Chapter 8
TYLER
THE STEADY, UNYIELDING SHORE
“Come on, Row. Let’s get your coat on.”
Tyler was exhausted. Rowan had been waking up in the middle of the night and struggling to go back down.
The endless loop of trying different things–night lights and chamomile tea and stories and even a spray bottle of water he’d taken to calling “monster spray”–was wearing Tyler down. None of it was working.
The last thing he wanted to do was leave the house.
When Jamie had originally offered the tickets at Mitch and Layla’s house, Tyler hadn’t taken him seriously. But then Jamie had shown up at The Daily Grind with his serious, handsome face and ordered the sweetest thing on the menu.
It had been unexpectedly nice, spending his break with the hockey player. There was an edge to their conversations, like they were both feeling the other out, searching for something before they shared too much.
Tyler hadn’t meant to say what he had about writing. About poetry. Nothing about Jamie had indicated that he was the kind of man who understood the ache of losing a creative practice.
And yet, Tyler had opened his mouth, letting those vulnerable words fall between them, and Jamie had listened. He’d watched Tyler intently, and behind the concentrated frown there was a softness that promised gentle understanding.
It was too much, having that kind of ease and chemistry with someone so unexpected. Tyler had retreated, terrified by the ease he felt in Jamie’s presence. There wasn’t time for him to indulge in fantasies. There wasn’t time to imagine what ifs.
He needed to focus on finding another job, something that paid better than delivering groceries.
He was trying to make it work, but no toddler could tolerate going between a car seat and a grocery cart for hours on end.
No amount of Bob Marley or toys could curb the meltdowns that typically started about an hour into his two to three hour shifts.
He needed to find a long-term childcare solution. He needed to update their health insurance. He needed to find time to sew a patch onto Rowan’s pants that had ripped at the knee.
Tonight, he was going to take his son to a hockey game, because their landlords’ son–who Tyler definitely hadn’t been thinking about non-stop–had been kind enough to give them free tickets.
That was all.
Half an hour later, Tyler used the pass Jamie had included with their tickets to park in a garage near Culver’s Arena. There was heavy traffic, but eventually they had parked and joined the flood of people walking toward the arena.
Rowan was already whining and wriggling in Tyler’s arms, but was also too nervous to walk with the throngs of people around them.
This was Rowan’s dinner time, so they’d have to make do with the snacks they’d packed from home in the stands. Tyler’s backpack was stocked with some fresh fruit, a bag of cherry tomatoes, and some sliced sausage.
Everyone was decked out in orange, green, and white. Beanies and scarves and hockey jerseys worn on top of hoodies. It was loud, an air of excitement making the night feel warmer than it actually was.
“No outside food or liquids,” the older woman working the entrance informed Tyler, his backpack open on the table in front of her. “You can either throw them away or take them back to your vehicle, sir.”
“Papa, where’s Jamie?”
Tyler shifted Rowan on his hip, the sound of the crowd around them pressing in on him.
“This is my son’s dinner,” Tyler said, trying to keep his voice level.
The woman shrugged. “I don’t blame you for wanting to bring something for your kid, but the rules are the rules.”
Tyler closed his eyes for just a moment, forcing out a breath. “Throw it out, then,” he said, trying for a smile. “It was my fault for not knowing.”
Rowan was fussing and fidgeting by the time they found their seats.
They were close to the ice, a few rows back from the clear glass that circled the edge of the rink.
Fans wearing jerseys sat on either side of them, talking animatedly with their friends and well on their way to finishing large cups of beer.
He’d put orange noise-canceling headphones over Rowan’s beanie as soon as they’d entered the arena. His son’s eyes were huge as he stared around them, and Tyler was struck by the fact that this was probably the most people Rowan had ever been around at one time.
Tyler tried to force a deep breath. If he could go back in time, he’d say no to the tickets.
The game was about to start, but Rowan was hungry. It was slow moving against the crowds going to their seats, and it took longer than he wanted to find a spot that sold brats and fries. He’d loaded up on pickled onions, which Rowan now happily munched on.
