Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Noah
Another full week passes before I get to see Morgan in person again.
She had lessons all week, and I was busy with work and practicing on my own; now that the game is a month away, the team has officially begun practicing together, drilling plays, practicing passes and one-timers, scrimmaging, and dialing in our teamwork.
We text each other frequently throughout the week. Mostly just catch-up stuff, small talk, and harmless flirtation. It's something, and it's better than nothing, but she fills my every waking thought and most of my dreams.
I wake up hard and sweating, with the feel of her ass in my hands and the taste of her on my lips. I dream of her hands digging into my chest. I daydream about her mouth on mine and fall behind on my paperwork.
"Dad?" Noel's voice startles me out of just such a reverie.
I jolt, realizing my fingers are on my lips and I'm grinning like an idiot. I clear my throat and straighten. “Yeah. What's up, Noel?"
He drops heavily into a chair opposite me—he's always been like that, collapsing into a chair or onto a couch as if he just can't hold up his own weight anymore. "Looked like you were thinking hard and hardly working."
"And that sounds like you're mixing metaphors."
He waves a hand dismissively. "You looked good in practice yesterday. Those five a.m. skates are paying off."
"You didn't come in here to tell me that."
He grins. "Nah. But it's true. Your speed is way improved, and so is your stickhandling."
"Thanks, Noel. Means a lot, coming from you."
"Because I'm your son or because I'm a pro?"
I shrug. "Both. So. What's up?"
"Thoughts on Adam Juarez?"
I consider what I've seen in practice thus far. "Great team player. Great passer. I wouldn't feed him the puck, but he's a defenseman."
As I say this, I hear a knock on my door frame; it's Adam himself, a rival for Noel in size and build, if not bigger in the chest and shoulders.
"Definitely don't feed me the puck,” Adam says.
“I’m always trying to get rid of the damn thing so I can go hit someone. " He grins, leaning against the frame.
"Adam," I say. "What's up?"
"I wanted to run something by you."
Noel taps my desk with a knuckle. "You can slow down the extra sessions now, by the way. Game's less than a month away, and the last thing I need is you pulling a muscle or something."
"I'll take it easy.” I pause, eye him. “I’ve got a pot of chili in the crock pot at home, if you wanted to stop by for a bite with your old man after our shift."
"Can't say no to that chili." He exits my office. “Talk later."
I jut my chin at Adam. "So. What's up?"
"I grew up in Ketchikan, as I'm sure you know." I nod, and he continues. "My cousin works at a bar there—Badd Kitty."
I snicker. "That's what it's called?"
He nods, smirking. "It is. They've actually got a few locations in Alaska—two or three in Ketchikan, one in Anchorage, and even one in Hollywood if I’m not mistaken.
Whatever." He waves his hands. "Not important.
What I'm getting at is the owners got wind of the game somehow and got word to me through my cousin that they'd like to be sponsors, if it's not too late. "
"For real?"
He nods. "Yes, sir. I used to drink at the Kitty after my shift all the time. They're great folks. Goddamned colossal family. It's a family business."
I shrug. "Okay, sure. Jim is in charge of that. Jimmy Tanner."
"Oh, I already talked to him. It's all set."
I frown. "So…why are you telling me, then?"
He shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm ADHD and my brain is in squirrel mode right now."
"I don't know what squirrel mode is."
"Be glad. Anyway. They're planning on coming to the game. I guess they've been talking about expanding out this way, maybe Fairbanks, maybe somewhere smaller."
"Like Tomlin Falls?" I frown. “We’re awfully small for a chain bar.”
He shrugs. "Just letting you know. I don't know who, and I don't know for sure, just that they told my cousin they might come catch the game and check out Tomlin Falls."
I shake my head. "Well, thanks for the heads-up. A chain bar…here."
"Chain bar is misleading. They're family-owned and -operated with less than half a dozen locations, almost entirely Alaskan."
"I'm not in charge of Tomlin Falls, Adam."
He shrugs. "Just letting you know."
I'm really not sure what I'm meant to take away from this whole exchange. Some people I don't know from a bar I've never been to in a city I've never been to are coming to our memorial game because they may open a bar…somewhere?
Cool, I guess?
"Well, I appreciate the update, Adam."
"Well, we're testing hoses, so I should get back to it."
Shaking my head at the whole, odd, random exchange, I go back to my paperwork.
