Page 52 of Pucker Up
Dad poured two cups of coffee and slid one across the island. I took some cream out of the fridge, but he held up his hand. “No cream for me anymore, kiddo. Have you ever tried putting cinnamon in your coffee? It’s delicious.” He held up the spice bottle like a social media influencer trying to sell it.
“I’ll try some, but you’re going to have to pull this cream out of my cold dead hands.” I laughed as I poured it into my favoriteglass mug. Dad shook some cinnamon on my drink and watched as I took a sip.
“You’re right; it is good.”
Dad smiled, sat across from me, and tied his tie. It was his away-game tie, the same one he’d worn since his first day coaching. “Don’t you think it’s time for a new tie?”
“Marigold Swanson.” Dad gasped. “How dare you suggest that I get rid of my lucky tie, especially now that we’re on a winning streak.”
“Since when is one game a streak?” It came out a little harsher than I’d intended. Luckily, Dad had a thick skin.
“That was game one of our winning streak. You’ll see.” He adjusted the tie. “Since that ‘w’ against Vegas, the guys have been busting their asses at practice.” He sipped his coffee. “I’ve also noticed that the players who are working with you seem to be lighter on their feet. Are you doing some psychological magic in those sessions?”
That made my heart swell. Quite a few of the men had opened up about their emotions, unprovoked. It was as though they needed a place and a person who knew what they’d been through and would listen without judgement. I wasn’t an official psychiatrist or psychologist. My theory was this made me more approachable. “I’m just asking them questions about the game.” I held on to the warm mug. Dad usually lit a fire in the fireplace, but hadn’t because he was going away, so the house was a little chillier than usual.
“Whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it. Have you been able to get to the bottom of the Bailey feud?”
“Not yet. The only thing I’ve discovered is that they’ve each had at least one concussion because of the other.”
Dad shook his head. “They’re scrappy with each other, but did you see the magic that happened at the end of the game? Maybe they’re ready to put the past behind them.”
I doubted it.
“Have they told you anything else?” There was hope in his eyes.
“No, and if they do, I’m not sure I can tell you any details.”
Dad took a deep breath. “I guess that’s appropriate, but if I need to trade one of them, you’ll figure out a way to tell me, right?”
“Hopefully, they’ve turned everything around and we won’t have to worry about that.”
Dad smiled. “I hope you’re right. That would be an expensive loss for the team.”
I hadn’t told Dad that I’d fired Ace from the study. It wasn’t any of his business, and the study and its participants were ultimately going to be anonymous. That’s what I told myself. The truth was I didn’t want to have to explain why I’d fired Ace. Dad didn’t need to know about what was happening between us, at least not until I knew that it actually was something. Sure, Ace told me that the sheets were mine, but part of me was still afraid that it was all too good to be true. There was no sense in upsetting the apple cart, or whatever that saying was. Maybe it would be a fast-and-furious fling and I would never have to tell Dad. If this was the case, I wouldn’t have to tell Ace about my dad either. No, it wasn’t the time to be shouting about our romance from the rooftops.
“Did you ever find your keys?” he asked. I’d had to borrow his spare set to let myself into my place. “I’ll call a locksmith. I don’t like the idea of keys to the carriage house floating around out there.”
I put my hand on his. “I’ll call the locksmith. You focus on getting to Miami and winning that game.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Thanks, Goldie. I love that I can count on you.”
Morton yawned and slunk off the couch like a snake, stretching his back legs behind him. He didn’t make eye contact with me as he trotted past the kitchen and up the stairs to where I assumed he was making himself comfortable on my dad’s king-sized bed.
The wind howled and the leaded glass windows on the front of the house shuddered.
“I hope that they don’t ground the flights today.” I shivered. “I’m a little bit jealous that you’re on your way to sunny Florida.”
“You can come with me next time.” Lights flashed as the town car pulled into the driveway. Dad rinsed his mug and put on his LL Bean jacket. “Bye, sweetheart.” He kissed the top of my head. “Bye, Mortman!” he shouted.
A thud from upstairs shook the chandelier in the living room, and Morton bounded down the stairs. “I don’t get that kind of reaction when I leave.” I pretended to pout.
Morton leaned against my dad’s suit pants, his tail thwacking at the island as Dad patted him vigorously. He dropped something white on the floor at my feet. “What’s this?” I picked it up with my fingertips. The white hat with the pompom was covered in drool, but it looked familiar.
“I don’t know where that came from.” Dad slung his briefcase over his shoulder and I walked to the door, giving him another hug after he put on his boots.
I turned the hat around in my hands a couple of times. “This looks like Mel’s.”
“Maybe she left it here on burger night.” Dad waved as he jogged to meet the airport car, leaving boot prints in the twelve inches of snow.
