Page 11

ELEVEN

Clay

Fourteen hours after our victory against St. Louis, I’m standing in the grocery store, questioning all my life choices.

First, Christmas is two days away, so the store is packed. Second, I’m embarrassed to admit that three days off work feels like too many.

I suppose I could have flown home to Boston to eat Christmas dinner at my parents’ table. But my sister Kaitlyn won’t be there this year, because she wants to hang out with her boyfriend—a cardiologist at the hospital where she works in Seattle.

So here I am, wandering the aisles, trying to figure out what to cook to cheer myself up. The problem is that everything I put in my cart reminds me of cooking for Jethro. The yams remind me of the time I made him roasted sweet potato fries with paprika. And the broccoli reminds me that he used to like a version with garlic and butter and breadcrumbs.

In the condiment aisle, my eye is drawn to a jar of onion jam, which I haven’t bought for years. But there’s a flatbread I used to make with bacon, onion jam, and feta cheese.

And now I’m hungry for flatbread with bacon, onion jam, and feta cheese. So the jar finds its way into my cart, too.

It takes me half an hour to make it through the aisles, and then I make a tactical mistake by deciding to cook seared tuna for dinner. The seafood counter is crammed full of shoppers trying to purchase their seven fishes for Christmas Eve dinner.

I take a number and try to be patient. It’s not like I have anywhere to be or anyone waiting at home for me. But it’s crowded, and a little old lady bumps me with a surprisingly sharp elbow. When I take a step to get out of her strike zone, I accidentally bump another little old lady.

“Excuse me!” I say immediately. “So sorry.”

She turns to me with an arch look. “Don’t apologize for bumping into me, Coach. But I think you owe me an explanation for that midseason goalie trade. And make it a good one, because you haven’t put Hale in front of the net yet. Makes me worry there’s some issue with him. Is it his hip?”

Being grilled on my coaching decisions happens often enough when I’m recognized around Boulder and Denver, but I’m a little surprised by her vehemence. My fame isn’t the same as the breathless hero worship the players get from fans. It’s more akin to being a high school principal when he’s out in the wild—everyone wants to lodge a complaint.

“Well?” she demands.

“Everything is fine, ma’am. We have to let Mr. Hale get his bearings here in Colorado so he can concentrate on his game.” Luckily, my number gets called next, and I can excuse myself to ask the fishmonger for a nice tuna steak.

“That’s an endangered species, you know,” my critic sniffs.

“Yes, ma’am.” I don’t explain that a guy who always eats alone doesn’t murder very many tuna. Or that I’d decided on fish for tonight, because it’s one of the few things I never cooked for Jethro back in the day.

After wishing her a happy holiday, I take the tuna and finish shopping.

When I arrive back at my condo development, I find that someone has helped himself to my private parking spot. The squatter drives an ancient minivan with Texas plates. I can see why it happened—the parking lot is jammed. Other people have families who visit over Christmas.

I spend a few seconds wondering if I’m a big enough jerk to call security and complain. But then I think of the potential gossip headline— Coach Earning 2.5 Million a Year Tows Single Mom’s Car Before Christmas .

Yeah. No.

I park in the overflow lot, feeling grumpy. After unloading the car, I hoof it past the playground with my arms full of groceries. I notice a boy sitting listlessly on a swing, but I don’t make eye contact. It’s a little odd to see a kid alone out here in the snow. And he isn’t wearing a coat. But he seems old enough to be on his own, and people get weird about strange men interacting with their kids, so I keep walking.

Suddenly, he calls out, “Hey mister!”

I stop as he jumps off the swing. “Yeah? Problem?”

“Can I use your phone? I need help.”

“Uh, probably. What’s the matter?”

He wanders closer, hands jammed in his pockets. “It’s like this,” he says, looking down at his Chuck Ts. “I snuck out of our new place, and now I don’t remember which building it is. They all look exactly alike. And my phone is dead. See?”

He pulls an iPhone out of his pocket, the screen black.

Oh heck . I take in his broody face, green eyes… and a hockey sweatshirt from Detroit. My neck prickles. “By any chance are you Jethro Hale’s kid?”

He gives me a startled glance. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

I crack a smile because that’s such a Hale-style answer. So suspicious. “Your dad and I are friends. I’m Coach Powers.”

The kid’s eyes widen like saucers. “ You? You’re the guy who’s ruining my life? You got him traded?”

“No!” I argue. But then I stop myself, because a good management team doesn’t ever admit to disagreements. I mean, this child probably won’t phone ESPN and tip them off to internal strife in the front office. Although given his expression, I can’t entirely rule it out. “It’s complicated,” I say lamely.

He glowers.

“But your dad and I have known each other a long time, and I’ll help you find him. That’s what friends do for each other.” I set down my groceries and pull out my phone.

His eyes narrow. “You seem kind of shady to me,” he says. “If you were such good friends, you’d probably know that Jethro’s not my dad.”

“Wait, what?” I look at him again and do a quick recalculation. So he’s Hale’s stepkid? But that’s pretty wild, because he looks like Hale, prickly personality and all.

“He’s my uncle ,” the kid says crisply. Like I should already know this.

