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When I asked Dad if he’d want to chat on the phone while watching a game, he was surprised. But then, it became normal. Part of the routine, in a way, but one of the best parts of it.
On the inside, I’m sweating. He doesn’t look any worse for the wear, and I’d swear he drank that whole coffee. Even a few sips should’ve done the trick, maybe… I put in enough to give a horse diarrhea for a week.
I’m on my couch, wrapped in approximately four blankets. In a row in front of me, on the coffee table, is the extra cell phone, a bottle of tequila, margarita mix, and a half-empty glass. Because I’ve been drinking straight since the coverage started, and nothing has dulled my growing anxiety.
I mean, hethreatenedme. Luke, not Knox. Knox just ate me out ’til Iblackedout. They’re different.
The third period just started, and they’re showing the bench of Titans. Knox has his helmet off, and he wipes at sweat dotting his brow. He looks pale, which gives me some comfort.
But he’s scored already. Once in the second period.
The score is 3-1 in favor of Boston.
Suddenly, Knox is back on the ice with the line change, and he almost immediately is given the puck. I cover my face with my hands, peeking between my fingers, as he races for the goal.
It becomes a 2-on-1 race, andbam, he shoots and scores.
I swear.
“You’re supposed to be a Titans fan.” Dad laughs.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “How’s Ashley?”
Mom died when I was nineteen. It’s been four years since her death, and Dad just started dating in the last few months. It was a bit upsetting at first, but then I met her. She’s actually really nice. She seems good for him.
“She’s coming over for dinner tomorrow,” he says. “Her parents are in town from San Diego.”
“Fun,” I murmur. “Tell her I say hello.”
“She misses you. I do, too, kiddo.”
A lump forms in my throat again. “I miss you, too, Dad. I’ll be back for Christmas.”
That was always the plan. When I moved here, I promised I would visit for at least one major holiday. And they’re supposed to come here for Thanksgiving or Easter, depending on what they can get off of work.
The time on the third period slowly ticks down.
The score is still 3-2 Boston. And although Knox gets the puck again, the goalie comes out of the crease and checks him.Hard.
I cover my mouth. Knox goes down in a heap, sliding across the ice, and a whistle blows. Players fly at each other. It’s bedlam for a moment. Fighting breaks out, and the camera zooms out to keep everyone in frame. Everyone except Knox.
Fucking camera angles.
Dad whistles. “Wow.”
The refs finally get them separated. We get a shot of Knox being helped to the bench, blood pouring out of his nose. I let out a breath.
“He’s always been tough,” Dad advises. He can pick up on my worry easier than anyone else. Why wouldn’t he? He’s my dad. He’s been with me through thick and thin, through the good times and the worst times.
I grimace. “He’s the least of my concerns.”
Dad snorts. “Okay, honey. Oh, Ashley is calling.”
“Okay, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. I love you!”
“Love you, too. Hang in there, kiddo.”
I set my phone aside and focus back on the TV, turning up the volume. The announcers are talking about some Boston rookie who went to college with Knox. I perk up as they zoom in on a roguishly hot guy—purely from an observational stance—with a scrape on his cheek. He seems to look straight through the camera, then turns and steps up into the bench.
