I set the phone down.Pressed my palm against the mattress where he’d slept.We’d just said our first ‘I love you’s’ through text messages.I closed my eyes and let out a long breath.Twenty-one days.Five hundred four hours.
Chapter 19
Slapshots and Holidays
Luke
The drive down I-87 had been a straight shot, the kind of autopilot fugue state where you lose three hours to the rhythm of the tires.
I pulled into the driveway of the Glen Rock house at 2:47 p.m.
Dad’s truck was already there, parked dead center in front of the three-car garage.It was an F-150, same make and model as mine, but while mine was road-weary black, his was candy-apple red.Flashy.Polished to a shine.
I pulled up alongside it, killing the engine.The silence of the suburbs rushed in—no dorm noise, no locker room bass, just the ticking of the cooling engine.
The front door opened before I even unbuckled.
Dad walked out.He looked the same—silver at the temples now, jaw set in that permanent, game-ready clench.He wasn’t wearing a coat, just a cashmere sweater that cost more than my semester of books.
I grabbed my duffel from the passenger seat and stepped out.
“Made good time,” he said, coming down the steps.
He didn’t hug me.He extended a hand.
I took it.His grip was firm.
“Traffic was light,” I said.
“Good.Saves daylight.”He nodded at my truck, then at my left arm.“Shoulder holding up on the drive?”
“It’s fine.”
“Saw the tape of the Amherst game,” he said, turning back toward the house without waiting for me.“You’re dropping your glove on the blocker side when you butterfly.You’re exposing the top corner.”
“I’m aware.”
“Awareness doesn’t stop goals, Lucas.Correction does.”He held the door open, ushering me into the foyer that smelled of lemon polish and expensive coffee.“Put your bag in the room.We’re eating at six.”
I stepped inside.Three weeks of this.Twenty-one days of unsolicited coaching advice and the constant, crushing weight of being the only investment in the portfolio.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Austen:Arrived in Vermont.The Chen family has a Labrador named Calculus.I am not making this up.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
“What’s funny?”Dad asked.
“Nothing.”I locked the screen.“Just a friend.”
The house hadn’t changed.
Same split-level in the same subdivision, same dead lawn waiting for spring, same garage where Dad kept his workout equipment and the trophies he never threw away.I dropped my duffel in my old bedroom—twin bed, faded posters, desk I hadn’t used since high school—and stood at the window watching the neighbor’s Christmas lights blink on and off in an arrhythmic pattern that would have driven Austen insane.
Me:My childhood room.
Austen:The color distribution on those string lights in the background is mathematically offensive.Two reds, one green, three blues?
