A chuckle escapes me. "Eat your food, and respect your elders, please."
"Whatever you say, Coach," he answers playfully. He dips his head, the tops of his ears turning pink.
I clear my throat and scoop up some mashed potatoes. My heart isn't the only thing jolting now.
6
Tex
The lake stretches out like a mile-wide mirror, sunlight glittering off the snow as a knife-sharp wind nips around us, a reminder, in case we needed it, that we're still in the midst of winter.
I glance over at TD, bundled in a charcoal parka and a knit beanie, eyeing the lake warily. To be honest, I'm surprised he didn't cancel. The muffled conversation I did my best not to overhear earlier got progressively louder as I moved progressively farther away to give him privacy until I had no other option but to wait out on my front porch for it to be over. Whatever he and his lawyer were talking about was not good, but he still came.
Even if he was quiet for most of the drive up here.
We silently haul the gear across the frozen lake. I’ve got the small heater, its metal case clattering with every step, while TD shoulders the auger like it weighs nothing, the tip-ups tucked under one arm.
He's trying to seem like he's okay, but I can tell he's a little nervous. The only sound is our boots crunching over the snow-packed ice. I've done this a million times, and stepping out onto a frozen lake still gets my heart racing. He hasn't done it since he was a kid, which might not have been seventy years ago, but it was a little while back.
"Hear that crunch?" I ask.
"Yeah?" he answers, his fingers gripping the auger handle a little too firmly.
"That's a good sound. It means the ice is solid."
"Good."
I leave it at that, not wanting to make him self-conscious. We walk a bit more before I pick a stretch of clear, glassy ice near a low snowbank that’ll block the worst of the wind. I plant the auger’s teeth into the ice and twist, muscles pulling as the steel bites deeper, shavings spiraling up like tiny snow curls.
TD is standing back, watching me intently, flinching each time the ice groans under us. One firm push and then another. A dark circle of lake water flashes up through the fresh hole, rippling against the edges.
"There," I say, smiling at him. "We're all set."
We drop the lines and settle onto the fold-up chairs, the heater humming between us while we wait for the first tug.
A few minutes pass.
A fewsilentminutes.
That's okay. He's had a tough morning. I give him some time to adjust to being out here. After a few more minutes pass, I ask a question no amount of internet stalking has been able to answer for me.
"What's TD stand for?"
His hazel eyes, fixed on the tip-ups for any hint of movement, swing my way. "No one knows."
I grin. "Not even you?"
"Nope. It's so bad I've blocked it from my memory."
He gets points for commitment. His expression doesn’t shift, no hint of amusement anywhere on his face, that resting coach face working overtime right now.
"I can tell you something embarrassing if that helps?" I offer in a last-ditch attempt at sweetening the deal before dropping it.
Much like the trout, he doesn't bite. "It won't." His lip gives a tiny twitch, which he promptly bites back. We fishin silence. A few beats pass, then he says, "I can offer you a fun fact about myself instead?"
I smile reflexively. "I'm listening."
He eyes his tip-up, nothing, then tilts his head toward me, his face softened by a small grin, and it sends my tummy swooping.
