
“Um. I was dropping off something…” She pointed to Morton, who was passed out next to the coffee table.
My dad’s brow furrowed as he took my backpack from my shoulder. “Are you all right, kiddo?” he asked.
“Dad, I’m twenty-five years old.”
“You’ll always be my kiddo, kiddo.” He set my bag on the floor and I followed him and Mel into the kitchen. Aluminum takeout containers dotted the marble island. Dad handed me a plate and fork. “You look like you could use a glass of wine.”
Wine. That might help. “I’d love a glass.”
“Mel?” Dad held up another wineglass. Mel nodded so enthusiastically, I thought her head might bobble right off her neck.
While my dad poured the wine, I went to the sofa, buried my face in Morton’s chest, and scratched the scruff of his neck. How had I forgotten that Mel was going to drop him off? What was wrong with me? “I’m sorry, pal,” I whispered.
Morton stretched his legs and let out that cute sound dogs make when they yawn. He gave the couch a couple of thwacks with his tail before going back to sleep.
I sidled onto one of the barstools at the island. Dad held up his wineglass. “Do we have anything to celebrate?”
“I sold a house on Leslie Street today.” Mel smiled.
“Congratulations.” Dad clinked his glass to hers. “What about you, Goldie?”
“As a matter of fact, I received some surprise funding for my study.”
Dad’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That’s wonderful, dear. I know you’re passionate about your thesis.”
“That’s awesome, Goldie Girl.” Mel grinned. She knew how tight my funds had been the last little while. My father was a retired NHL star and a head coach, but I wouldn’t take a dime from him for my studies. I wanted to do it on my own. My undergrad had been funded mostly through scholarships, and while he didn’t write any checks for my tuition, he let me live in the carriage house for free, something that I would never have been able to afford in the Beaches area of Toronto.
“Thanks. It’s going to help fund the studies.”
“Do you have any subjects yet?” Mel asked.
“Not yet. I’m still working on that.” I cast Mel a glare that hopefully said,Remember, my dad doesn’t know the details about my research.
My study on concussions wasn’t a secret, but I hadn’t told my dad all the nitty gritty details. Like how I was studying the impacts of traumatic brain injury on personality, namely impulsive behavior. I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. He would be a prime candidate for a test subject. In a way, I was hoping the results would explain why he’d done some of the things he’d done in the past.
Mel smiled widely. “What about you, Mr. Swanson? Are you celebrating anything?”
My father gave Mel a smile in return. “You know that you can call me Scott. But, no. Still on a losing streak.”
Dad dug a spoon into the red curry and deposited a heaping serving onto my plate. He knew that the spicy dish was my favorite. “Sorry to hear that, Dad. I’m sure things will turn around.”
When I closed my eyes to take a bite of the rice, a flash of Ace’s smile appeared. In the imagery behind my lids, he was spinning, holding something above his head, a big trophy. I blinked a couple of times.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dad’s eyes were filled with concern.
I must have been staring into space and blinking for a little longer than I’d thought. I swallowed the bite of rice and took a big sip of my wine. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“So, Mister…I mean, Scott…was the polar beach thingy a success?” Mel asked.
Dad didn’t hide his eye roll. “That publicity stunt? Maybe if my guys spent more time on the ice and less time doing crap for the media, we wouldn’t be…” He stopped and held his hands up. “Sorry, Goldie and I have a strict no-work-at-the-dinner-table policy.”
Redness had crept up my father’s neck and was dancing with his jawbone. When he was a player, he could take out his frustration on the ice, slam pucks, body check a few wingmen, and be back to his place of zen. As a coach, he didn’t have the same physical outlet, and I worried about his blood pressure. Talking about the team got him worked up, and not in a good way, at least not when they were losing.
“Roger.” Mel smiled. “No more hockey talk at the table.” She took a sip of her wine. “Does talking about the players count?”
“In what way?” Dad wasn’t a dummy; he knew that Mel was angling to get some dirt on the players.
“Mel…” I groaned.
