She hands me a check, which I fold into the pocket of my flannel. Gregg made his money in petroleum engineering, and Marge . . . Marge was the receptionist at Fox River High. She still knows all the old senior pranks we pulled, even the ones our parents never did. And since retirement? She’s become the town’s unofficial gossip queen. Online now, instead of behind her desk.
Marge leads me into the newly redone kitchen—my handiwork—and hands me a hot cup of coffee, even though it’s afternoon.
“So, Thatch. Patti said you had a date the other night. Pie at the diner?”
I wince. “Just coffee. An interior designer I met on the Crofton job. Nothing came of it.”
She tsks softly, pats my hand. “You’ll find someone. You’re too good a catch not to.” Then, as casually as breathing, she asks, “How’s Liz doing these days?”
One thing about Marge—she doesn’t avoid sensitive topics. Someone dies, someone divorces, she’s in it with both feet.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “She talks to Jamie from wherever she is in the world.”
“I hoped as he got older, we’d see her around more.”
I try to smile, but I’m sure it’s more of a grimace. “She’s where she wants to be. Jamie and I are fine with that.”
She nods, eyes twinkling. “Still, we need to find you a man—” She catches herself, since I date men and women and that’s not something that stays behind closed doors in a small town like Fox River Falls. But I have been dating men recently, and Marge would pick up on that. “Or woman,” she diplomatically tacks on to the end.
I rinse my cup and set it in the sink before she can press further. The last thing I want is to become Marge Calloway’s matchmaking mission, or to get dragged into a conversation about the finer points of bisexuality over the countertops of her cinnamon-scented kitchen.
Dating, even as infrequently as I do it, has been the best defense at keeping Marge’s gossip—or plans—far away from me. It’s like that trick I learned back when I was young enough to think parties were fun. If I just took whatever alcohol-based beverage was in the Solo cup, it was a lot less hassle than declining and having people push it on me all night. Or commenting on it.
All I had to do was just carry the cup, and no one noticed if I never actually drank from it. Or refilled it. I’ve found that the same trick works in Fox River Falls. If I didn’t date anyone, Marge and her crew would be in my business down to the weeds.But if I keep up the appearance of a random casual date, I stay safe.
The staircase is done when I next glance at the time . . . 5:15 p.m. Not enough time to start anything new, so I head home for a quick shower and change before town council.
Except, I move fast—too fast.
Something is circling in the back of my mind, and I finally realize what it is. Jamie’s been off, and I think I know why. And I think I’d already decided to get to The Keep early, before I even realized it.
Hockey and I have history, always have. I would say I hate it, but I’m not sure if that’s true. It’s more like I don’t trust it. But Jamie? He loves it.
And I’ve done everything to support him—driven him to every practice, built a warming shed for our pond, even constructed a rollout net so he and his friends could block off the street and play on rollerblades in the summer. I’ve paid for camps and training and agility coaching. I’ve made my schedule work to get him to all of it . . .allof it.
But now? Now we’re in that in-between stage. That age where kids start dreaming of the NAPH. And I hate it.
He’s smart. His grades are stellar. He has a college fund locked away, thanks to Liz’s family. He’s got options. He doesn’t need to chase this.
I thought the allure of the ice would have faded by now. And I was very wrong about that. I just never thought I would have to deal with the issue, so I ignored it.
And now I’m in it. Our lives revolve around hockey in many ways.
I pull into The Keep just after six. Practice should be wrapping up, and I see kids from his team leaving even though I’m still a solid thirty minutes earlier than when Jamie told me to pick him up.
I feel like a jackass sneaking into my own kid’s rink, but I need to know what’s going on.
From the upper deck, I spot Jamie immediately. Running drills. Alone. Except . . . he’s not alone.
He’s with the same guy I saw before. Same build. Same posture. Same confidence. Even more so now because the guy isn’t flat-footed from being in sneakers on the ice. This time he’s in skates, flowing like water with incredible speed and control.
I watch. And I see something that tightens my chest.
Jamie’s not running simple forward drills.
He’s running center drills. Position play, and that’s a year or two off at least. He may not even want to play hockey by then.
What the hell?
