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“Screw you, Blackwell. I’m trying to have a moment here. I’m just saying complicated is a cop-out. It means there’s shit you need to face.”
“Trust me. I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
“Thanks, Coach.” He shot an irritated look at Zach.
“No problem.”
A crowd was gathered around the eighteenth hole, and he put on his game face as he reached for his putter. These people had paid a lot of money to watch him and a bunch of other so-called celebrities golf, and they didn’t deserve a sourpuss asshole.
He heard his name shouted several times, along with Zach’s, and the two men nodded and waved before lining up for their final shots. It wasn’t long before the game wrapped, and he made his way over to the crowd, posing for selfies and signing autographs. Ruby had disappeared—probably because of him. But, there were a lot of folks gathered around, many he knew, including his peewee coach, Mr. Hoder. This particular man had meant a lot to Travis, and he hadn’t seen him in years. Hoder was definitely older, with thinning hair and a paunch, but the kind brown eyes and big smile were the same.
“Mr. H,” Travis said with a wide grin. He bypassed the man’s offer of a handshake and pulled him in for a hug. “Why the hell are you standing here? I could have got you a VIP pass.”
“I bet you could,” Mr. Hoder said with a chuckle. “But, son, the day I ask for special treatment is the day they roll me down the fairway in a wheelchair.”
“We both know that day won’t ever come.” Travis stood back, genuinely happy to see the man. “You look real good, Mr. H.”
“Travis, you’re a grown-ass man in the NHL. You can call me Carl.”
“Sure.” That wasn’t happening. The man would always be Mr. H to Travis. “You still coaching?”
“No. The wife came up sick a few years back, and I had to refocus my priorities. She passed in the spring.”
Travis offered his condolences. Hoder’s wife had been a small, fiery little thing with a love of hockey and a big laugh.
“So, now I get out to the grandkids’ games in the winter and keep busy with landscaping in the summer.”
That surprised Travis. “You still working?”
“My son, Ollie, took over Green Thumb, but I still like to get my hands dirty. Nothing worse than too much time and nothing to do. What about you?”
Travis was embarrassed to say he couldn’t remember the last time he’d
sunk his hands in dirt and planted something real and alive. He’d worked at Green Thumb all through high school. It was something he loved, and as he stood there, he realized there were a lot of things he’d let fall away from him.
“Bah,” his coach said gruffly. “You’re a busy man.”
Not that busy.
“I’m here for the summer,” he found himself saying. “If you need help with anything, let me know.”
Mr. Hoder smiled. “I just might take you up on that, Travis. Now go on. There’s a lot of folks who want a piece of you right now.”
“I’m serious.” He wiggled his thumb and pinky fingers in a phone salute. “Call me.” He gave his old coach one last pat on the back and turned, hearing his named called loudly. A young kid came barreling through the crowd, dressed in Red Wings gear, which was saying something on account of how warm it was. He recognized the shirt. The sight made Travis grin widely, and he welcomed the young boy with open arms.
“Hey, I was wondering when I’d see you. I’ve been home for almost two weeks.” Travis put the boy down, but as he got a good look at Patrick Bergen, his heart sank. His complexion was pale, the eyes a little too bright, and the puffiness of his features attested to the medications he was taking. Travis knew from experience it was a lot.
“I had to stay in my room because my mom doesn’t want me to get sick again,” Patrick said with a shrug. “But I’m out now. I got to ride on the golf cart with Wyatt, and he even let me drive it.” Patrick looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Mom. Dad! It’s Travis, from the Red Wings.”
Travis spied Patrick’s parents, Brad and Gwen, and walked over to them. He shook Brad’s hand warmly and gave Gwen a big hug.
“Good to see you guys,” he murmured, dropping a kiss to Gwen’s cheek before stepping back. He knew Gwen from his childhood. She’d babysat him and Wyatt at one point when he’d been a kid. And Brad had been a familiar face from the past he’d had no real connection to—he was older, more his brother Hudson’s age—until the previous year.
Through his brother Wyatt’s efforts, he’d gotten to know the Bergens, but more importantly little Patrick. The kid was special. Travis’s throat tightened. He was damn special.
“I hear you’re staying for the summer,” Gwen said softly, hand on her young son’s shoulder.