The rest of the day—and the end of my 24-on—passes in a blur of paperwork, minor calls, a budget meeting with the chief, more paperwork, and one car-and-garage fire started because Hal Ballantyne had a fuel line leak and used too much starter fluid…
kaboom. Hal lost his eyebrows and a good bit of his hair, but aside from being a little crispy around the edges, he's fine.
The engine he was rebuilding? Not as much.
Noel is waiting for me on the porch when I get home. He lifts the six-pack he brought. "Hey-a, Pops. Brought some of the good stuff."
I snort. "Nah, son. The good stuff is the bottle of Blanton's I've got inside. But that'll go down pretty damn well with the chili."
"You didn't experiment with the recipe again, did you?" he asks, following me inside.
I roll my eyes. "No, son, I didn't. I've abandoned the idea of trying to improve on the recipe."
"I mean, you can't really improve on perfection, and that recipe has been winning awards for two generations, now." He beelines for the crock pot, lifts the lid, and inhales deeply, groaning in anticipation. "Smells like I'm about to eat myself sick."
I guffaw. "Just be sick in your own home, yeah? I don't need any help stinking up the place."
“I’ve got the solution.” He shoves his hand into his hip pocket and produces a small bottle. "Beano!"
"Oh, lord, Noel. That shit does not work."
"I dunno. Maybe it's a placebo, but I think it does. Can't hurt, if nothing else, right?"
"Guess not." I grab the shredded cheese and sour cream from the fridge.
I fill bowls for both of us and we sit at the island, eating in companionable silence. I'm dishing myself a second bowl when my phone buzzes from the island.
I set my bowl down and check the notification; it's from Morgan:
You busy? Mal and I had plans to see a movie tonight but something better came up for her, so I'm suddenly free.
Well, this is tricky. I'd love nothing more than to see her, obviously, but I invited Noel over, and I can't just kick him out because I've suddenly got something better to do.
Something better came up than hanging out with her super cool mom?
Right? Shocking, I know. I'm not mad about it. She's 17. A movie with Mom is cool, but all your friends getting together for mani-pedis is better.
She's a lucky kid. Probably doesn't realize it yet, but she will someday.
You're sweet. So…what is it the kids say these days? Netflix and Chill?
I think that means something specific.
I'm being cautious—I know exactly what it means, as Noel explained it to me once.
Yes, it does.
I glance at Noel, and he's eyeing me with a sly smirk. "Something to say, son?"
"You're texting and grinning," he says. "You make a new friend?"
"Something like that."
He's polished off a second bowl already and pauses, looking at me speculatively. "Wait, hold up. Hold up. Dad, are you…seeing someone?"
"Sort of. Maybe. I dunno. We're…it's…" I shrug, at a total loss for how to talk about this with my son.
He sets the ladle back down. "I just remembered I forgot something at the station."
I roll my eyes. "Noel, you don't have to—"
He stands behind me and claps me on the shoulders. "Dad, this is a good thing. I want you to be happy."
"You wouldn't feel like I was…" I trail off, shrugging.
“Trying to replace Mom?" he fills in, swallowing hard for a moment before shaking his head; he leans onto the counter beside me, looking at me.
"No, I wouldn't think that. For one, I'm thirty-three, not thirteen.
I know you loved and adored Mom. I know you were a thousand percent dedicated to her while she was alive.
But it's been three years, Dad. You're allowed to find happiness again.
And I honestly believe Mom would have wanted that for you, too. "
I'm free. I'd love to see you. I just need a couple of minutes. I'll call you. I send the message to Morgan, and a few seconds later she gives the message a thumbs-up; I set the phone down and refocus on Noel.
I fiddle with the label on my empty beer bottle, ripping it off in shredded pieces, which I pile on the counter. "Before she passed, your mom actually…" I bobble my head side to side, working to contain the emotions that come with this whole topic. "She made me promise I would."
He frowns. "Wait, what? She did?"
I nod. "Yeah. She made me promise that after a certain period of time, I'd move on and find someone else.
I just haven't been ready till now. I'm still not sure I am ready.
I don't know if I ever will be or how to tell, y'know?
I just know that I like this person a lot.
" I hold up my phone. "We're just…exploring things, right now. "
He juts his chin at my phone. "She wants to hang out?"
I nod. "But Noel, she and I can—"
"Absolutely not. You know I love hanging out with you, but there's plenty of time for that later. Maybe I'll join you for a skate tomorrow morning. I'll drill you on your backhander."
My backhand shot has always been low, weak, and inaccurate. I've got a killer forehand, but my backhand sucks.
"I don't want you to feel like I'm ditching you or kicking you out, Noel."