The ball comes to me next, and I shoot it towards the other goal that’s being guarded by Moxy. She grabs it in her mouth and slowly runs away, getting the kids to all chase after her.
When they’re gone, I collapse onto the floor on my back.
“That’s more energy than I’ve seen out of Moxy in ages,” Danton says.
“She’s smart,” I say. “She knows that if she wants to take a nap anytime soon, she needs to get the ball away from them.”
“True.” Danton laughs. “It’s about time we stopped anyway.Vicky wants me to grill up some burgers tonight. Why don’t you call Ryan and see if he wants to join us.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I think. Save him from the inevitable takeout he’s going to order.”
“Alright,” I say, then send the text to Ryan. Hopefully, he shows up. Because honestly, after a few days of the two of us being attached at the hip in Winnipeg and deciding that this is a relationship, it’s weird not having him around right now. Suddenly, these home stretches in St. Louis aren’t nearly as appealing. On the road, even though it’s kept between the two of us, we can enjoy being together more than we can here.
Ryan
“Do you wish we were back on the road as much as I do?” I ask Brandon when he opens the door for me.
His lips pull up at the corners. “You have no idea.”
“Oh, I think I do.” I laugh. “I’m fucking dying.” With a quick glance over his shoulder I see that the only Foley paying any attention to us is Moxy, who is strolling down the hall towards us with her tail wagging. I take advantage of the rare privacy around this house and pull him out of the view of the hallway to slip him a quick kiss.
“So what’s for dinner?” I ask when I pull away.
“Burgers,” Brandon says. “But you already knew that. It was in the text I sent.”
I take my shoes off and place them with the others by the door. “I honestly didn’t read past you asking me if I wanted to come over for dinner.”
“Why not?” He laughs. “It’s not like I sent you a long text.”
“Because Vicky is the best cook in town.”
“I heard that!” Danton yells from the kitchen.
“And he’s not wrong!” Vicky yells as well. She peeks her headaround the corner, smiles, and waves me over. “Come on in, Ryan. Dinner is almost ready.”
When I enter the kitchen, Danton is shaking his head. “I’m the one doing all the grilling and she’s in here taking all the credit.”
“She did roast the vegetables,” Brandon says.
“And make the salad,” Danton’s oldest son says.
“And cookies!” Danny says. There are cookie crumbs all over his mouth and half a cookie in his hand.
“You’re all traitors,” Danton says, then places a loud kiss onto Vicky’s cheek.
This is one of the many things I love about the Foleys. They have no issue teasing each other and joking around. There’s no malice in their words. It’s all good-humored fun. They’re a lot like the Bouchards in that way, but with fewer bone-crushing hugs. But even I’ll admit I’d give anything for a Momma B hug these days.
It’s interesting. My whole life I grew up in a cold, sterile environment where my very existence was treated as an inconvenience. Where everything I did was scrutinized and no matter how well I excelled at hockey, it didn’t matter. They never cared.
But the two times I’ve lived with another family, I was surrounded by the complete opposite. The Bouchards welcomed me into their home and treated me as if I was their own. They showed up to my games, made sure I was fed, and always had a warm embrace waiting for me, offering stability and safety I didn’t understand at the time.
And then there’s the Foleys. In this family, it’s absolute chaos in the best ways possible. I’m practically run over by Danton’s two daughters as they make their way to the dinner table with Moxy trotting behind them. None of these kids are wearing shoes. They all have dirt or cookie crumbs on their noses. Everyone is wearing Mules swag of some sort, looking comfortable and casual for dinner.
Growing up for me, there were no sweatpants at the table. There was no such thing as a grass stain, or in Brandon’s case, innumerable puck marks scuffing the garage door. There was no yellingand playing and throwing a ball back and forth over the table. And in the case of little Danny, there definitely was no clutching onto a stuffed hodag for dear life twenty-four hours a day.
I look around the table and see everyone smiling and laughing as they put food on their plates. I need this. Regularly. I can’t remain in my apartment alone and closed off and sterile anymore.