By the time they’d gotten back to their seats, the game was underway.
“Okay, kiddo,” Tyler said, sitting back in the seat and getting Rowan settled on his lap. “Let’s figure out what this hockey thing is all about.”
Apparently, hockey was about deafening noise, huge bodies hurtling around on ice skates, the scrape and resounding smack of the puck on sticks, bright lights, and an announcer bellowing an overly-dramatized play-by-play.
Rowan held the bratwurst like a banana and devoured the whole thing.
Tyler had been to a hockey game or two back in high school, but remembered almost none of the rules. An older man sitting next to them must have been able to tell they were clueless as to what was happening on the ice, because he started pointing out players to them.
“Our goalie is good,” he said, pointing to the huge and heavily padded man standing in the net closest to them. “Anders Berglund. He’s getting older, but hasn’t lost a step. We’ve got a new guy backing him up this year. A rookie from Finland, Onni Koskinen.”
Tyler remembered the tall, pale, young guy who’d helped them move into the apartment. It was hard to imagine him out there with all that padding on.
The man pointed out Mitch, who skated like he’d been born on the ice. He explained the different lines, and then, without prompting, “Our captain is out right now. Injured his hand in a fight he never should have been in.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “He’s been brutal this year.”
Tyler frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Our last captain, Sharpie? He was one of the best players in the league. A top scorer, and one of the main reasons we won the Cup. Now, with Sully in his spot, we just don’t have the same offensive generation.
He looks awkward on the ice. I dunno, something's up with him. Between you and me, if he doesn’t get it together, I think we should trade him at the deadline.
He’s older, has a big contract, and maybe he’s lost it.
Maybe it’s better to move on with someone young. ”
Tyler stared at the man, trying to reconcile the Jamie Sullivan who had sat with him on his break with the hockey player this man described.
He’d never gotten any indication from Jamie that he didn’t take his work seriously–if anything, Jamie seemed like the kind of person who was completely consumed by their work. Like hockey was who he was.
Listening to this fan, he thought he maybe now understood the tight set to Jamie’s mouth and the tension he seemed to carry in his shoulders.
“Where’s Jamie?” Rowan asked, rubbing his brat-greased fingers on Tyler’s cheek.
“Not sure, bud,” Tyler said. He ran his eyes over the bench of guys in the green and orange uniforms, scanning the people in suits behind the players. He didn’t think he saw Jamie, but he also could barely make out the features of the men through the plexiglass.
Rowan whined and kicked his feet at the seat in front of them.
Someone on the Muskies team scored, and the man next to them cheered.
Tyler pulled out his phone with the intention of checking the time, but he froze when he saw a string of text notifications from Jamie.
Jamie:
Did you find parking okay?
Hope you find your seats. Let me know if you need help.
I’m up in the team box for the game, but can probably come down if you need any help.
I’d recommend the k-bab place on the east end of the concourse if you are hungry. They’re a part of a pilot program where they buy produce and meat from local farmers. IDK. Seems like you’d appreciate that.
And finally, only a minute ago:
Jamie:
I hope Rowan’s having fun.
And you. I hope you’re having fun, too.
For some reason, Tyler’s chest felt tight.
“Papa,” Rowan whined. “I’m hungry.”
Tyler pocketed his phone. “There are more fries.”
Rowan’s lower lip jutted out and his eyes welled up with tears. “Nooooo.” He reached up, grabbing big handfuls of Tyler’s loose hair and yanking, hard.
Hissing, Tyler bit back a curse. Around them, the crowd roared. Someone must have scored again, but Tyler couldn’t bring himself to care about goals or games. Right now, he had a toddler who was up past his bedtime, stuck in an environment that was, objectively, overstimulating.
He dislodged Rowan’s little hands and gathered his son into a tight, all-consuming hug. A quick glance up at the game clock showed there were still twelve minutes remaining in the second period.
