Page 27 of Hotshot

“Well, I?—”

“I know not every place is like Elmwood, but I’ll tell ya something…we pride ourselves on diversity and?—”

“I’m gay, Steve. Of course, I’m cool with it,” I intercepted.

I’d commuted regularly between Vermont and Colorado over the past month, initially splitting the week with three days in Denver and four here. Every freaking time I stepped foot in Elmwood or Wood Hollow, you’d think I was brand-new to the area. Which meant I heard the same spiels about inclusivity and equality over and over again.

The “Don’t be a dick or we’ll run your ass out of town” speech had become a mantra of sorts. I’d heard a few variations since Ifirst arrived, usually delivered in the same congenial tone of my contractor.

Look, I appreciated their commitment to protecting their neighbors, but I wasn’t the enemy. Sure, I was the guy whose family was cutting down trees in their forest, but we were doing it the right way.

Seemingly, my queerness gave me the hall pass our commitment to sustainable forestry lacked.

The ironic thing was that I’d had zero plans to come out to the good folks in the Four Forest area. I had a strong belief that who I fucked was my business and no one else’s. Elmwood was different, and if shared sexuality put me in the same cool category as some of the town’s elite hockey citizens, I might as well lead with that info.

Hey, it worked on Steve.

The older man didn’t bother hiding his surprise. “Oh. Good for you.”

“I’m also a hockey fan. I followed Vinnie’s career religiously in my teens. And Riley Thoreau’s.”

He beamed and clapped my shoulder. “I knew I liked you. Did you know Jake Milligan is from here too? He plays for Boston. And Denny Mellon is Colorado’s new rookie who?—”

“I met Denny last weekend.”

“Great guy,” Steve gushed. “I went to high school with Denny’s dad and his uncle, Daryl. They were wild and crazy…always taking dares. Denny must take after his mom’s side of the family. God rest her soul. Poor kid has lost both parents now. All he’s got left is Annie. No, no. I think he has a brother too. Never met him, but—I need to shut my gob and get home or I’ll be late for dinner. Have a good night, Mr. Cunningham.”

“Hank,” I corrected. “Just Hank.”

He paused at the kitchen door and inclined his chin. “All right. See you tomorrow, Hank.”

I cast an appraising glance around the shiny new kitchen as I pulled my cell from my pocket and called home.

“Hello, Cunningham residence. May I ask who’s calling?”

Side note: A, someone had been answering the phone in my childhood home with that exact greeting for the past forty years or more. B, my father would never ever get rid of his landline. He was a sporadic texter at best, and if he had a lot to say, he called…or emailed.

“Hi, Margaret. It’s Hank. How’s he doing?”

“Okay,” his nurse replied hesitantly. “Your father fell today. He was trying to lift himself from his chair. It was a bit traumatic, but he’s fine.”

I swallowed hard in an attempt to dislodge the ball of panic wedged in my throat. “Did you call Dr. Hellman?”

“Yes. He left an hour ago. He prescribed a blood thinner and rest. Your dad will downplay it, but I thought you should know.”

“Thanks.”

“Would you like to speak to him?” Margaret asked.

“Yes, please.”

A couple of minutes later, my dad’s familiar Texas twang rattled the line. “Well, is it a shit show over there or what?”

The answer was yes. One thousand times, yes.

“It’s not too bad,” I hedged, scratching my temple. “It’s going to take a bit of work, but?—”

“You got him!” Dad intercepted. “You got the hockey star.”