"I'm making oatmeal."
"Sit down anyway." His voice was tight, holding something back. "I just got off the phone with Utah. The Hive."
I turned off the burner. The oatmeal kept bubbling for another second before it got the message.
"They lost Marchetti last night. Bad hit, he's on IR for at least eight weeks. They need a second-line center who can step in fast, play smart, fill a gap." Andy paused. "They want you, Red. Two-way contract with a guaranteed call-up. They've had scouts at three of your games this season."
The kitchen went quiet except for the tick of the cooling burner and the hum of the fridge.
"They know about the hip," Andy continued. "They don't care. They like your speed, your hockey IQ, the way you create space for your linemates." Another pause. "Red? You still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"They want an answer by Friday. I know that's fast, but these injury call-ups move quick. I can buy you a couple of extra days if you need them, but—"
"I don't need extra days."
"Okay." I could hear him smiling through the phone. "Okay, Red. Let's talk terms."
By the end of the call, my hand was shaking so badly I had to set the phone down on the counter. I stared at the black screen, at my reflection in the glass.
My father shuffled into the kitchen in his bathrobe, his white hair sticking up on one side the way it always did in the mornings. He stopped in the doorway and sniffed the air.
"Something burning?" He looked at me and hesitated. His face went through that thing it did sometimes, searching for a file that wasn't where he'd left it. Then he smiled. "Oh. Hello. I'm Bob."
He held out his hand.
I shook it. "Robert," I said. "Nice to meet you."
"Robert." He tested the name and nodded like it meant something. "That's a good name. Strong."
I scraped the burnt layer off the bottom of the pot and served him what was left. The TV was on in the living room, some game show on mute.
I didn't tell him about the call. He wouldn't remember anyway.
I sat across from him and pushed a spoon through cold coffee while he worked through his oatmeal one slow bite at a time
Derek came over that night after his shift. He worked construction, same company for eight years now, and he still showed up smelling like sawdust and sweat even after he'd showered. Some things just got into your skin and stayed there.
The TV was still on, the same game show from this morning. Dad had fallen asleep in front of it, his chin on his chest, and the blue light flickered across his face. He didn't stir.
Derek stood in the doorway with two beers in his hands. He was grinning now, that wide Derek grin that made him look twelve years old, like we were back in Columbus and he'd just found out I'd made the travel team. "NHL, Red. My little brother got called up to the fucking NHL."
"It's a two-way contract. I might get sent back down."
"But you might not." He pointed the bottle at me. "You might stay up. You might be playing against guys we used to watch on TV."
"What about Dad?"
Derek's grin faded. He set his beer down on the counter.
"You know what about Dad."
"I can't just leave him."
"You're not leaving him. You're letting someone else help." He leaned forward. "Sunrise has a bed open."
"You called?"
