Page 86 of Forever Wild
“We need to finish back to school shopping,” Nick says.
The frown turns to a scowl.
Nick chuckles and a very reluctant Aidan heads off the ice.
“If you aren’t busy for dinner, you’re welcome to come over,” Nick says as he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Thanks, but I have plans.”
Nick nods slowly. “All right. See you tomorrow.”
He joins his son off the ice and they make their way toward the locker rooms.
I stay where I am, standing in the empty rink. I used to think there was nowhere else I’d rather be, but the thrum of anxiousness won’t let me fall into the same feeling of contentment.
When I’m finished at the rink, I head to Brettwood. I need to check in on my dad. Things have been quiet, which always has me more worried than when I’m being called to pick him up from some random bar because he’s causing a scene.
The sun is just beginning to set when I park in the driveway and walk up to the front door of my dad’s house. I own the place, but I still knock before letting myself in. Muffled voices from the TV filter out, and when I don’t get an answer on my second attempt, I push the door open.
“Dad?” I call through the cracked door.
“Living room,” he yells back.
I step inside, bracing myself. I never know what kind of mess I’m walking into. One time he’d pissed himself and ruined the couch. Another time he had broken a bottle of red wine— underneath an area rug in the center of the room, I bet the stain is still there—and needed two stitches.
But today, everything is in place. Dad is reclined back in his leather chair watching TV. An empty plate sits on the end table nextto a glass of amber liquid. A strange sense of relief washes over me. He rarely goes on a bender with the expensive liquor. It’s contradictory, I know, but when he’s at his lowest, it’s cheap beer and vodka that smells more like rubbing alcohol.
“Jackie boy.” He smiles as I walk through the living room, taking it all in. His eyes, the same dark blue as mine, are clear and sharp.
“Dad,” I say with a tip of my head.
“Did I know you were coming?” he asks.
“No. I just hadn’t heard from you and thought I’d check in.” I take a seat on the couch.
“There are burgers in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“No thanks.”
I sit back and glance at the TV. Twins are playing, bottom of the fourth inning.
“Lopez is shit this year,” Dad says as the pitcher throws another ball.
“He’s still coming off that elbow surgery.” I feel a hint of defensiveness. It might be the same for me. Sure I’ve gotten movement and flexibility back and am working on strength, but there’s no comparing that to what it’s like in a game.
Dad huffs, a noncommittal noise that tells me he isn’t sure that’s the issue. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
“They drafted that young kid from Arizona, Flynn Holland. I don’t know why they haven’t called him up yet. Lopez can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
I’m used to Dad’s grumbles and nod along.
“How’s everything going with you?” he asks as he tears his gaze off the TV.
“Everything is fine.”
“You look like shit. Is the knee holding up?”
“The knee is fine.” I get up and go to the kitchen. Dad keeps Gatorade stocked for me, even though he hates the stuff. It’s a small consolation for him knowing how to push my buttons at all times. Aren’t parents supposed to lie and say things like, “Looking great, Son,” even when you don’t. I could use some of that about now.
