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I follow him inside. The familiar smell hits me before he turns on the lights. Oil, rubber, the coffee that’s probably been sitting in the pot since this morning. Dad stopped noticing it years ago, but I always smell it when I come home.

My school pictures are still on the wall behind his desk, between an old business license and a photograph of me holding my first hockey trophy. There are newer pictures too. Draft day. My first game in Seattle. Dad looking uncomfortable in the suit I made him wear to an awards dinner.

He catches me looking.

"Handsome kid."

"Terrible haircut."

"Your grandmother liked it."

"She wasn’t the one going to school with it."

He sets his keys on the desk and checks his phone.

I take mine out too.

Baylor’s message is still open.

I love you. I was trying to tell you that before we got interrupted. I’m telling you now.

I read it outside the surgeon’s office. Then again in the truck. I’ve read it enough times that I could probably repeat the punctuation.

I called her as soon as I saw it.

Straight to voicemail.

For a few seconds, I thought she’d decided to let me experience the other side of that. I wouldn’t have blamed her.

So I sent Baylor another text.

I love you too. Call me when you’re free. I want to hear about the shop.

That was hours ago.

Apparently, waiting for someone to call is fucking miserable. I’m beginning to understand how much of an asshole I’ve been.

"Sit down," Dad says, nodding toward the chair beside his desk.

"I’ve been sitting all day."

"And complaining through most of it. You’re very talented."

I lower myself into the chair anyway and rest my good hand on my thigh.

This morning’s appointment didn’t give me the answer I wanted. The repair looks the way the surgeon expected it to. I have instructions, restrictions, and another appointment.

I do not have a promise that I’ll play hockey again.

Dad has managed not to ask about it for most of dinner. I appreciate that, even if he’s now looking at me like there’s something else he’d like to discuss.

He glances toward the window.

Headlights sweep across the wall as a car turns into the lot.

"Expecting someone?" I ask.

"Apparently."