Chapter 15
Gillian
I thought interning at a pediatric dentistry practice was hard.
But now?
Now, I wish for the days when all it took to chill a child out was the threat of taking away their prize drawer options.
“I don’t wanna wear my boots!” Bronny shouts from inside his room at the end of the hall.
“Why are you yelling?” I calmly inquire, frame parked near the opening of the stairs.
“You’re far away!”
“And yet I’m not raising my voice.”
That fact successfully pulls him past the threshold and into more open territory.
I swear to God, it’s like negotiating with a terrorist on a TV show.
Pretty sure that’s where I got all my skills to handle these hormone-based episodes.
Although, I’d really like to cancel my subscription to whatever this shit show is.
I had honestly thought we were onto the next season of Bronson’s Creek.
One where I would have to worry more about neighbor chicks sneaking in through his bedroom for late night “study sessions” and less about playing the wrong songs before ten a.m.
Apparently, there’s such a thing as too early for ABBA.
Jukes and I strongly disagree, however, not enough for it to be the declaration of war the athletic hormones in questionably tight jeans insisted it was.
It’s been a crazy few weeks.
Around school – thank fuck he only missed the one week – and preseason – including camp, media blitzes, goalie training, team pracky, the big franchise outing as well as medical appointments – dating has become much different.
What we do and when we do it has also changed.
There’re less late nights doing random things like drinking Turkish coffee under the stars while singing Cher and more early evenings with themed charcuterie boards to go along with our critical thinking conversations about Langston Hughes poems and fights about topics for early animal science projects.
We still do our best to sneak off to The Kaloon once a week for dessert and cover bands, but lunch pop ins and elaborate meal hopping dinners are basically gone.
Mornings – thankfully – still start the same.
Sex and homemade brew.
I get the feeling those are the two things I’m going to miss the most when he leaves for his first roadie.
He promises he’ll still get up early to “have a cup” with me via video chat, but we’ll see.
Road life gets unpredictable.
I remember that all the way from M’s youth hockey days.
M who still doesn’t know about us due to many of the same reasons my relationship with Thayne has had to change.
Except dealing with his own kids instead of a younger sibling that now he is in charge of raising for the foreseeable future.
The future that Grams swears will be more than stacking boxes at a small-town store and marrying the prom queen – who he knocked up their senior year – because he’s here.
Where there’s more structure and more guidance and more discipline.
You know.
All the things teens typically hate you for.
“Um…” Bronny guiltily grumbles at the same time he rocks on his heels, “I didn’t know you were that close.”
“Next time, let’s look before we shout. Okay?”
He nods.
“Now,” Joey’s advice on how to parent pops back into my mind prompting me to suggest, “I would like to talk about the boots sitch.” It’s hard to resist folding my arms across my chest; however, I have to refrain.
I have to appear open and inviting in my body language to welcome an open and honest conversation. “Talk not argue.”
“No one ever listens to me when I talk,” he grumps.
The urge to do the very thing I just said I didn’t want to do immediately taps itself on my shoulder.
We don’t listen to him?!
That’s why we stayed up late to help him make an Ooey Gooey butter cake for his history class because just buying one would be an insult to Grams or like spitting on his Gramps grave, which he wasn’t willing to do.
That’s why Thayne had Dubs rush ship him a custom cowboy hat for their Dalvegan family photo.
That’s why I ditched my brother for a lunch date yesterday to bring him a pair of tennis shoes – he texted, begged me for – so that he could try out for the lacrosse team after school.
Because we never listen to him.
Fucking teens.
I swear.
Spears…please, make me stronger than yesterday.
“I’m listening,” I calmly reassure. “Talk to me. Tell me why don’t you wanna wear your boots.”
“’Cause it’s cringe.”
And somehow saying the word instead of making the face is cool?
Um…drips?
See.
I don’t like that.
It feels dirty and gross and like I’m describing a tooth abscess.
“Because they’re cringe – wrong type or color or style – or because wearing boots in general now is cringe?”
My seeking of clarification causes him to twitch a glare. “’Cause matchin’ with a bunch of other people is so dumb.”
Ah.
Probably should’ve suspected there’d be a bit of pushback when the Slayers insisted we all do something cutesy like this for opening night, but in my defense, I was more focused on how excited I was to be able to be included in my first official Slayer moment, even if everyone knows not to publicly label me as one.
Not yet.
Not before I’ve had a chance to tell M.
Which technically was on the agenda pre-footwear freak out.
