Chapter 6 #2
I’m stunned silent by the words, the tone, the tears in his eyes, and the depths of the anger evident on his face.
“Jamie—” I step toward him.
“Just leave me alone!” He turns away, walking away from the truck as though he’s going to walk all the way home.
I watch him cover the parking lot in the long strides of someone who’s no longer a kid. Those weren’t kid emotions either.
Christ, I’ve never felt so helpless, as every scenario of what I could do right now races through my brain.
No one can prepare you for what it is to love your kids. Their hurt is your hurt, their loss your loss. Which is funny, because I’ve never felt like Jamie’s wins were mine. Never felt they were shared in any way. Those wins are his. Just his.
But I have felt every bad day at school, every fight with a friend, every neighborhood drama. Every lost hockey game.
I’ve done what I can to take away part of that hurt. To do something, reach for something—anything— that’s at the disposal of a father to make it better.
But this . . . I have no tool in the toolbox to fix this.
Jamie and I are only on shaky ground where hockey is concerned. And this is firmly in that territory.
I have no idea what to do.
I feel Monroe, sense him beside me before I can see him.
“He’s walking home?” he asks, and I shrug as we both watch Jamie’s back as he continues walking away in long, angry strides.
“I don’t know if he knows where he’s going right now.”
“I walk to the rink every day, mind if I catch up with him? I’ll see he gets home.”
I nod. If Jamie wants to talk to anyone right now, it’s probably Monroe.
“I can’t—” I start and then stop, unsure what to say. “With hockey, I can’t . . . I’m not who he wants to talk to about that.”
Monroe gives me a long look, the same one that always seems to say he sees things I don’t share. He reaches over and lays a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Alright, then. Mind if I try to talk to him?”
As I stand there, a little stunned at having someone else help carry this parenting load, even for just a moment, Monroe takes out his phone and waves it at me expectantly.
“I need your number, Thatch. Just in case.”
I rattle off the numbers as I see Jamie round the bend on the sidewalk, fading from my view.
“I’ll text you,” Monroe says. “Jamie will be safe with me.”
All I can do is reach out and grab the bag of gear, or whatever it is Roe has slung over his shoulder, and then he’s off to catch up with Jamie, leaving me with the ping of a message that just says “Roe.”
I sling his bag into the back beside Jamie’s and take the long way home, careful not to turn my truck in the same direction they were walking.
I can tell by the numerous refreshes I do to the location app Jamie and I both have on our phones that they’re taking a route through town that will likely lead them to our doorstep.
Mindlessly, I unload hockey gear and start laundry, then scrub down the kitchen, although it doesn’t need it. The house is relentlessly tidy, and I do all I can to keep it from smelling like sour hockey gear and pre-teen boy, or having wood dust everywhere, which I carry in on my clothes.
Jamie is always pretty hungry after a game, and a few more refreshes of the app show that they’ve stopped at the city park. So I pull out lasagna ingredients from the pantry and fridge. It keeps me busy and it’s a favorite of Jamie’s.
It’s just dinner, but right now, it’s all I have to offer.
I make it extra spicy and cheesy, just how he likes it.
Within thirty minutes—bless you oven-ready lasagna noodles—dinner’s in the oven and the salad is waiting in the fridge, but the little purple dot on the app shows that they’re just now making their way toward home.
So I wipe down the kitchen again, tidy up the first floor again, and light a candle against the hockey stench.
I’m in the living room when I hear the front door open, and before I can even cross into the kitchen to meet him, I have an armful of Jamie.
I know he’s okay, but having him in my arms sends a cascade of relief through me.
I’m not a fan of this growing-up nonsense where I can no longer fix all his problems. I breathe Jamie in from the top of his head that rests right under my chin.
His arms hold me tight, the way he did when he was younger.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he mumbles into my chest, and I clutch him tighter.
I have no idea how long we stand there like that, locked in an embrace that says much more than words. Or at least I hope it does.
Slowly, he starts to disentangle himself, but he doesn’t step out of my arms.
“You don’t have to say you’re sorry to me. You don’t have to apologize for having big emotions, Jamie. I don’t ever want that.”
“I just . . .” He sighs, one so much bigger than a kid his age should be making.
“I worked so hard, Dad. And then—” Jamie chokes a little on the words, but he’s all cried out.
Instead, he sets his jaw and shakes his head.
“I just wanted to do better, and instead I got benched. When things weren’t working, I just couldn’t pull it back.
” He looks at his feet. “I shouldn’t have thrown my stuff, or yelled, or walked off,” he says, softer.
“We don’t have to talk about all of that today,” I say, trying to assure him, but something passes over his face, and I feel a stab to my chest. Somehow that wasn’t the right thing to say. That shaky ground is still well underfoot.
“Okay.”
I ruffle his hair, needing the reassurance of the feel of his head in my hand. “And I’m guessing that you’re exhausted. Why don’t you jump in the shower and then there’s lasagna.”
I get a half smile for that. “Lasagna,” he repeats, like it means something more than dinner, and gives me another quick hug before trudging up the stairs. I watch him until he’s on the second floor.
I hear a noise from the front hall and Roe’s head appears around the corner. He holds up his hands like a surrender.
“I didn’t want to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know he’s fine—just frustrated with himself.” Roe digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “And that I’m sorry.”
“Roe—” His name rolls off my tongue too easily, and I like the familiarity of it.