Fuck.
His knee bounced. He forced it to still.
Jamie had gotten them these tickets. It was such a nice thing to do–Tyler knew that. He guessed they were good seats, too, expensive seats, that he wouldn’t have been able to afford.
But Rowan didn’t understand any of that. Rowan was just a kid who was tired and overwhelmed, and that made the choice easy.
Standing up, Tyler gathered Rowan in his arms and grabbed his backpack.
It was a battle to get to the car, Rowan squirming and crying and melting like he always did when he stayed up too late. Tyler tried to stay steady, to keep his voice soft and calm. If Rowan was a raging sea, it was Tyler’s job to be the steady, unyielding shore. Consistent. Strong.
Reliable.
The night was cold, biting at bare skin, a stinging, brutal touch.
Tyler kissed Rowan’s nose, holding him close, and then began to sing.
“Don’t worry,” he started, voice coming out a little rusty.
“About a thing. ‘Cause every little thing, is gonna be alright. Singing don’t worry, about a thing.
‘Cause every little thing, is gonna be alright.”
“Three little birds, up with the rising sun,” Rowan sang back, his voice high and small as he mixed up the words. He got them wrong every time, and it was one of the many tiny, precious parts of parenthood that Tyler held close and coveted.
They sang back and forth as he carried Rowan to the parking garage. As Tyler was buckling him into his car seat, Rowan said: “Papa, I wanted to see Jamie tonight.”
Tyler kissed Rowan’s warm, red cheek. “I know, kiddo.”
“Can we have him over for a playdate soon?”
Kids, man. Fucking kids. “He’s a pretty busy guy, but maybe we can ask.”
Rowan fell asleep almost immediately, but Tyler didn’t fully relax until they’d gotten home and Rowan was safely tucked into his crib, holding Bunny in one hand, and the other gripping the edge of a soft, old quilt.
Tyler had an old beanbag chair wedged into a corner of Rowan’s room, where he’d sit while he waited for Rowan to fall fully asleep.
Once Rowan’s breathing became even, Tyler crept out of the room, leaving the door cracked.
Exhaustion overwhelmed him then. He retreated to his room, changing into a pair of sweatpants and a soft crewneck.
Still in his wool socks, he padded into the hall bathroom, digging through the basket of their shared toiletries for his face wash and lotion.
He flossed and brushed his teeth, staring blearily at his reflection in the mirror.
He spat out his toothpaste, cupping his hands under the tap and scooping cold water into his mouth. He swished, spit again, and then he was back in his room, crawling under the covers, hating how cold the cotton sheets felt.
He grabbed his phone from where he’d tossed it onto the duvet, curling up on his left side and pulling the heavy blankets over himself.
Five unread messages. Five.
He ignored them for the moment, navigating to his online banking profile. His chest grew tight as he looked at his balance.
Fuck.
They were a week out from the end of the month, and he was going to be short.
He was trying to do everything he could. He got food stamps. He’d maxed out his number of shifts at the coffee shop–they weren’t willing to move him up to full time. He was pushing how much he could deliver groceries with Rowan tagging along.
And even with all of that, it wasn’t enough.
There was an option. One he’d been hesitant to explore now that he had Rowan. But maybe it was what he needed. Maybe it could take away some of the financial stress.
In the morning, he’d ask Sandra and Dotty if they’d be up for a little more time with his son.
Decision made, he finally opened the unread messages.
Jamie:
Please let me know if you guys need anything.
Not to be a creeper, but I just looked down at your seats and you’re not there. Everything okay?
Tyler, please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s something you need.
Okay. Guess you really left.
Have a good night, then.
Tyler closed his eyes. He needed to respond. He should respond, but sleep tugged at his eyes. He didn’t have time to think about someone else. He knew it was shitty to not reply, but right then, he couldn’t bring himself to worry about Jamie.
Dropping his phone, he let out a slow, deep breath.
Tomorrow. He’d text Jamie tomorrow.