Page 22 of Wild Card
Four months later…
“Are you okay?” is the first thing I say when I pick up the phone.
Last night, I watched the TV with a boulder in my stomach as Tripp was helped off the ice. He hadn’t rejoined the game, and I caved to instinct, sending him a message asking if he was okay.
It took him a day to respond, but he called. And that’s something.
“Yeah. I cleared the protocol. They said I’m fine. A little banged up, but I’ll be back on the ice tomorrow.”
I listen to my son casually recount the fallout of a dirty cross-check he was on the receiving end of and grapple with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s protective and enraged all at once. My stomach sinks and my ire rises.
Even though Tripp is an adult, I’d like to march down to the league headquarters and demand an explanation for how they can keep letting their top talent get rag-dolled like this.
“And is that goon going to be suspended?”
He chuckles now. The sound is a blend of amusement and disbelief over my demand for justice—like somehow he expected less from me.
“Probably. I can’t imagine him not getting a game or two.”
“I’d give him ten,” I grumble, irrationally hating the other player.
Tripp laughs again now. “Missed your calling working in player safety, Bash.”
I grumble at that, still not impressed. “I’ll be checking the news” is all I respond with as I head up the mountain toward Clyde’s property. “I’m going to lose reception right away here, but stay in touch, okay?”
A beat of silence passes between us. There’s still something surreal about talking with him at all. He already has parents to keep in the loop, and I can’t help but feel like it must be inconvenient to add another one to his busy schedule.
Still, he responds, “You bet.” And it’s only slightly awkward.
Progress.Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself every time we have a remotely normal conversation.
The line goes dead right where I figured it would, and I drive up the winding gravel road worrying about Trippandabout Clyde. The thought of him living up here alone with his current health scares me.
I never know what I’ll find when I pull up to the small log home. Today is no exception.
“Clyde, what the fuck are you doing?”
I watch as the older man hobbles around my black pickup truck, bending over stiffly to inspect god knows what. “Hold yer horses! Kids these days are so impatient.” He shuffles across the snow, a smattering of wiry, white facial hair covering his stubborn jaw as he pants from the simple walk to my truck.
It’s taking all my self-control to not get out and help him. But the thing about Clyde is that he doesn’t want any help. Convincing him to give dialysis a go was the challenge of my life.
The passenger door opens, and he heaves his short body into the seat with a grunt. He’s got a wiry but strong build, toppedwith deeply lined, leathery skin from years spent in the sun (and not believing in sunscreen). It’s actually weird that his kidneys are the issue and not some type of skin cancer. But his doctors assured me that, aside from the kidneys, he’s as healthy as a horse.
I’m worried about him, though. I can’t help it. I’ve grown attached to the ornery old git.
“What are you waiting for? Me to die while you stare at me?” He crosses his arms and shoots me a petulant glare from beneath his trucker hat.
I just sigh. Anyone who thinks I’m hard to handle should try helping Clyde. “I’m waiting for you to put your seat belt on.”
“Pfft. I don’t need a seat belt. I grew up in cars that didn’t even have ’em. And look at me.” He holds his arms out wide. “I turned out fine.”
My brows drop. “I think our definitions offinemight be different.”
Clyde’s lips twitch. “You’re so crabby. Still stewing over the wall-punching incident?”
Nowthatis something I don’t want to talk about. So I don’t answer. I just glare at him. He doesn’t reach for the seat belt, and I’m out of patience. “Fuck it,” I mutter, shifting my truck into reverse and throwing a hand over the back of his seat to maneuver down the long driveway.
If he refuses to wear a seat belt, then it’s not my hill to die on.
