Chapter Twenty
Dot
“Any idea why Sergio wants to see you?” I ask.
Dad grunts as he pulls himself up out of the car. He’s getting better at that, in part because he’s getting stronger. Every physical therapy session helps with his well-being and his confidence. He needs his cane, but I can tell that he’s not relying on it as much.
“Dad…”
Pain twists Dad’s face as he shuts the car door behind him, but when he speaks, I realize that he’s reacting to more than a pulled muscle or the pinch of scar tissue. “I think they may be letting me go.”
I scoff. “He wouldn’t dare.” For one thing, it would be terrible PR. Plus, after the way Dante spoke about Dad in the hospital, I’m pretty sure he’d kick Sergio’s ass over that kind of stunt.
But I’m already cataloging worst-case scenarios. If Sergio tries anything, I’ll call Dante. I’ll call the board. I’ll call the press. I’ll stand on the roof and scream. Dad lost enough in that fire. He doesn’t lose the rink, too. Not on my watch.
Dad sets out for the front door. “It’s Sergio. I have no idea how he thinks.”
“If he thinks,” I mutter. “But Dante was clear your position was waiting for you to return.” I suppose it’s possible that Sergio might try to go behind his father’s back and fire Dad as part of their ongoing petty feud.
Well, that’s not happening today. I will throw hands. I will throw elbows. Hell, I’ll bite ankles like Skinbad if I have to. Dad has loved this team for longer than I’ve been alive, and I’m not going to let Sergio take yet another thing away from him.
Renee seems a little surprised when we walk into the office. Without even offering us a greeting, she turns to her keyboard and taps out something on her keyboard. Her eyes narrow.
“Hold on. Coach Shaw, are you Sergio’s two o’clock?” she asks.
Her tone is too bright, her smile too fixed—the customer-service version of a flak jacket. She’s stalling, or buying time, or both. The way her eyes flick to Dad’s cane tells me she clocked his pain the second we walked in. It softens her; it sharpens me.
Dad shifts from foot to foot, adjusting the distribution of his weight. “Yeah. He asked me to be here.”
“I see.” Renee purses her lips and squints at the screen. After a long, uncomfortable moment, she sits up straight, plasters on a winning smile, and rises to her feet. “Come on in. I’m sorry you had to walk up here. Next time, give me a call and I’ll bring down the scooter.”
Dad sighs and shakes his head. “That’s not necessary, Renee.” The defeat in his tone is palpable. He’s convinced that this is about to be his last day in the building. I swear to God I will go feral if it comes to that.
Dad shuffles through into Sergio’s office. I follow behind him and try to ignore the owlish way that Renee’s neck pivots as she tracks our progress. Does she know what’s about to happen? Or did Sergio keep it secret from everyone?
Sergio is on his feet by the time I close the door behind us. He shakes Dad’s hand even as he ushers him into one of the chairs. “It’s good to see you, Ranger. How are you holding up?”
Dad winces and adjusts his posture. He has to sit a little bit off-kilter in most chairs, especially when they have solid wood seats. Sitting upright puts pressure on the nerve in his hip that’s still healing from when—
From the accident. I can’t let myself imagine the details of what he went through, trapped in a burning, overturned bus with my—
I shake my head sharply in an effort to clear my mind. I can’t go there. I can’t ask him what it was like to go through that, even though I want him to talk to someone. He needs to get that weight off his chest, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry it for him.
In answer to Sergio’s question, Dad bobbles his head from side to side. “Pretty well. It takes a lot of effort to get me through the day. Physical therapy’s going well, but my balance is still off. Anyway, you don’t want to hear about all that. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
I sink onto the edge of the other chair. Unlike Dad, my posture has nothing to do with nerve pain and everything to do with the fact that I’m poised to fly off the handle if necessary.
“Of course.” Sergio circles back to his chair, takes a seat, and steeples his fingers. “You’ve always been direct. I’ve looked up to you for a long time, you know, which is why—”
The speaker in the corner crackles. Renee’s voice pipes through a moment later. “Dante, to the executive offices. We have a situation.”
Sergio emits a guttural groan and slumps forward.
Ten seconds ago, he had the air of a CEO, professional and in control.
Now, he grips his hair and lets his head loll on his neck.
“What the hell? I didn’t even know he was in the building.