It’s the first time I haven’t just called him Monroe, and for some reason that’s a thing I notice.
“I appreciate you being there. More than I can say,” I admit.
“He needed someone he could talk to about hockey, and I’m glad he had you. ”
Roe nods at my words and then squints at me with his smirk firmly back in place. “You know, most parents of a player of Jamie’s capacity would be pissed as hell that he got benched. And likely would be pissed at the new coach he’d been working with too.”
I scoff. The ego of this man. “I know sometimes you have to break things down and rebuild when you’re working with technique.
Sometimes it’s just an off game.” I shrug, moving toward him and standing closer than I intended.
“But if I thought for a minute that he was stressed because of pressure you were putting on him, hockey superstar or not, there would be no more mentoring.”
The smirk intensifies to full-on now.
“Ground rules. Understood,” he says, and I hold his gaze a moment longer before turning to walk behind the kitchen island. I grab the oven mitts and pull the finished lasagna from the oven. The smell of tomatoes, basil, garlic, along with hints of meat and cheese fills the air.
I hear Roe’s stomach rumble and his eyes take on a hazy, unfocused look as he stares at the steaming lasagna pan. I grab plates, napkins, and silverware for three, wondering when the last time was that Roe had a homemade meal.
Probably a long while.
“Have a seat,” I tell him.
He looks at me with the same unfocused gaze. I roll my eyes at him.
“Stay for dinner, Roe. It’s the least I can do.” There I go with the first name again, and I vow to myself to knock it off while I pull the salad out of the fridge and grab the dressing choices.
“I should . . .” He trails off, but he’s sniffing the air like an addict craving a hit. His stomach growls again, louder this time.
“Go wash up?” I finish for him, and gesture toward the living room. “There’s a small bathroom right there.” His stomach growls once more and I practically shove him toward the half bath. “This is a matter of mercy now,” I tell him. “For your stomach.”
By the time he emerges, the smirk is back and Jamie is sitting at the table, making sure he drowns every visible vegetable in the salad in a small pond of ranch dressing.
I try not to look. Instead, I catch Roe’s eye—he was also watching Jamie with a look of concern—and we share a moment.
I’m not sure what you would call it, but it includes humor in regard to my son’s eating habits, and affection for him too.
I can feel the smile still on my face as I dish up the lasagna and then find myself pausing while Roe takes a bite, like I’m waiting for his reaction.
That feeling, the one low in my gut that’s almost always present when I’m with Roe, flares to life, and I distract myself with eating, wondering what I’m supposed to do if the conversation gets stilted or the silence gets awkward.
Luckily, I don’t have to find out. Roe groans appreciatively throughout his meal and eats two helpings of lasagna and salad, and still eyes another.
The conversation is as easy as any I’ve ever had—easier even.
Jamie is able to set aside the emotional outburst of earlier; he’s subdued but not refusing to talk.
That might not have been the case if it had just been us, so we eat and talk and generally enjoy each other’s company.
Roe is funny, and he shares a few lighthearted stories without them being about hockey.
“So,” Roe finally asks, his eyes lingering on the third helping of lasagna that he hasn’t asked for but keeps looking at like a kid at the window of a store eyeing something that’s way beyond what he can afford. “Does your dad always cook like this?” he asks Jamie.
Jamie looks at me, and for a second I get the full Jamie smile. Even under tired eyes and worry lines etched in his forehead, the smile stuns me. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen it.
Jamie’s voice is scratchy, but he nods my way. “Please don’t get him started on the multiple benefits of eating right. But . . .” The smile peeks out again. “It’s worth the lectures for the food. He’s pretty great in the kitchen. Do you not cook?”
Roe laughs. It’s deep and genuine and makes that low feeling in my gut tighten even more.
“No. I’m terrible. But takeout and frozen meals and restaurant food gets old.
I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal, so thank you.
This was amazing.” Roe pats his flat stomach while stretching back and making his shirt ride up, exposing the lean muscle of his torso. Just a hint of it.
My fork clatters loudly, metal against the ceramic plate, as I somehow forget how to hold utensils. I stand quickly to cover my sudden awkwardness.
“I’ll clean up tonight, Jamie,” I tell him, since that’s usually his job.
“Let me help,” Roe says, standing and collecting his plate.
It takes no time at all due to my earlier cleanup, so as I’m packing away half the lasagna leftovers for Roe, I send Jamie to bed. It’s late and he’s exhausted.
We can talk tomorrow.
“I better go too,” Roe says, hands in the pockets of his jeans again.
It’s my turn to smirk at him because Jamie gave him a hug on the way upstairs and Roe still looks surprised by it.
“Thanks again for dinner.” His hand goes to his flat stomach again, and my breath catches, like I’m holding it waiting for another glimpse of skin.
I shake myself out of whatever that is.
“Here.” I slide the container over to him.
Roe stares at it a beat. “This is glass.”
I puff out a little laugh. “Of course it is. Plastic and tomato sauce is a recipe for disaster. You can bring it back when you’re done with the lasagna. It heats up well.”
Roe holds it tight. “Thank you.”
“It’s just lasagna, Monroe. Let me drive you home.”
Roe’s head snaps up. “I’m good to walk.”
“Not hearing it, Roe.” Goddamn first name. “It’s late. Let me just tell Jamie I’m leaving.”