“ Oh . So you’re Shelby’s son. How is Shelby doing?” I never met her, but Hale was always worried about his sister.

The kid’s face drops. “Well, she’s in jail, which is why I’m having my life ruined by you and Colorado.”

I gape at him. “God, I’m so sorry to hear that.” My mind is full of questions, and I’m rapidly revising my understanding of Jethro’s life. “Let’s, uh, find your uncle. You know his number?”

He rattles off a number with a 313 area code, and I dial. Unfortunately, it doesn’t connect. And my memory prickles with unease. “Does, uh, he use WhatsApp, by chance?”

“He didn’t answer?” the kid yelps.

“Um…” I don’t feel like explaining why the call won’t go through. “Maybe he’s showering or working out. I’ll try WhatsApp.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to take your call,” the kid muses. “Can I have that?” He reaches for my phone, opens WhatsApp and taps out a quick text.

Powers

I’ve kidnapped Toby. Send one million dollars and a family-sized package of Oreos.

“Um…”

“That will get his attention.” Toby rubs his hands together and then shoves them in the pocket of his sweatshirt. “He’s talking to the real estate lady with Grandpa. The place we’re getting here is empty. So we have to spend Christmas at a hotel .” He says the word like you’d say maximum security prison .

“I’m so sorry. Here, put these on.” I pull a pair of gloves out of my pockets. “I’ve got another jacket in my car. Should we grab that?”

“I’m not wearing your coat,” he sniffs. “Hey—do you know which building the indoor pool is in? I could maybe find my way back from there.”

I pick up my grocery bags. “Sure. Toby, right? What grade are you in?”

“Fourth,” he says, following me down the path.

“So you’re…nine?”

“Ten. I got held back in kindergarten.” He looks up and scowls, as if daring me to judge him for it.

“Cool. You like playing hockey?” I ask, straining for a safe topic of conversation.

“Not really.”

Lord. I’m out of friendly chit chat already. Luckily, the app makes a ringing sound, and I grab for it like a lifeline. “This is Powers.”

“Clay?” Jethro says in a strained voice. “Is Toby with you? What the hell?”

“Yeah. He’s just having a little trouble remembering which unit you’re in. They all look alike.”

“He’s outside? Christ. We’re in 1202.”

“All right. No big deal. We’re on our way.” I ring off and stick the phone in my pocket. “Come on, Toby. That way.” I point towards building twelve, which is the one next to mine.

He sighs. “He’s gonna be so pissed.”

“Nah, he won’t be,” I say lightly. “Sometimes he just looks pissed when he can’t figure out how else to feel.”

Toby thinks this over. “Then he should stop doing that.”

I can’t really disagree.

As we approach building number twelve—a unit of six side-by-side townhomes identical to mine—one of the doors flies open. There’s Jethro in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a henley shirt that shows off his physique.

Predictably, he looks pissed. “Did you sneak out?” he asks Toby as soon as we’re close enough to hear him.

“I was bored,” Toby complains. “It’s Christmas break.”

As we get closer, Jethro steps back from the entrance, and I follow the kid into a completely empty condo. Jethro frowns at me, like he doesn’t know what I’m doing here.

And, yeah, I’m not exactly sure myself.

“How’d you get past me?” Jethro asks Toby, who’s slinking away.

“Climbed out the window,” Toby mutters.

“Jesus.” Jethro’s shoulders drop. “Get your stuff. We can go back to the hotel.”

“Whoopee,” Toby says flatly. Then he disappears into a bedroom.

“Sorry about all this,” Jethro mutters.

“Don’t be sorry.” I drop my voice. “He seems stressed. Told me I ruined his life.”

Jethro looks even more exhausted than he did a moment before. “He’s going through some stuff.”

“I, uh, heard about some of it. Sorry about your sister. How long is she, um…?”

“It’s hard to say. Parole is weird. She’s in for a DUI with injury, plus drug possession. She got high with a friend and drove her car the wrong way in traffic,” he says flatly. “Hit a barrier, flipped the car, and her drunk friend almost died.”

“God. Poor Toby.”

“It could have been Toby in that car.” His face darkens. “We’re obviously not over it. Sorry he mouthed off to you.”

“Eh. Sounds like he needed to vent.”

Toby reappears with his jacket and a comic book. “I’m hungry. Can we drive through McDonald’s?”

“Nah, we’ll get a real dinner with Grandpa after this.”

Looking put out, Toby glances into my shopping bag. “Got any cookies?”

I stifle a laugh. “How about an apple?”

He brightens. “Sure. Thanks.”

I lean over and root into my shopping bag. “Here we go.”

Toby takes it, but now he’s frowning at my groceries. “What the heck is onion jam ?”

My neck heats for some stupid reason. And then I make it worse by looking up at Jethro.

For the first time since he arrived in Colorado, he looks back at me. Really looks . And for a couple glugs of my heart, we’re right back in New York State. We’re twenty-something idiots again, standing in our slummy apartment, getting to know each other one meal at a time.

I loved him. Right from the start, probably. The first time we sat down at our kitchen table together, I felt as if we belonged there together.

But he didn’t feel the same way about me. And it will always hurt.