” He mutters a few sentences in bitter Italian, which I don’t understand on a linguistic level, though his tone gives away the general meaning of his rant.
The space feels colder than usual, recycled air whistling through the vents. Every step thuds in my chest. I can taste metal—old panic, new rage. Sergio’s door looks like every other door in this building and somehow manages to feel like a gallows.
Dad and I exchange a glance. I shrug. He shrugs back.
After a solid thirty seconds of grumbling, Sergio sits up, smooths his hair back into its original coiffe, and steeples his fingers again. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
In a voice drier than stale biscotti, I say, “We were wondering why you called us here.”
“Right. Actually.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I only called Ranger.”
“Then you should’ve thought about how he gets here,” I say, level. “And who gets him home. You don’t get to isolate him because it’s neater on your calendar.” I wave my thumb back and forth between me and Dad. “We’re a package deal.”
He huffs. “I see that. Anyway, I know that with the accident, you have a lot going on.”
Dad bobbles his head again. “Not so much.”
“Well, you’re grieving,” Sergio argues. “And you’re injured.” The stubborn set of his jaw suggests that he’s not going to listen, no matter what Dad says.
Dad matches Sergio’s stubborn energy with a smile. When I was little, I used to think that Dad was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. I wasn’t entirely wrong—he’s laid-back, but he’s most certainly not a pushover. “I’m doing much better. Dot and the team are taking good care of me.”
“Of course. So, we want to make sure you have time to heal—”
The door of the office flies open, and Dante comes barging in. He looks pissed. “What the hell are you doing?” he snaps.
Sergio stiffens in his chair. “Running the team.”
“Is that what you call it?” Dante stomps over to the desk and jabs his son in the chest with one finger. “Looks like you’re running this team into the ground from where I stand!”
“Dad…” Sergio casts a helpless gaze in our direction. I’m not sure if he wants us to back him up, or if he’s embarrassed that his father is chewing him out in front of an audience.
“Get out of my seat,” Dante says.
“It’s my—”
Dante reaches forward with every intention of grabbing the front of Sergio’s blazer. Just before his hands close on the fabric, Sergio bats him away.
“I’m getting up.” He slips past his father, who immediately claims the abandoned leather chair.
Once Dante’s sitting down, he adjusts his suit jacket. Sergio is doing the same thing with his blazer. They dust off their shoulders in near unison and, to my great amusement, Dante steeples his fingers. For all their arguing, they’re so much alike.
Dad huffs a laugh under his breath, the sound rough but real. It’s the first time since we parked that something in him eases. Score one for the home team.
“Ranger. As you know, we’re bringing the magic back. And we can’t do that without you.” Dante lets his bifocals slide down his nose as he side-eyes his son.
Dad inclines his head. “Thank you, Dante.”
“That’s why you’ll have a scooter here. And I want to make sure you have PT. And if you want a grief counselor, we’ll get you one of those, too.”
Dad doesn’t respond to that one right away. His throat bobs. After a moment, he lifts one hand to wipe at his eyes. “Th-that’s incredibly generous. Thank you.”
I force my eyes away from his face. If he starts crying, then I’ll start crying, and I’m supposed to be here to support him.
The hard lines around Dante’s eyes and mouth soften at the sight of my father’s hunched posture and welling eyes.
“If you need anything at all, let me know. Personally. Renee knows how to reach me. I can’t imagine—” He bites off whatever else he was about to say and clears his throat.
“Sergio, where did I go wrong with you? We are all about the magic. We don’t leave a man behind. ”
I’ve never seen anyone speak up for my dad in that way—not since Mom. And certainly not in front of a man who sees the world as a chessboard. But here’s Dante, flipping the whole table to keep one old coach safe.
Segio hunches in the corner with a sullen frown. He’s the only one of us not on the verge of tears. “I was going to hold his job. Find a temp for the season. Give him time to heal.”
“You could have listened to him instead,” I point out, though with less heat and more weariness than I would like. “Instead of talking over him like you did.”
Dante sizes me up, then nods his approval. “I agree. You don’t heal a man like Ranger by putting him out to pasture. You meet him where he stands, or sits, and you carry him up the mountain if need be.”
Sergio wrinkles his nose. “What mountain?”
Dante smacks his palm on the desk. “It’s a metaphor, goddamn it. Did you learn nothing in school?”