Page 10 of Family First
“We are both old men, my friend,” I whispered to the dog then read for a bit. When I woke up from reading, I rose, King on my heels, to find Mama in the living room working on some needlepoint while watching Kelly and Mark. MamalovedKelly and Mark. “Have we heard from Noah yet?” I asked and she shook her head. “Okay, I will go give him a shake.”
“I will do it,” she said, laying her needlepoint aside.
“No, I will go. Sit, rest, you work too hard.”
“You are a godsend,” she said then smiled at me as a mother who adores her son does. “Your sister is coming over later with the little ones.”
“Ah, good. Tell her to bring some of her apple cake for her poor ailing brother,” I called as I began climbing the stairs. It was tricky but I was improving. A little bit each day.
My son did not respond when I tapped his door with a crutch. Nor did he stir when I rapped harder. I opened the door a crack, always aware that young adults did not like parents dashing in to their space. Not that I dashed anywhere at the moment…
“Noah, is time to get up. Is nearly noon and we have the game this evening, much excitement, in the box,” I called, easing the door open wider when no sound but his soft snores bounced back to me.
His curtains were drawn but the sun sliced through a gap in the navy blue draperies, the strip falling on Noah’s form huddled under a duvet, nothing but the top of his blond head showing. I pushed the door wider then frowned at the state of his bedroom. Again, we did not push our way into our children’s rooms because they were entitled to privacy. I recalled quite well what it was like to be a young person with raging hormones. I also recalled how little I cared as a teenager about the state of my room but this…
Well, this room was more than untidy, it was slovenly. Clothes lay everywhere, dirty bowls were piled on the dresser and his computer desk, and water bottles covered the floor. Dozens and dozens of bottles, possibly enough to stock the Railers bench for a few games. We would need to make more than a monthly spot-check on the kids if this was how the boy wished to live. The area stank of unwashed boy and hockey equipment. His gear lay tossed in the corner under a poster of Goku, a character fromDragon Ballseries of anime and cartoons, that Noah thought was cool. Or rad. Or whatever term the kids were using nowadays. Empty potato chip and cheese puffs bags were everywhere, as were takeout dishes, brown McDonald’s bags, and candy wrappers.
“So old,” I whispered to myself as I made my way through the refuse piles to the young man sleeping so soundly in his wide bed. “Noah, it is time to get up.”
I sat down beside him, grunting a little as I did, then reached out to give him a shake. He mumbled something, shifted to his stomach, and fell right back to sleep. We did this a few more times then I began to grow concerned. I knew that young minds and bodies needed more rest than us old folks, but he seemed almost unable to wake. I placed a hand on his brow. He didn’t seem feverish, but his face was thin, his cheekbones pronounced. He’d gotten leaner of late, but we had attributed it to a growth spurt and the fact he was now skating every single day, sometimes for several hours. We would need to see that he ate more and better. This shrine to junk food was bad. A growing athlete needed healthy food.
He growled and lashed out, his words hard to decipher.
“Noah, are you not feeling well?” I asked, using the back of my fingers to lift a sticky strand of hair from his cheek.
“Just sleepy,” he mumbled, his lashes fluttering. “Gotta pee.”
He threw off the covers, stumbled to his bathroom, and slammed the door in my face. Ah teenagers. Such rays of sunshine and joy. He emerged a few minutes later, his dusky blue Railers shorts hanging off his hips. I studied him intently. His body seemed much leaner than I had realized, his stomach concave, his skin sallow, and his eyes dull.
“Noah, are you sick? Should I call the good doctor?” I asked.
“Go away.” He wiggled back under the covers, pulled them over his head, and then fell right back asleep. A weight began to settle on my shoulders. Something was off with our youngest child. Looking around the room at the darkness I began to fear that perhaps he was depressed.
“Okay, Son, rest a bit longer. But you will have to be up at noon,” I whispered, placing my hand on his hip. He jerked away from my touch, snarling like a rabid raccoon, and told me to leave him the fuck alone. That was not our sunshiny boy at all. Easing myself up I headed downstairs to greet Erik, my shoulders tight with worry.
My husband and I were going to have a long talk about our baby boy.
ChapterSix
ERIK
The lights of the arena buzzed overhead, and the sea of Railers blue was everything we needed tonight. It was game four, and we were 3–0 down in this round, and Toronto fans in the crowd, pockets of white, were loud with excitement because the Railers were on the verge of losing this and stopping one round short of fighting for the Stanley Cup. We were so close, but it had been torture getting there.
“Fuck,” Adler muttered under his breath.
I wasn’t sure he meant for anyone else to hear. I’d seen him pacing in the weight room, his husband Layton Fox, our newly minted executive head of social media, talking to him, and trying to catch his arm every time he passed. We all put on brave, confident faces, but when it came down to it, the mood in the locker room was serious. And cold. And lonely without Stan.
I wasn’t someone who believed in miracles, but shit, we needed one tonight. The odds were stacked against us, and even though I felt the weight of collective hope from my teammates, the coaching staff, and every fan in the stands, my heart refused to stop hurting. I couldn’t see Stan in the VIP box, but I knew he was up there, because he and the girls had met me in staff parking to wish us luck and was probably more nervous than I was. The fact he couldn’t be on the ice, defending our goal, was a wound that would never heal, the team’s normal last line of defense, my personal hero, and I couldn’t even imagine the frustration bubbling up inside him. Eva and Margo were there as well, both so excited and I wanted to win for them, to show them that no matter how bleak the odds, their dad could rise to the challenge.
I just wasn’t sure it would happen.
“Okay?” Adler tapped my shin gently.
I met his gaze. “Yeah,” I said, bullish, confident, not at all pissed that our year was likely to end tonight. I didn’t know why I couldn’t shove the thoughts of losing aside—that was what hockey players did. They shoved negativity aside, they relied on luck and hope, and forced positivity.
“How’s Noah?”
And there it was. The missing person from the box, one I’d come to associate with luck, joy, and hope: Noah. He had the flu, or so Stan told me. At least I think that was what he was trying to tell me, just that Noah was home ill, and sent his love. I hadn’t expected him not to be here, and the thought of my lucky charm not being close was hard. Every win, every goal, every celebration had him and the girls at its heart. It felt wrong not having him there, like going into battle without a trusted weapon.
