“Ground rules established, Thatcher.”
***
It doesn’t take long for Jamie’s favorite topic of conversation to become Roe Monroe.
Home from practice, in the truck, to Arch who ends up at our house as often as he is at his own . . . I feel as if I know all there is to know about the man. Twelve-year-old boys have stream-of-consciousness conversations on a loop, and Arch and Jamie’s revolves around Monroe and hockey and very little else.
I go to every game, so of course I’m going to be there for the pre-season game that opens Jamie’s season. I’ve been holding back from showing up too early into practice. Running into Monroe makes me feel off my pace a little bit more with every smirk, and that happens often enough with me working on the locker rooms at The Keep.
After we pull into the parking lot at The Keep, I help Jamie unload his gear. He’s too old for me to help him carry it in, but he gives me a fierce hug, and we do our pre-game handshake.
I try to not feel relieved that he still wants to do it, at least for another year.
That familiar lump comes back into my throat as I watch him walk off toward the player’s entrance. The love I have for Jamie is overwhelming sometimes.
A tsunami of emotions—worry, hope, fear, love—hits me and washes over me in waves. So much damn love. I never knew I could love someone with no limits the way I love Jamie. I want to be the best version of myself for him. I want to help him become the best version of himself too.
When his mom left, it wasn’t much of a surprise. She liked being pregnant, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that most of that was the attention she received while she was.
She was a rich girl, who liked that I was a carpenter and worked with my hands and hadn’t bothered with college. I liked that she was easy to keep at arm’s length but was more than casual. It was comfortable. Liz never demanded hard conversations or for me to declare any feelings. We never made future plans together, never thought to consult one another on the big decisions of life.
One thing I found out about myself early on, other than my bisexuality, was that I wasn’t made for baring my soul to someone else. I’d tried that before. I had given one hundred percent of myself to being a son my dad could love, and it hadn’t been enough. Trying that again, and with someone who wasn’t obligated to love me back at least a little bit, never seemed that appealing.
Liz never pushed. Never asked for us to move in together or even to have the kind of relationship that called for any kind of default assumption that our free time would be spent together. We were dating, and together, but only when one of us would pick up the phone and ask the other to fill that role. I never assumed my plans were with her, and she never did either. I never even stayed the night with her.
At the time, I would have said it was freedom—the ability to have a relationship, an ostensibly serious one, and still not have to reveal any of those soft vulnerabilities other people did with a partner. And so, it was easy, even with a kid in the mix, to go our separate ways.
There was no doubt, from the first second I held him, that Jamie would stay with me.
Jamie and I are a package deal. Always have been. Always will be.
I don’t and never will have the kind of money Liz’s family has. My dad didn’t leave me with anything except my grandfather’s tools and the desire to be nothing like him.
I’ve made myself comfortable living below my means, and it probably helps that I don’t need much to feel content. I’ve also made absolutely sure that everything Liz has given me in child support goes into savings for Jamie’s future along with the amount her family earmarked just for that.
There’s no way on this planet that I won’t support Jamie if he wants to pursue hockey. But he could have so much more.
Watching him on the ice with his team causes so many emotions I hardly know what to do with it. I take a deep breath; glad I’m sitting apart from the other parents and glad I’ve learned to keep this shit on the inside.
Monroe’s spicy soap tickles my nose. Something warm fills my gut and my skin prickles with awareness.
Weird.
“Hey man, Jamie’s looking good in warmups,” Monroe says, sliding into the seat next to me like I was saving it for him.
I try to glare at him, but that only makes him smile.
Chapter five
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Stanley “Stan” Gordon: Benji O’Rourke seen dragging Roe Monroe through Main Street like a lost puppy. Reports say they were looking at the “old bar,” emphasis on “old.”
Patti Jensen: My husband says Monroe asked about the permits to renovate. Do we think he’s thinking of buying it?
Riley Novak: I think the better question is, has anyone warned him the pipes in that place haven’t worked since the Obama administration?
