I motion to Tate. “This is Tate. He’s... ” I look at him, not sure how to explain further. “He’s important to me.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Christensen,” Tate says, stepping forward to shake his hand.
“Call me Robert. And it’s nice to meet you, too.” My father studies Tate’s face. “You’re tall. Do you play hockey too?”
“I do.”
“Are you a goalie?”
“How did you know?”
“The way you stand. Goalies stand differently from other players. They’re more balanced.” My father grins. “I used towatch Zane play when he was younger. He was good. Really good.”
“He was,” Tate agrees. “He’s a good coach, too.”
“Coach?” My father looks at me with surprise. “You coach hockey now?”
“Yeah, Dad. I coach goalies.”
“That’s wonderful. I always thought you’d make a good teacher.” He gestures toward the empty chairs. “Sit down, both of you. Tell me about your lives.”
We sit, and I try to figure out where to start. How am I supposed to explain two years of federal investigations and criminal syndicates and nearly dying to someone whose memory resets every few hours?
“I’ve been working with Tate. Helping him with his game.”
“And how’s that going?” Dad settles back in his chair.
“Good,” Tate says. “Really good. He’s helped me a lot.”
“Zane always was good with people. Even when he was little, he could figure out what someone needed to hear. His mother used to say he had an old soul.”
Mom. Margaret. He’s talking about her in the past tense, which means somewhere in his confused mind, he remembers that she’s gone.
“Tell me about Margaret,” I say.
“She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman I ever saw. Smart too, smarter than me.” He looks at Tate. “Do you have someone special in your life?”
Tate glances at me, and I nod slightly.
“I do,” Tate says. “Someone very special.”
“Good. Life’s too short to spend it alone.” My father reaches over to take my hand. “I’m proud of you, son.”
“For what?”
“For bringing your friend to meet me. For becoming a coach. For growing up to be a good man.”
His words comfort me now, curling around my heart. I’ve spent two years thinking I was a piece of shit, thinking I deserved whatever happened to me.
But maybe I was wrong.
“Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Tate’s not just my friend. He’s... ” I look at Tate again, drawing strength from his presence. “He’s the man I’m in love with.”
My father blinks a few times. “You’re in love with him?”
