“Of course I did. Your brothers, bless their hearts, were absolute terrors. Endless energy, boundary testing, noisy little monsters. But not you. You were always calm and quiet as can be. You remember when you broke your arm when you were five. We didn’t know until the next day when you woke up with it all swollen.”
“I didn’t wanna worry anyone,” Andrew mumbles.
“Exactly. You never wanted to worry anyone. At five. I knew then you were the one I needed to worry about. You were soindependent, so strong-willed, that it was easy to always think you were fine which had to be hard since your dad and I weren't always around when you were younger. We worked too much, but you did good, Andrew. Your father and I are so proud of you.”
“Damn right we are,” a man who can only be Andrew’s father echoes. He’s wearing a ruffled apron that readsKiss the Cookacross the chest and a congenial smile as he makes his way further into the living room. “A little birdie told me my son was in here with his boyfriend, and I didn’t get to meet him yet. Outrageous.”
“Sorry, sir,” Nicholas apologizes, unsure what to make of the shift in his language.
“Sir,” he guffaws. “Shit, son, the only people who call mesirare clients at work. You can call me Art.”
“Art,” Nicholas repeats, standing up just a little bit straighter when Art holds his hand out for Nicholas to shake. He’s got a firm, friendly grip, and his smile lightens as he looks between Andrew and Nicholas.
“I have one thing to say to you.”
Straightening his shoulders, Nicholas waits preparing himself for a deserved interrogation or warning.
“Dad.”
Ignoring Andrew’s questioning tone, Art walks forward and makes direct eye contact. He’s a bigger man, like Jason, but not quite as big as Nicholas. It’s not his imposing size that has Nicholas faltering but the look in his eyes.
“You keep that smile on my son’s face and we’re good. You got it?”
“Got it,” Nicholas replies.
“Seriously,” Andrew groans.
“Let your dad have his fun,” Andrew’s mom grins. “He’s been waiting all day to do that.”
“You two are ridiculous,” Andrew scoffs, but the fondness in his tone makes Nicholas’s heart ache. He can’t imagine growing up in a family with such obvious affection, one where parents and kids not only tease each other but clearly love each other. How fucking foreign.
“So my son has been fairly tight-lipped about you, but I hear you play hockey,” Andrew’s mom says, leaning her back against Art’s chest, placing her directly in front of Nicholas.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Noma’am. You’ll call me Kim.”
“Alright Kim.”
“I hope you’re not offended, but I’ve never watched a damn game of hockey in my life,” Art says, rubbing Kim’s shoulders. “Looks like I’ve got to learn the rules of the game now that we’ve got a player in the family.”
A hockey puck might as well be lodged in Nicholas’s throat for the way he stops breathing.Family. Just like that. One meeting and Andrew’s parents are already more welcoming than his own parents ever were.
“Perhaps when the season starts you might let us come watch a game?” Kim hedges, as if there’s a question. As if Nicholas wouldn’t move mountains to get Andrew’s parents anything they want or need.
How many times growing up did he beg his parents to watch him play. To do anything and everything in his power to try and get their attention. Here are Andrew’s parents giving it as freely as Andrew does. No wonder he’s such a good man.
“I can get you seats to any game you want. A private box. Anything.”
“Regular seats would be just fine, son.” Art claps him on the shoulder, a fatherly squeeze that makes Nicholas feel dangerously close to crying. “I’ve got to get back to the barbecue but we’ll talk more later. How about you show me some of yourgames, get me a head start on understanding before the next season. I looked it up and I think I’ve got a few months to get my head in the game.”
Nicholas doesn’t say anything, unsure how to put anything into words. His own father never watched him play. Not in the PeeWee leagues. Not in high school when he started playing more competitively. Not a single NHL game. To his knowledge, he’s never even watched Nicholas play on television. Yet here is Andrew’s father, ready to learn the entire game to come watch him play because he is important to Andrew.
“Nicki would love to show you videos later,” Andrew answers, tugging Nicholas’s arm around his shoulder then kissing his hand.
Andrew’s presence calms him, and Nicholas leans into his steadiness, breathing in the scent of Andrew while watching Art kiss Kim’s cheek then head into the backyard.
“Speaking of hockey,” Kim muses aloud. “Next month my book club is reading a new queer hockey romance. Isn’t that serendipitous?”