And there wasn’t really time post.
I had patients to see and time-off requests to approve of and gear to inspect and a hot homemade meal to get to.
Gahhhh, I love that Jukes cooks.
I love even more that he insists on doing it.
Sadly, I’m already seeing many takeout meals in me and Bronny’s future when he’s unavailable.
I may attempt some of the easier meals suggested by the team chef, but we’ll see.
“Okay,” I shrug, indifference purposely kept in my tone. “Don’t wear them.”
His brow immediately crunches in confusion. “Huh?”
“You’re sixteen, Bronny. It’s not my job to police your wardrobe.”
Additional bafflement raises his voice in pitch. “It isn’t?!”
“Nope.”
Another shock filled expression is flashed.
“My job is to parent you. To provide the assist and at times play captain to guide you into being the least shitty human you can possibly be.”
He stares on in continued bewilderment.
“Wear what you wanna wear. Your body. Your choice. Your nuts to freeze off if you show up in in shorts, flip flops, and a tank.” I turn to begin my descent of the stairs, yet stop to face him again after only going down two.
“Do you know why they pick one thing for us all to wear for the season opener?”
“Tradition?”
“Yes, but do you know like why it’s a tradition? Why it started? Why we keep it?”
Bronny slowly shakes his head.
“Not everyone has family that can come see them play or cheer them on or be there for them physically. Some don’t even have families that can afford to watch the game – assuming it’s being broadcast where they’re located.
” My fingers lightly drum the railing. “You know some of the boys don’t actually get to see their families or their loved ones for more than like three weeks a year? ”
“No-huh…”
It’s my turn to gradually nod. “Depending on how everything goes, the schedule for training through post regulation season vastly varies and if you factor in play-offs, potential injuries – some of which require surgery and rehab – charity events, social events, and trades, three weeks can easily become one.”
Empathy noticeably floods his face.
“We all wear one thing in a show of solidarity. Support.” Pride pushes my shoulders back.
Tips my chin. “We wear it so each of the boys knows that while they may not have other family that can reach them, they have us. That we’re there not just for whoever we’ve slayed but for them too.
That while they are the team we need on the ice, we are the one they can count on off it. ”
The tiniest crack of his jaw lets me know the information has sunk in.
“Like I said…” this shrug is less innocent than I’m trying to let on, “wear whatever you want. Boots. Kicks. Flops. Choice is yours.” Our stares stay latched onto one another’s. “You’ve got six minutes to get to the car, or you’ll be taking the bus.”
“You wouldn’t make me take the bus.”
An impish eyebrow lift is all he’s given.
“Th-Th-Thayne…wouldn’t…let ya…”
“Whose idea do you think the bus was?”
Laughter leaves us both however afterward he asks, “Can I drive?”
Holding back a fearful scowl is even harder than the active listening shit I just pulled off.
“I need more hours,” he gingerly reminds. “Remember, I finished all my app shit Sunday.”
“You did.”
“And I need highway time.”
“You do.”
“And non-ideal conditions…”
“Which game day traffic certainly qualifies as.”
“So…” eagerness grows in his gaze, “is that a yes?”
“Fine.” His smirking naturally sparks my own. “But…”
“Totes ear emoji.”
“If you scratch or dent or wreck my car, your allowance is covering it until the damages are completely paid for and you’ll be grounded until Christmas.”
“Easy.”
“Of next year.”
“Done!” Bronny enthusiastically exclaims on a fist punch to the air.
“Five minutes now.” I resume my trek down the stairs, grin still lingering. “And you can’t drive my car if you’re busy riding the bus.”
Post grabbing my keys, beanie, and confirming Joey’s text regarding where to meet for the big photo as well as sending M his traditional pre-game “you got this” message, I’m joined by my boyfriend’s younger brother who is not only wearing the same hat he did for their family photo, but his Dalvegan jersey and the boots Thayne bought him the same day he bought me mine.
Hiding my giddiness isn’t impossible, although, necessary.
I know what happens when he sees your win.
I’ve watched enough telenovelas to learn a thing or two about what the villain will do in response.
And Bronny isn’t exactly a villain.
He just has villain-like tendencies.
Again.
Hormones.
There’s so much shit to blame on those things.
Including bad breath.
Something he also has often.
His chemical fluctuation being the cause of that is a fifty-fifty shot, honestly.
You would think the boy is allergic to toothpaste the way his mouth is rarely minty fresh.