Chapter 4
Thayne
There’s being a tendy, and there’s being tended.
I prefer the former.
We’re talkin’ “Always and Forever” Heatwave style.
We’re talkin’ a “Now and Forever” Richard Marx level.
We’re talkin’ “Forever and For Always” Shania Twain shit.
I loathe being blocked.
Especially when it comes to having my first official date with the woman, I’m gonna marry someday.
“Suspenders?” Dubs unexpectedly investigates the instant I open one of my front double doors. “You’ve got a date?”
An impish comeback slides to the front of my tongue yet is immediately line swapped when another unanticipated visitor comes into view. “And you’ve got my baby bro.”
Bronson Groff – or Bronny – does his best to continue to avoid eye contact.
“On my front porch in Texas.”
His six-foot built frame hunches guiltily forward.
“At seven thirty on a Wednesday night.”
He gives the back of his thick neck an uncomfortable scratch.
“With no fuckin’ warnin’.” My hands calmly slide into my black and maroon plaid dress pants. “Who died?”
“Pretty sure Grams was gonna kill him,” Dubs mirthfully retorts, “but I suggested relocation as an alternative.”
“Grams would’ve been fine in prison,” I playfully poke.
“Oh yeah, that old coot would’ve been runnin’ the place before the weekend hit,” my best friend quickly agrees. “But to save us from visitin’ her there…I brought this juvenile delinquent here.”
There’s no stopping my eyebrow from quirking. “Juvenile delinquent?”
When Bronny doesn’t confirm nor deny the accusation, I simply nod, take a step back, and usher in the surprise visitors that have me mentally begging Aretha to say a little prayer for me too.
Because here’s the truth of this faceoff.
If I try to reschedule this date, the woman I know with every fiber of my being is mine will take it as a sign that we’re not meant to be.
And I can’t have her thinking that.
Not when us keeping our distance already has two points on the board threatening me with a complete relationship shutout.
The three of us head for my open kitchen, passing framed photos of my family from back home, my hockey family – past and present – and some classic album covers from various artists I enjoy.
As soon as we enter the freshly cleaned space – I wanted everything perfect just in case we ended up back at my place tonight – I point to the barstool chairs at the large, marble island. “Sit.”
Bronny immediately slinks over, shucks off his backpack, and slumps into a seat.
“Explain.”
“He-”
“Not you, Dubs.” I position myself directly across from my younger, half-bother and plant my palms firmly on the countertop. “You, Bronson.”
“I hate when you call me Bronson,” he mumbles in a whine, brown eyes finally finding my hazel. “You sound like Mom.”
“Maybe I should sound more like Mom or be more like Mom because somethin’ tells me if she were still around your ass wouldn’t be in trouble every other fuckin’ period.”
I’m lucky in comparison.
I lost her in the middle of the one year I actually went to college.
He lost her in the middle of elementary school.
“Sing, Bronson,” is demanded in a deeper, more authoritative tone. “Sing like this is The Voice and your ass is one flat note away from bein’ eliminated.”
“Alright,” he defeatedly begins, lightly folding his hands together in front of him. “You remember the girl I was Snappin’ you about yesterday?”
“Julliard.”
“That’s a place,” Dubs interjects while heading for the stainless-steel fridge.
“It’s also a person,” I retort without breaking eye contact with Bronny. “And one I feel he did somethin’ super fuckin’ stupid to try and impress.”
“Gooooaallllll,” my best friend theatrically calls out from behind me.
“She was the one who invited me to the pool party except…it wasn’t…jus’ a pool…party?”
“Why did that sentence end in a question?”
“It was more of…like uh…a tryout.”
“For what?”
His thumbs nervously tap together. “This…club?”
“Again, why did that end in a question?”
“I don’t know that that’s the right word.”
“Why would it be the wrong one?”
“’Cause it’s the type that…ya know…ya only know about when you’re like…in it.”
Exasperation can’t be kept out of my voice, “Bronny, did you join a fuckin’ fight club?!”
“Worse,” whispers Dubs near my ear, prompting my brows to pull tightly together.
“What do you mean worse?” The frustration instantly deepens. “What the fuck is worse than a fight club? A porn club?!”
“It’s not really a club,” he weakly defends. “More like a frat.”
“Don’t shit on the good name of frats,” Dubs grumbles during his grabbing of a brewskie.
“While they do some sussy shit – especially to fresh meat – they’re ultimately rooted in honor and tradition and values.
” He repositions himself beside me, momentarily collecting my gaze.
“This bullshit was jus’ that. Bullshit.”
My glare cuts back to my brother. “What did you do?”
“I had to…break into to this guy’s backyard-”
“Bronson!”
