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"You could stop getting penalties."

"I’ll pass that suggestion along with upper management."

He laughs, and I look down at the ice pack before asking how he’s feeling.

"Were you at the shop today?"

"For a bit."

"How long?"

"Four hours."

Two months ago, I got a call that put me on the next plane to Boston. Now I’m arguing with the same man about whether four hours counts as a quick visit to work.

"Pop."

"I answered phones and looked at invoices. I didn’t crawl under a truck. Now who’s the father, you or me?"

"Did you make the specialist appointment?"

"My doctor said I’m doing well. It’s not a problem. My heart is as strong as an ox"

"That wasn’t the question."

"I’ll call Monday. How about that?"

I’ve heard that before. I make a note in my phone to ask him on Monday, then Tuesday if I have to.

"Your head mechanic can handle the shop without you," I tell him. "You said he was interested in buying it."

"He is," he says, as if the idea bores him.

"So talk to him. Your retirement’s set. Sell the place and take Marcy somewhere."

Marcy is Pop’s girlfriend of the last five years. She’s great. Pop didn’t date much, if at all, after my mom left when I was six. He spent most of my childhood working his ass off to provide me with everything he didn’t have as a kid. Hockey wasn’t exactly a cheap sport either, but he knew I loved it. Eventually, I used being a defender as a way to get out my anger at my mom for leaving. Those teen years were tough,, but I channeled that energy into being the meanest player on the ice.

"She wants to go to Italy."

"Great. Go to Italy."

"She wants you to visit first."

"I will. Maybe sooner than I expect if this shoulder doesn’t stay together."

"You’re tough, Wolfie… Probably the toughest guy I know. You can do this. You can finish out the season and then come home and get that shoulder taken care of. But if that doctor of yours tells you not to play, listen to her… you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Come home in one piece."

I’d thought spending the summer in Boston might work out. Get my shoulder handled. Convince Dad that retiring doesn’t mean sitting in a chair waiting to die.

Now I’m wondering what happens after that. I’m a free agent this summer. If the surgery doesn’t get me back where I need to be, I won’t have a team waiting in Seattle.

Or a reason to come back.

"Before you go, I’ve got a truck question," I say.