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Parents and their nonexistent bubbles, Dad hooked his finger in the top of my sweats and pulled the hem down an inch.
“Dad!”
“I’m just looking, kid.” And look he did.
For what felt like forever.
“That’s pretty nasty, Porter.” He moved his hand and looked up at me as I lowered my shirt, repositioning the hem and fixing my pants as well. “They x-ray it?”
“Yes, Dad,” I groaned.
He nodded once and stood, hooking his hand around my neck. These days, I almost stood eye to eye with him. I was only five or so inches shorter than he and my brothers, and if Caleb and Jon Jon were any indication, I still had a summer or two to grow.
“Don’t be stupid with your body, Porter. Take it easy. You’re afraid of me taking hockey from you? If you ignore your body and your head, you’ll be taking it away from yourself.”
“I got it, Dad.” I was getting antsy under his scrutiny, but stood still.
“’Kay. Go rest.” He squeezed my neck and, good God, pressed a kiss to my forehead. “You’re a good kid, Porter.” He let me go and stepped back, moving to the kitchen to be with Mom now. “Usually,” he added over his shoulder with a grin and a laugh.
My face mirrored Dad’s in every way as I made my way up to my room.