“-and then let them in.”
“What. The. Fuck. Bud?!”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal!” He instantly shouts in return. “He wasn’t even supposed to be home!”
“Whistle on the fuckin’ play, kid!”
“I’m not a kid!”
“You’re not a fuckin’ adult either!” His mouth twitches to respond prompting me to snarl, “Which you should be real fuckin’ grateful for ‘cause breakin’ and enterin’ is a crime!”
“I didn’t steal nothin’!”
“Still a crime, Bronson!”
“Stop yellin’ at me!”
“You stop yellin’ at me!”
All of a sudden, my phone begins vibrating on the counter space beside him, Grams’ drunk photo from Christmas on full display.
Bronny immediately makes a play for it only to be several seconds too late.
I’ve got some of the fastest reflexes in the NHL.
Ain’t no way I’mma be outdone by a bender whose balls just dropped last summer.
The swift swiping of the answer key barely precedes her hollering on speaker, “You got any idea how much it cost to fix that kinda fence?!”
Bronny’s head immediately falls backwards in further annoyance.
“Why couldn’t you have busted Jennings old, rotted shit?!” Her raspy voice raises up to the next octave, blonde hair most likely wildly whipping around during her screaming. “Imma ‘bout to spend more on a fuckin’ fence than I did at my own damn weddin’!”
“You married Gramps at the creek for free,” lovingly leaves me.
“You got the receipts?” It’s impossible not to snicker at her snipping. “No? Then mind your sassin’, Thayne, before your hide becomes tanner than his.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I instantly surrender with a smile on my face.
Bessy Groff is eighty-six years young as she likes to say.
And with her looks she could easily pass for seventy-six.
And with her mouth?
Fifty-six.
Sharp.
Witty.
Well informed.
And honest.
Always her most honest self.
It’s where I learned it from.
“I assume,” a small cough wedges itself into our conversation, “by now, he’s with you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In your kitchen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tryin’ to justify his stupid…stupid…stupiddddddd…choice?”
Bronny plops his face into his own palm prompting me to reply, “Yes, ma’am.”
“You can’t fix stupid, Bronson!” Her hollering hardens his expression. “And breakin’ into some rich man’s backyard in hopes that some Daisey Duke shorts havin’ hussy is gonna throw you a piece of ass is jus’ plain stupid!”
“She’s not wrong,” Dubs confirms at the same time he twists the lid off his drink.
“Of course, I ain’t wrong. I was there when you two went joy ridin’ in Barre’s John Deere, hopin’ Lily Mae and Grace were gonna go skinny dippin’ with ya instead of bein’ at bible study.”
The memory causes my best friend to choke on his brewskie, and my little brother to slightly grin.
“Young boys do all sorts of stupid shit to get girls, jus’ like grown men do all sorts of dumb shit to try to impress women. It’s the circle of life, and the old rodeo clown’s honest truth,” she says prior to clearing her throat a second time, clearly struggling to catch her breath.
“You alright, Grams?”
“All the dust in the air jus’ gettin’ the better of me.
” Another light cough is executed. “Lord knows I been runnin’ ‘round all over Dolly Parton’s green earth tryin’ get all this shit settled and doin’ everything possible to convince the world watchin’ that it won’t happen again, which is why I ain’t been able to find a minute in a cornfield before now to call and let you know the situation.
” Dubs and I immediately relocate our stare back to my brother.
“And this shit won’t happen again, Bronson. ”
“I swear, Grams,” croaks what some think of as my mini. “It won’t.”
“And it can’t as long as you’re shacked up with your big brother for the summer.”
This time it’s me who folds closer to the phone. “Did you say for the summer?”
“Did you hear me stutter?”
“We’re talkin’ about the whole summer?”
“You said, he was welcome to come stay with you whenever,” she sassily reminds. “And what did Barrett – may your gramps rest in peace – always say about your word?”
“Your word is your bond,” quietly creeps out.
“Which is why I’m always tellin’ you boys to think it through first.”
Some people overthink and never act.
I act and then overthink later.
Often, when I’m on the ice, it’s what works best.
Gotta trust your vibe.
Your flow.
Your inner DeBarge.
The rhythm of your night varies, and you’ve gotta be able to be present and adjust.
It’s outta the rink that the whole act then think thing tends to get me penalty minutes.
We always say trust your soul in this family, but apparently, that doesn’t mean you just give up thinkin’ all together.
“Last I checked,” she matter-of-factly continues, “you had nothin’ on the calendar but conditionin’ and a few in town work appearances.”
Why did I teach her how to use a shared family calendar?
Looking back on it…was her constantly asking me about games really that bad?