Page 35 of Played
Slowly, I hunker down in front of Khalil, meeting his green gaze on his level and cupping his shoulders.
“Son, of course you won’t. Why would you say that?” I gently ask.
For a moment, fear whispers through his eyes, and God, if that doesn’t tear me apart. No child should experience fear or uncertainty. Damn sure no child of mine. But he has. He’s known loss, sadness, and fear. And it crushes me as his father.
Khalil shrugs. “I’on know.”
“Khalil.” I lightly squeeze his shoulders. “Yes, you do. Now, c’mon. Remember, we don’t keep secrets. You can tell me anything. Why would you say you don’t want to leave Grammy like your mama?”
He shrugs again, but then he whispers, “Mama left our house and went to heaven. I don’t wanna go to heaven. I don’t wanna leave Grammy and Grandad. They’ll be sad if I go. You and me all they got.”
Anger hums beneath my skin. An anger I try like hell to keep out of my voice.
“Khalil, listen to me, and listen closely, okay?” I wait for him to nod. “The only thing I want you to do is play video games, eat my famous macaroni cheeseburgers, and be the happy little boy you should be. That’s it. Me, your grammy and grandad? What’ll make us the happiest is if you do that, okay? You understand?”
He stares at me for a long moment, and his wide gaze roams over my face, as if searching. Then, he tilts his head a little to the side, a small frown crinkling his forehead.
“If I keep playingMinecraft, will you be happy?”
I swallow a chuckle but nod my head. “Absolutely. As long as me or someone else is there with you. That’s our rule, right?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Yep.” A grin spreads across his face, and the band squeezing the hell out of my chest slowly eases, and I drag in the first deep, cleansing breath since we started this conversation.
“Good.” I kiss him on the cheek before rising and rubbing a hand over his soft curls. “Now, let’s go get you dressed so we can go eat that good food your grammy has downstairs.”
“Yeah!” Khalil races out the room, and chuckling at all that five-year-old energy, I follow behind him.
Skating over to the bench, I swipe up my water bottle and pop the cap. Even though it’s cold out here on the rink, I barely feel it. Sweat dots my forehead, and no doubt, when I strip out of this gear, it will be drenched—and smelling like armpit and balls. But for now, I don’t smell anything but the bite of cold and the chemical scent from the ice. Inhaling the scents that are as familiar to me as my own, I glance toward the stands behind the boards. Khalil sits on the third row, his head bowed over his tablet, probably playing one of the many games downloaded there. Even from here, though, I can see his lips moving. I don’t need to be near him to know that mouth goes a mile a minute, and he’s no doubt talking Patrice’s ear off.
As if feeling my gaze on them, Patrice lifts her head and smiles at me. When her expression warms and brightens even more, I don’t need to glance around to know Ken is behind me. That look of complete adoration belongs only to her husband. A hole the size of a cigarette burn sizzles in the middle of my chest. They remind me of me and Kendra. She used to come sit in these same stands with Khalil during some of my practices, would even join me a few times on the road. Like we used to be, Ken and Patrice are joined at the hip.
“I really appreciate Patrice watching over Khalil. I owe her.” I set my water bottle down, and Ken shakes his head as he lifts his own bottle to his mouth.
“No worries. She’s more than happy to do it. Said it’ll prepare her for when she has ours.” A grin slowly spreads over his face, and the love and happiness glow as if a light beams from under his skin, out of his eyes.
“She’s pregnant?” I ask, my eyes narrowing on his pretty wife, who’s returned her attention back on Khalil.
“Yup. Eight weeks. We’re not announcing anything until she’s out of the first trimester, though.”
A shadow briefly flickers over his face, temporarily dimming some of the light in his eyes. The miscarriage they suffered last year. Though he doesn’t say it, I know that’s what caused the brightness in his gaze to dampen.
“Well, your secret’s safe with me,” I assure him. “And congratulations, man. I’m happy for the both of you.”
“Thanks, Sol.”
“Kennedy, Young, any day now,” Coach yells over to us. “You’re welcome to join the rest of us.”
Smirking, I drop my water bottle back on the bench and return to the center of the rink. As a left defenseman, Ken skates farther down to his position. With a narrow-eyed stare at me, Coach blows the whistle, and practice resumes. For the next hour, we go through team drills, followed by a cooldown period. Coach breaks us up, and we focus on some individual skill work that addresses mistakes from last night’s game and today’s practice.
Later, when I exit the locker room, Khalil and Patrice are waiting for me right outside. As much joy as hockey brings me, it dulls in comparison to this little boy with his wide grin, my green eyes, and his mother’s face. My love for him is damn near painful.
“Look, Daddy!” He holds up a miniature-size hockey stick. “Aunt Patrice gave it to me. It’s just like yours!”
“Wow, that’s awesome.” I mouthThank youto Patrice, who nods at me in return. “What do you say to Aunt Patrice, li’l man?”
“I told her thank you,” he tells me, and I should check him over that little attitude that’s in his voice—and I would if I wasn’t holding back a snort of laughter. “I’m a big boy.”
“My bad. And yeah, you’re right. Telling someone thank you when they do something nice for you is big-boy behavior.” Shaking my head, I hold out a hand toward him, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip his into mine. “Thanks again, Patrice. I truly appreciate it.”
