“It’s for me. But it’s just a precaution,” I reply, and his mouth opens so wide in shock that I swear I can see his molars.
“How the fuck? What the fuck? Dude. The fuck?”
“You have always been such a wordsmith.” I roll my eyes. “Look, I slept with someone, sort of, who is pregnant. There’s the slimmest chance it could be mine. Slim. Like next to nothing. She has a boyfriend, and chances are high it’s his. I just need to know for sure.”
He blinks and shakes his head and blinks again. “Wow. You’ve only been playing for Maine for like four months. How the fuck did you find time to possibly impregnate someone’s girlfriend?” His head rears back like a thought just slapped him across the face. “Oh shit. Is it…. Is it a teammate’s girlfriend? Did you fuck a teammate’s girlfriend? Grady… Jesus, I know you gingers are a feral bunch, but that’s like the number one unwritten rule of hockey. You seriously broke that? We don’t break that rule. Buddy, what the hell are you doing?”
“I didn’t say I broke that rule. You’re saying I broke it. Trust me, it’s not like that.”
“You know, Coach Braddock had his girlfriend stolen by Levi Casco back in the day? Landon’s uncle. When they both played for the San Francisco Thunder,” Tate says. “You can Google it. There are still posts about it on fan sites. Landon’s aunt used to be his other uncle’s girlfriend. Whack.”
“Three of our aunts are sisters and two married brothers. Garrisons don’t get to judge family trees,” I say flatly. “But thanks for the hockey trivia, Tater Tot. Now, how about some advice on that paternity test thing?”
“Right.” He pauses, like he can’t quite remember what he did when his childhood bestie showed up with his dead ex-girlfriend’s infant son and announced it was his. “Well, first you need to lawyer up. Always good to have in your back pocket because things can get tricky if you are the dad. I did that, and then I went to a lab here in California, and we did simple cheek swabs on me and Dylan.”
“I can’t do that. The kid isn’t a kid yet.”
“You can do an N.I.P.P. test,” he says, and he’s as serious as I’ve probably ever seen Tate. “It involves blood from the mom and a cheek swab from you. There are places that will actually come to your house to collect the samples. It’s that common and easy. I studied the fuck out of all of this when I found out about Dylan.”
I nod. I can’t help but think an at-home DNA test would be easier to find in Los Angeles than Maine, but I’ll figure it out. “It won’t hurt the baby or the mom?”
“Not any more than any of the other prenatal stuff women go through,” Tate says. “Mallory has to get blood work all the time.”
He grins, thinking about his girlfriend. “She’s a fucking trooper. She puked every day for the first three months, but she’s never complained once. I booked her a series of prenatal massages to help with the sciatica she has now. And we’re in the home stretch. Little Stinker will be here before playoffs start.”
He is in full-on dad/husband mode, and it’s kind of surreal to watch. Tate was the family’s Peter Pan. He was never going to grow up, and now he’s about to have his second baby boy. “Give Mal my best. And ruffle Dyllie Bear’s hair for me.”
“He misses your shoulder rides,” Tate tells me. “Mine aren’t high enough. You fucking tree.”
I almost smile. “Can you keep this between us. Don’t even tell Mal. If I’m the dad, I’ll tell everyone. I promise. Right away.”
“Who am I to lecture you on telling people your secrets?” Tate replies with a sheepish smile. “I hid Dylan for way too long. But I will say this, Grady. The whole family will have your back if you’re the dad.”
“Not my mom’s parents.”
He frowns. He’s met Phil and Nance at extended gatherings, like the party my parents threw when I was drafted. He leans closer. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if they don’t love you enough to love your kid, however it comes into the world, then you’re better off without them.”
“Do you know how hard that would be on my mom?”
He makes a face. “Aunt Leah is the best. She loves you so much. She’ll pick you every time, dude.”
“I don’t want her to have to pick.”
“You’re not going to be the one forcing her to,” Tate replies.
My doorbell rings.
“Shit. I have to go.”
“Wait. Who is the mama?” Tate asks. “I promise not to tell, but is it someone I know? Someone from L.A. or Maine? Our hometown? Is it your high school?—”
“Bye, Tater. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”
I end the video call, shove the phone into the drawer, and head out of the bedroom. I open the door, and Angie and Landon are standing there. She’s in front of him, looking more rested but still pale. Landon’s staring at the ground, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. His expression is so stern it’s like he’s trying to melt the snow with his anger.
“So, hi. Can we come in?”
I push the door open, and Angie walks in. Landon does too, but he doesn’t raise his eyes. After I close the door, Angie takes off her shoes, which are so not the right thing for a Maine winter, and walks around the place. Landon stays firmly rooted in the front hall until Angie tells him to “stop it” and then he takes off his boots and walks into the living room.
