My laugh shows up late and sounds wrong. “Dammit, George, you stole my opening line.”
I take a step into the room and toward the old, floral-patterned sitting chair on his side of the bed, but before I make it three feet into the space George slaps the mattress beside him.
“Don’t you dare sit all the way over there. Linda won’t mind. Come on. This thing even has a remote; it’s basically a recliner with a headboard. And if your ass goes numb, hit the massage button. It’ll rattle you like a paint can.”
Shaking my head—because this man, I swear to God—I walk around to the other side of the bed and toe off my shoes. I climb on, awkward as hell, settling on top of the covers beside him, careful not to sit on tubing or wires, and the individual twin-sized mattresses are firm, but comfortable.
Being in this bed, next to George, I’m instantly twelve again—climbing into my parents’ bed after a nightmare—except there’s no waking up to fix this. This is reality. This man, the man who has been more of a dad to me than my actual, living, breathing father, is dying. And I’m just supposed to be okay with that? Pretend like it’s a part of life, like I’m not falling apart inside and terrified of what life will look like without him in it?
He’s watching the television, eyes fixed on the game. The puck drops and the announcer’s voice fills the room, but I can’t stop cataloguing details about him—how thin his wrists look against the sheets, the slack in his cheeks, the way the IV tubing tugs when he shifts. I’m studying him, hoarding the sight of him like I’ll never get another chance.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, George snorts. “Christ, son, you’re staring. Take a picture—it’ll last longer. But just so you know, my left side’s the good one.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I turn my attention to the game. “Not staring. Just making sure you aren’t tangled up somewhere.”
“You think I’m flopping around in this damn bed like a fish?” he huffs. “I can barely breathe well enough to walk myself to the shitter, let alone roll my old ass over to tangle my tubes. Stop being so fussy. That’s what Linda and the nurses are for.”
“Noted.”
We settle into the game. I jab at him when one of his defensemen drifts offsides. “Your boys can’t line up to save their lives. It’s like watching a drunk conga line.”
George grunts, eyes sharp on the screen. “Better than your goalie, who’s holier than Swiss cheese. Man couldn’t block a beach ball if it was tied to his forehead.”
I smirk. “We still won on Wednesday.”
“Barely,” he fires back, coughing a laugh. “Ref handed it to you on that penalty call. I’ve seen toddlers take hits harder than that.”
The banter is easy, familiar. We’ve had this same back-and-forth a hundred times in recliners, in bars, in the cheap seats. But now it feels like I’m clutching at it, hoarding it the way I hoard every detail of him—because who knows how many more times I’ll get to hear his trash talk?
Silence sneaks in during a commercial break. George’s breathing rasps, steady but thinner than I like. My mind drifts to the nights we sat shoulder-to-shoulder in real arenas, beers sweating in our hands, his voice booming over the roar of the crowd. He’s been here for every win and every loss of mine, even the ones that had nothing to do with hockey. And now…
George is dying. And while I won’t be alone, not really, there’s no denying that of all the people in this world I love, George takes up the most space in my heart.
“Now, listen.” George turns his head, breath hitching with the effort, and for a second the light catches the freckles on his temple. “We’re gonna have a talk, and you’re not going to like it much, but you are going to listen.”
My shoulders stiffen, but I try not to let my reaction show. Instead of looking at him like I’m terrified of whatever is about to come out of his mouth, I school my features and nod, letting him know that I’m ready, and willing, to listen.
He holds my gaze, steady as bedrock. “I’m dying, son. Don’t look away from it. Don’t pretty it up. A month, maybe less. Which means I don’t have time for you to keep bullshitting yourself. You’ve been running ever since Stephanie. You let what she did to you—how she lied, how she left you for Aaron—set the rules for your life. And you’ve been living by those rules ever since. That’s not living. That’s hiding.”
The words cut straight. They always do when he says her name. Stephanie. The choice she made to walk out. The image of her hand in another man’s—George’s own son-in-law, for Christ’s sake.
“I know, George,” I manage, voice tight. “And I’m trying. You know that I am.”
“I said you’re going to listen. Not talk,” he snaps, but it’s not cruel—it’s conviction. “Now hush.”
I huff a laugh and motion for him to continue.
“You said you’ve turned the page.” He studies me like he’s weighing every muscle in my face. “But saying it doesn’t mean shit if you don’t live it. It’s one thing to tell yourself you’re moving on. It’s another thing to actually open the door when something good comes knocking. You hear me?”
He pauses, breathing hard, then pushes through. “I love my daughter. I love Aaron. But don’t mistake that for approval of what she did to you. She gutted you, Leo. And it was wrong. But you are not going to spend the rest of your life letting her decision rot you from the inside out. Not while I still have breath to tell you otherwise. You are my son, too. And I’ll be damned if I watch you throw away the years you’ve got left just because you’re too scared to let someone in again.”
The words lance me open. I can’t meet his eyes. I stare down atmy hands, picking at a callous on the side of my thumb for something to do, something to focus all this nervous energy into while he speaks.
He doesn’t let up. “You’ve been alone too long. And if that woman—the one you keep pretending isjust a friend—is who you want, then don’t hide behind bullshit excuses. Don’t tell me ‘it’s not the right time.’ Life doesn’t wait until the right time. If she’s worth it, you go after her. Will she hurt you? Maybe. But that doesn’t mean she’s not worth loving.”
I exhale, long and heavy, and finally look back at George. “Her name is Tori.”
“Tori,” he repeats. “I like that.”
