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It’s all I can do from here, for now.
CHAPTER 27
Lilly
“Ihave arrived,”my father announces as he enters Aiden’s room, his arms loaded with bags.
“Did you get me Twizzlers?” Aiden asks as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
I never thought watching my brother get out of his hospital bed could be such a thrilling experience, but after all the sleeping he’s done over the last few days, this burst of energy seems on the level of a miracle.
He’s a very sick kid according to the parade of doctors who are in and out every day, but today he’s made a bit of a turnaround and I’m hoping it means the medications are working. We made plans—we three Hoffmans—to watch the Titans take on New Jersey tonight in game four.
I’m wearing Boone’s jersey and Aiden, of course, has on his Highsmith jersey. My dad doesn’t have any Titans gear other than a hat, but it’s perched proudly on his head. He even pulls out a purple foam finger he picked up.
“Twizzlers,” my dad announces, tossing the bag to Aiden who catches it easily.
“Not until after you eat dinner,” I say sternly, nabbing it right out of his hands.
“Yes, Mom,” Aiden drawls, and my dad and I exchange a smirk.
Tonight’s feast is Aiden’s favorite—lasagna from an Italian restaurant a few blocks down from the deli. Dad picked up an entire pan, along with crusty garlic bread and salad, although none of us touch the salad. We’re all vegetable lovers, but our family motto is why fill up on that stuff when we have cheesy goodness to stuff our bellies?
I help Dad set out all the food as Aiden moves back to the bed. I try to ignore the fact that he’s breathing a little fast just from that small exertion and remind myself that he’s been fever-free for the last twelve hours. Of course, his last chest X-ray this morning didn’t show any clearing in the lungs, but we take our victories where we can get them.
“Artie threw in extra cannoli,” my dad says as he pulls out a separate paper bag that I’m guessing houses dessert. I’m hoping Aiden will want one. He’s hardly eaten anything lately but honestly, if he only wants the bag of Twizzlers, I’ll gladly welcome those sugary calories into his depleted body.
I dish out paper plates of lasagna along with napkins. Aiden tunes the TV into the game and we keep it muted until it starts. Dad and Aiden make side bets on who will score first and who will incur the first penalty. I’m silently watching, taking in every subtle movement by my brother and analyzing the strength in his voice. He’s energetic tonight but then again, he slept hard all day. I had to wake him for meals and then fight with him to get him to eat.
When I say fight, I mean… we fought. He told me to stop hovering and being so bossy, and I told him to stop being so bratty. At one point, we were doing nothing but glaring at each other.
Of course, Boone called not long after and I completely thawed. I didn’t even talk to Boone since he called to talk to Aiden. Whatever he was saying on his end had Aiden smiling, then laughing, and I was pleased to see color in his cheeks not brought on by the exertion of walking himself to the bathroom.
“It’s starting,” Aiden says, turning up the TV volume. He snaps his fingers at me, pointing to the bag of Twizzlers. I toss them to him, satisfied he ate a decent helping of lasagna.
For the next hour and a half, we cheer on the Titans in a brutal back-and-forth game that near the end of the second period still has no score. Twice we’ve been hushed by the nurses for getting too loud so our screams of excitement are more like very enthusiastic whispers, which make us laugh our butts off at how ridiculous we sound.
Watching Boone on TV is surreal. It’s hard sometimes to remember we’re dating.
Actually, it’s more than dating. We are committed and bonded in ways that surpass mere courtship. I’m not sure what we are—I only know my feelings run as deep for that man as they do for my own family.
“Oh come on,” Aiden yells, pointing frantically at the TV. “That’s hooking.” Sure enough, the ref signals the penalty and after the Titans touch the puck, play is stopped. “That Regalan is an ass,” Aiden proclaims.
I almost chastise him for the language but I don’t bother. Regalan is an ass and it’s playoff hockey.
Also… I want to absorb every moment of Aiden’s spunky personality. Dad must feel the same as he doesn’t say a word, instead watching the game intently.
The Titans go on the power play and Boone’s first line is on the ice. My hands are clasped in my lap, fingers wound tightly around each other. As preoccupied as I am with Aiden, I have a burning passion to see Boone and his team win. I’m so damn proud of what he does and this game is so pivotal.
It’s do or die.
“The players line up for the puck drop,” the main announcer booms from the television. “The Titans are about to start their second power play of the game, with New Jersey’s Regalan picking up the two-minute minor for hooking.”
The co-commentator chimes in, “The Titans need this, Tom. They must capitalize on this opportunity, especially being down in the series.”
“Damn right they need to capitalize,” Aiden says, his thin legs crisscrossed as he leans forward.
The puck drops and Coen wins the faceoff, shooting it right over to Boone. I watch entranced as he skates to the near side and the rest of the line sets up. The Wildcats’ defense is tight, leaving no room for a clear shot, so Boone initiates a string of crisp passes on the perimeter between himself, Coen and Stone, trying to draw the other team out and loosen traffic in front of the goal.
