CHAPTER SEVEN
Easton
Wednesday dinners had become my favorite part of the week.
I pulled into Palisade's driveway at six-thirty, Chinese takeout in hand. Casey had declared it our tradition, and I wasn't about to argue.
Beck's truck pulled in right behind me.
"You sure about this?" he called out his window. "You said she didn't know I was coming."
"Casey's been asking to meet the team for weeks," I said, reaching in the car and grabbing the food. "Palisade said it was fine."
"Did she actually say that, or did you just decide it was fine?"
I rolled my eyes. "Get out of the truck, Beck."
He grinned, grabbing a ridiculously oversized hockey-themed coloring book from his passenger seat. "For the kid. Figured I should make a good impression."
The front door flew open before we could knock.
"Uncle Easton!" Casey launched herself at me, and I caught her with my free arm, laughing. Then her eyes landed on Beck. "Who's that?"
"This is Beck," I said. "Remember? I told you about him. He's—"
"You're Beck Hamilton!" Casey's eyes went wide. "You're Easton's center! You do the faceoff thingy and get him the puck!"
Beck crouched down to her level, grinning. "That's right! And you must be Casey. Easton told me you know more about hockey than half the guys on our team."
"Really?" Casey looked at me, eyes shining.
"Really," I confirmed.
"Can he stay for dinner too?" Casey asked, already grabbing Beck's hand. "Please?"
Palisade appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She looked from the food I carried, at Beck with a coloring book, and finally to Casey bouncing between us.
"You brought a teammate," she murmured.
"Casey's been asking," I said with a shrug. "And Beck's mostly harmless."
"I brought a coloring book," Beck offered, holding it up like a peace offering.
A shadow of a smile passed across Palisade's face. " Easton always brings enough food to feed an army. Come on in the house."
It smelled like something warm and homey inside. Not food, just… life. Casey's backpack dumped by the stairs, her hockey gear drying by the door, a half-finished Lego castle on the coffee table.
It felt real in a way my sterile downtown condo never did.
"How was your day?" I asked as we unpacked the food.
"Long," Palisade admitted, pulling plates from the cabinet. "Three surgeries, two of which ran over, and a golden retriever who thought my stethoscope was a chew toy."
"Sounds eventful."
"That's one word for it." She handed Casey a stack of napkins, her eyes flicking to Beck, who was helping set up the coloring book at the table. "Go set these out, please."
Casey skipped off, and Palisade turned to me, lowering her voice. "A heads-up would have been nice."
"I texted you."
"You texted me 'bringing a friend,' not 'bringing my 6'2" teammate who Casey also worships.'"
"Is that a problem?"
She sighed. "No. Just… surprising." She grabbed the cartons. "He seems nice, at least."
Dinner was chaotic in the best way. Casey dominated the conversation, bouncing between topics like her spelling test, her friend Emma's birthday party this weekend, and whether giraffes could play hockey if they had the right equipment.
"I think you're right about the helmet situation," I said seriously, fighting back a grin. "But they'd have incredible reach for faceoffs."
Casey giggled. "You're funny."
"He's very funny," Palisade agreed, her eyes warm. "Eat your broccoli."
"But Mom…!"
"Three bites. Then you can have fortune cookies."
Casey sighed dramatically but speared a piece of broccoli with her fork. "Uncle Easton, do you have to eat vegetables?"
"Every day," I said. "Part of being an athlete. Your body's like a car. You have to give it good fuel."
"What kind of car?" Casey asked, suddenly interested.
I held Palisade's gaze across the table. "Ferrari. Fast, high-performance…" I paused. "Requires premium fuel and careful handling."
Palisade's cheeks flushed pink. She took a sudden interest in her lo mein.
"What's Mom?" Casey asked, oblivious.
"Your mom's a Subaru," I said, still watching Palisade. "Reliable, handles well in any condition, surprisingly powerful when you need her to be."
Palisade's blush deepened. "I… we should probably talk about homework, Casey."
"But I want to know what car I am!"
"You're a go-kart," I said, grinning at Casey. "Small, fast, and still learning the track."
"What car is Beck?" Casey asked, turning to study him seriously.
Beck looked amused. "What do you think I am?"
Casey tilted her head, considering. "A Jeep. Because you're always helping Easton, and Jeeps can go anywhere and help people."
"I like that," Beck said, grinning at me. "Hear that, Henley? I'm a helpful Jeep."
"Don't let it go to your head," I muttered.
