Page 90 of In Your Wake

“‘Oly shit. You’re still alive,” he replies in his Quebecois accent.

“Barely. How’s retirement treating you?”

“It’s killing me. I reorganized my spice rack for fun today.”

“That’s pretty sad.”

“You ‘ave no idea. I almost bought a bird feeder at the garden store. A fucking bird feeder.”

I bark out a laugh despite myself. “Could be worse.”

“I don’t know about dat. I’m forty-two, my knees are shot, and my back ‘urts when I sneeze. Getting old fucking sucks.”

I lean back in my chair, smiling for what seems like the first time since we brought Dad home.

Logan Tremblay was one of my favorite teammates. He was like an older brother. Always there. Always helpful and supportive. Sort of like my on-the-road Hunter and Spencer. We used to speak every single day—in or off-season. But since he retired, we’ve had trouble keeping in touch.

“How’s la famille?” I ask using one of the limited French words I know.

“La famille va bien. Emmie started ‘igh school. Fucking driving us crazy. Julie got promoted at work. She’s partner now.”

“That’s great. Good for her.”

“Yeah, she loves it.” There’s a long pause. “Listen, Mitch. I heard about your dad.”

My smile fades.

“‘Ow’s he doing?”

I stare out at the rain-slicked yard. “Not great. It’s a matter of days.”

“Fuck, man… I’m sorry.”

“Do you hear from the guys much?” I ask, trying to change the subject, desperate to escape this emotional prison I’ve been in if only for a few minutes.

“Some. Russo keeps trying to get me to invest in a strip club.”

“Oh, Jesus. I guess some things never change.”

“They don’t. So, I ‘eard a rumor.”

“That narrows it down.”

“You’re retiring?”

I snort. “Who said that?”

“So, it’s true.”

“No, it’s not.” I rub a hand over my jaw. “I’m just… between things right now.”

“Between, like U.S. and Germany?”

I drop my head back. “How did you hear about that?”

“Hockey is a small world, remember?”

I grunt. “Apparently.”