“Easton, right?” Dad asks.
“Yes, sir. Easton Blake.”
“I’ve seen some of your games. You’ve got one hell of a slapshot.”
A surprised exhale escapes him. “Thank you.”
“Quit fluffing up his ego, Dad. Trust me, he doesn’t need it to grow any bigger,” Ryan mutters.
It’s odd to talk about normal stuff with fresh grief hanging over our heads.
“Why don’t we go inside,” Mom suggests.
As we sit around the kitchen table with decaf coffee, my family recounts Grandpa’s final moments. Mom rubs Dad’s shoulders when his voice thickens. Ryan frowns into his mug.
I stare at my parents and brother, jealousy trickling into the hollow well inside me. They got to have something with Grandpa that I was robbed of. I chew on the inside of my cheek, feeling guilty for even getting angry about something that isn’t anyone’s fault. It was out of our control.
Easton clasps my wrist, thumb tracing a pattern. I concentrate on that, needing a tether to calm down.
I feel out of it when we finally go up to my room. He tucks me in, knuckles grazing my cheek. I wrap my fingers around his forearm.
“Thank you. I would’ve been such a mess without you to get me home.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. “I wish I could stay with you tonight. If I don’t leave now?—”
“Go.” My heart rushes into my throat. “I understand.”
His hand unfurls and cups my face. I nuzzle against it, kissing the center of his palm.
“I’m proud of you for making playoffs. You’re going to be amazing.”
“Get some sleep. I’ll see you soon.”
He lingers until I close my eyes. I peek them open to find him still by my side. The second time my eyelids shut, they’re too heavy to open again.
The next afternoon, Easton’s back. I’m on the couch, failing to occupy myself with the book I’m trying to read to get my mind off things. It’s always been a favorite, but every few sentences, my thoughts drift. When I get up to answer the door, he’s there holding a huge pot with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
I didn’t expect to see him. He texted me throughout the day, and called this morning when he made it back to campus. I thought he’d throw himself into training for the first round of playoffs that begins later this week.
“What are you doing?” I blurt.
The corners of his mouth tilt up. “Taking care of you.”
He sidesteps me, navigating my house like he belongs here. I follow him to the kitchen.
“Hi, Mrs. Donnelly. One of my teammates made this for you to help out.”
Mom looks up from the paperwork she has spread on the table to make arrangements for the funeral. She slips off her reading glasses and smiles.
“That was very thoughtful of him. Tell him thank you.”
“I will. Cameron’s meatballs are a big hit when we need some comfort food.” He turns to me. “All the guys send their condolences. Noah said he’s offering free hugs whenever you need one. He got the guys to record a video for you before practice this morning.”
My lip quivers. I manage to swallow back the wave of emotion.
“Can I see your phone?”
He unlocks it and hands it over without question. First, he plays the video. Noah starts, then he pans down the entire lineup in the empty ice rink. Even Madden has something brief yetsympathetic to say. After it’s over I pull up the group chat with the team I’ve seen him use. Their responses flood the message thread within moments.
