Page 107 of King of the Crease

“Go to the man you love.”

The words undo something inside me.

“I don’t know if he still wants me,” I admit.

My father smiles faintly. “Then you must do what kings are rarely brave enough to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Ask.”

I sit there holding his hand, realizing that for the first time in my life, he is not speaking to me as a king instructing his heir. He is speaking as a father trying, at last, to set his son free.

34

HANK

It’s an odd thing to see my son nervous. No matter what he does, whether it’s competing in quiz bowls or giving presentations or preparing for make-or-break tests, Brody has always had the ability to remain cool as a cucumber. He prepares, he studies. Nothing seems to faze him.

Until singing, apparently.

“You’re going to kick so much musical butt,” I tell him, but he’s only half-listening. Instead, he’s pacing in the school parking lot, ignoring the flurries fluttering down on his head.

“I have to sing. In front of people.”

“You’ve been practicing like crazy. You sound great. I know I’m supposed to tell you that you’re going to do a great job no matter what, but I honestly believe it.”

“Wait—have you not believed it other times?”

Shit.

“Don’t change the subject.” I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping his pace. “You got this. What has Mr. Calloway said?”

“He said I’m a natural.”

A smile beams out of me, the gut reaction whenever someone compliments my kid.

“But what if I mess up a line? What if I miss a cue? This isn’t like quiz bowl where you get a question wrong, and it’s onto the next one. If I mess up, then it messes everyone else up, and it creates this chain reaction, and the play is ruined.” He looks up at me, his big brown eyes two sacks of worry. “Dad, I don’t want to ruin the play.”

“You’re not! Do you remember that time I made you join little league?”

He bristles. “Don’t remind me.”

“It was before I realized that sports weren’t your thing. Remember you were covering second base, and you missed that pass, and then the other team scored three runs in a row because you couldn’t catch the ball?”

“Why are you recounting this story? There better be a point.”

“The point is that you survived that game. In the eighth inning, I begged the coach to give you another try, you caught that fly ball. If you mess up a line or a cue, nothing says you can’t dust yourself off and keep going, because you might just catch a fly ball in the next scene. You know what I mean, right?”

“Strangely, I do.”

“As a goalie, I’ve mucked up a lot. But I’ve also saved us from losing. Pobody’s nerfect.” I wrap an arm around him and motion us to the school. “Let’s go inside. Some snow went down the back of my shirt.”

South Rock High School is buzzing tonight. The idea to hold the premiere on New Year’s Day has given the play a bit of mystique and a jolt of anticipation. A hand-painted Little Shop of Horrors banner hangs in the lobby. On a board are photo stills from the production, including one of Brody tearing it up as Orin. Parents and kids and even regular townsfolk have come to watch the show. Not Cathy, noticeably, who didn’t want to cut her New Year’s trip to the Bahamas short.

Mr. Calloway, a sprightly redhead who feels like he could veer into diva territory at any moment, rushes up to Brody.

“There you are! I was worried you were going to bail on me.” He lets out a laugh that’s 90 percent nerves. “You’re not going to bail on me, right?”