Casey giggled, satisfied with that answer, and went back to her broccoli.
"Too late." Beck turned back to Casey. "So, Easton tells me you're learning hockey. How's that going?"
"Really good! I can do backward crossovers now, and Uncle Easton taught me how to disguise passes."
"Disguise passes already?" Beck's eyebrows rose. "That's advanced stuff. Most kids your age are still learning to stop without falling."
"I fall sometimes," Casey admitted. "But Uncle Easton says that's part of learning."
"He's right. I fell on my face so many times when I was your age." Beck leaned in conspiratorially. "Want to know a secret? I still fall sometimes during practice."
Casey giggled. "Really?"
"Really. Just last week, I caught an edge during sprints and went down hard. Right in front of the whole team."
"What did they do?"
"Laughed at me,” he pouted, making a funny face, which made Casey giggle harder. “Every single one of them." Beck shot me a look. "Especially Easton."
"It was pretty funny," I admitted.
Palisade was watching this exchange with an expression I couldn't quite read.
After dinner, Casey dragged me outside to the driveway.
"Mom says I can practice for thirty minutes before homework," she announced, pulling on her skates. "Will you both help me with my passing?"
"Absolutely," I said.
Beck grabbed a stick from the pile by the garage. "I haven't played street hockey in years. This'll be fun."
The early evening air was crisp, perfect hockey weather. Casey's driveway was longer than most, with a hockey net set up at one end and smooth concrete perfect for street hockey.
"Okay," I said. "Show us what you've got."
For the next half hour, we ran through drills. Beck and I fell into an easy rhythm, with the same chemistry we had on the ice translating perfectly to teaching a six-year-old.
"The thing about passing," I explained as we worked on give-and-goes, "is that it's not just about getting rid of the puck. It's about trusting your teammate to do something with it."
"Like when you passed to Beck in the playoffs last year," Casey said, executing a decent pass to Beck. "Everyone thought you were gonna shoot, but you passed instead, and he scored!"
Beck trapped her pass and sent it back. "You watch every game, huh?"
"Every single one," Casey admitted, concentrating on her next pass to me. "I notice stuff. Like how you and Beck always do the same thing after faceoffs."
Beck and I exchanged a look. "She's got a good eye," Beck said.
"The best play isn't always the selfish play," I told Casey, sending the puck back to her. She trapped it cleanly. "You're paying close attention."
Casey grinned. "Mom says I watch too much. But I think if you wanna be good at something, you gotta study it. Right?"
"Right," Beck agreed. "That's exactly how you get better."
We continued practicing, with Beck and me trading off. One of us worked with Casey while the other played defender or goalie.
"You're a natural at reading the ice," Beck told her during a water break. "Most kids your age just chase the puck. You're actually thinking ahead."
"Grandpa Coach always says hockey is like chess," Casey said, taking a sip from her water bottle. "You gotta think ahead."
"Correct," I said, catching Palisade watching from the doorway. “Always keep your eye on the queen.” When I glanced her way, something glistened in her eyes.
"One more drill?" Casey asked hopefully.
"One more," Beck and I said in unison.
As we ran through a final passing sequence, I found myself not wanting it to end. The sound of the puck against our sticks, Casey's determined expression, and Beck's calm presence made everything feel natural.
When had I become this person? The guy who looked forward to Wednesday evenings in a suburban driveway, teaching hockey basics to a six-year-old with my best friend?
"Perfect!" Casey exclaimed, making a clean pass to Beck. "Did you see that?"
"I saw it," Beck said. "You're getting fantastic, kid."
"Come on," I said. "Let's get you inside before your mom thinks we've kept you out here all night."
Inside, Palisade was loading the dishwasher. Casey headed straight for the stairs, still chattering about the perfect pass she'd made.
"Homework!" Palisade called after her.
Before Casey disappeared upstairs to start her homework, she gave Beck a hug and thanked him, clutching the coloring book to her chest. Palisade excused herself to help Casey get started, leaving Beck and me in the living room.
Beck was studying the photos on the mantel. Casey at various ages, Palisade and Holly at what looked like a college graduation, a family photo with Palisade’s parents.
"So," Beck said without turning around. "How long have you been in love with her?"
I nearly choked. "What?"
"Come on, Henley." He turned to face me. "I just watched you spend two hours acting like this is your family. The way you look at her. The way you are with Casey." He paused. "The way they are with you."
I shook my head. "It's not like that."