Page 50 of King of the Crease

The bell on the door rings as a trio of girls come in and beeline to the elliptical machines. That’s our cue to go.

Nick wipes himself off with a towel, then heads out. He turns back before he exits the door, giving me one more loaded glance. “Good night, Hank.”

Being a main character rocks.

15

NICK

Iam a bundle of nerves all week. By Friday, I can barely focus.

This is my first-ever date. I’m unsure whether dinner with a guy and his son counts as a date. Fuck it, I’m counting it.

My first-ever date.

Millie and I search through Adam’s closet for an appropriate first-date outfit.

“We need something that’s nice, but also casual. Corduroys and a knit sweater,” she says as she shuffles through hanger after hanger in Adam’s closet. “I love my husband, but I want to set half of his clothes on fire. We’re going shopping.”

One afternoon outfit hunt later, I drive up to Hank’s house in Millie’s Subaru. It’s so him. Charming, unassuming, the warmth pouring out the windows.

Millie and I settled on khaki corduroy pants and a lightweight dark green sweater. We nixed the thicker cable knit suggestion once we realized I’d be a nervous, sweaty mess. A bulky sweater would only exacerbate that.

I bring a six-pack of beer and a container of mini brownies, a far cry from the menu found at Ardenian soirees.

My heart rattles in my chest as I ring the doorbell. Was our gym make-out session a fluke? Or a breakthrough? Or a mistake?

Yet when Hank opens the door, and my first impulse is to jump on him like I’m a horny lion attaching his prey, I realize I’m exactly where I need to be.

No, I do not jump on him. I hold up the six-pack instead. “You can’t have pizza without beer!”

Hank seems to have dressed up a little for tonight, too. He wears a crisp plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans. His stomach is big and pronounced and always ready for a hug. He combed his hair to the side, but I prefer his everyday shaggy style.

“I love two bite brownies!” Hank says of my dessert. “Not to brag, but I can eat them in one bite.”

“I’ll bet.” I know firsthand what Hank’s mouth is capable of. I believe it.

I follow him inside to the dining room where pizza, plates, and napkins wait for us. But no son.

“Brody’s upstairs finishing his homework. He’ll be down in a minute.”

I look around the house, the shelves and walls cluttered with pictures, hockey memorabilia, and the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. Random stacks of papers on kitchen counters. A box of lightbulbs sitting on an end table. In Ardenia, I live in a castle that’s cleaned everyday. There is no stray paper, no crooked picture. Nothing out of place. It’s majestic and beautiful, but not cozy.

I follow a path of framed pictures on the wall of Brody, from little boy to young adult. The pull of having a child—an heir—tugs at me.

“Brody’s seventeen, yes?”

“Yep.” Hank cracks open a pair of beers for us, hands one to me. “He’s off to college next year.”

“Does he know where yet?”

“He has his heart set on Stanford.”

“You don’t seem pleased. That’s a phenomenal school.”

“It’s on the other side of the country. I was hoping he’d go to a school that’s closer.” Hank gazes at the wall of Brody’s photos, and it’s obvious how much he’ll miss him.

“There are airplanes,” I assure him.