"I mean, I can't say I disagree.I don't want to impose, though."
"I invited you, Noah.Now c'mon before I change my mind.I've had stew simmering since noon."
"Ahh, Jesus," I mutter."Can't say no to that."
A keypad opens the garage door; within is space for two cars, just barely, and the usual assortment of garage detritus—bikes, balls, buckets, shovels and rakes, a push mower, brooms, old skates, and a small, rattling refrigerator likely full of soda and beer.Three steps lead up and inside to a narrow mudroom clogged with coats, boots, shoes, and piles of hats and gloves.
"Sorry, we're a little messy," Morgan says, stepping in and to the side to make room for me.
A bench runs along the wall opposite the door, high enough to make room underneath for Morgan's gear bag next to another almost identical to it, the zipper open to show skates and tape and unitards and pads.She tugs off her Uggs and shucks her coat, tossing her hat and scarf on a pile on the bench.I remove my coat and boots.
"You don't have to take off your—oh, too late."Morgan chuckles, seeing that I've already unlaced my calf-high work boots."Sorry, I know those are a lot of work to take off and put on."
"Meh.Speed laces help.All good."I follow her past a half-bath on the right and a laundry room on the left, and then we're in the kitchen.
Nineties oak, Formica counters, and laminate floors, but newer appliances.Clean, with a single coffee mug on the counter beside the sink, upside down on a silicone drying mat.
As promised, there's a large stockpot on the four-burner gas range, steam escaping from the vent hole of the glass lid.The smell is intoxicating; when I said I'd had a sandwich earlier, that was nearly twelve hours ago, because every time I sat down to eat something, the tones went off, and eventually I just gave up trying.Some shifts are like that—you just give up on food at a certain point and wait for the craziness to subside.And some shifts, the crazy never does.
"Smells amazing," I say, leaning a hip against the island.
Morgan shoves her sleeves up and washes her hands, and then pops the lid and stirs the stew."It sure does, if I say so myself.Hope you like venison—by the way."
"Do fish shit in the ocean?"I say."You're a hunter?"
She blows a raspberry."Hardly.I'll go hiking, canoeing, kayaking, whatever, but hunting and fishing?No.I've got better things to do than sit around waiting for some poor animal to let me murder it.No, there are a couple of families who trade me for lessons.This batch of venison came from John Highsmith."
"I know John.Watched him make a three-hundred-yard shot with iron sights, once.His girl skates with you?"
"Leah, yeah.Darling girl.I give her lessons and he gives me all the venison I can eat and then some."
I look around."Where's Mallory?"
"Studying at a friend's.She'll probably crash there for the night."She rummages in the freezer."If you can wait another ten minutes, I'll have some crusty bread."
"Ain't gonna pass out on you, Morgan," I tell her."No worries."
She tosses two small-ish, frozen baguettes into a toaster oven and then pulls a couple bottles of beer from the fridge, a stout from a local brewer—local being the general area, not specifically Tomlin Falls; so far, we don't have our own brewer—gesturing at me in question.
"Wouldn't say no to a beer," I say, "since I'm off duty."
She snaps the tops off each beer with a deft twist and stands across the island from me, one hip against the counter edge, a foot propped up on the inside of her knee; I think I saw Taylor doing something similar during an at-home yoga class and she called it "tree pose," although in that case her hands were over her head."You really think Mal is that good at hockey?Like, she could play at a university?"
I nod."Absolutely.She's talented, Morgan.And dedicated enough to consistently defy you in order to keep playing.”I hold up my hands."I'm not excusing that—kids oughta listen to their parents.But speaking from experience, here, we parents can get caught in the trap of thinking we know best when really, we're just operating out of our own ignorance.And if it's not ignorance, it's just simply not being able to see it objectively.I don't need to know why you have such a strong objection to her playing hockey.It's none of my business.You wanna talk, I'll listen all night, okay?The point I'm tryin' to make is that when our kids get to Mal's age, defiance and rebellion are part of the schtick.She's trying to figure out who she is apart from you, and that's not an indictment of you or your parenting.It's normal.One of the things you learn only via hindsight is the importance of picking your battles.That shit ishard, Morgan.You want to protect her.But is the thing you're tryin' to protect her from actually a threat toher?Or is it a threat toyoufor reasons I can't possibly know?"
Morgan takes a long, glugging drink and sets the bottle down with a little bit of force."Jesus, Noah.I asked about hockey, not parenting advice."
"I know," I say, keeping my tone level and gentle."But what I'm asking is whether it's really about hockey or not."I take a drink, myself, then."I'm sorry to lecture or offer unsolicited advice, Morgan.I'm just trying to help."
She looks away, out the window over the sink and into the backyard; I follow her gaze and see a bright red cardinal perched on a low tree branch at the edge of the small yard, fluffing his feathers against the cold."I'm not really mad about the defiance aspect, honestly.Hockey is sort of Tomlin Falls' unofficially official sport.Most of her friends and classmates play.Even her girlfriends play pond hockey sometimes.I get it.It's more about the division of her focus away from the thing she's really, truly incredible at.She's better than I ever was, by far."
I have a billion thoughts, but I bite my tongue on all of them.I've already pissed her off once just today, not counting the business at the rink the other day.Any more unasked-for opinions and I risk alienating her totally, cutting off any potential for anything more.
Which I do see.
And I think she does, too.
It's just got to be a tiptoe to get there.
