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THIRTEEN

Jethro

Christmas Eve arrives at the Four Seasons in Denver. There’s an impressive tree in the lobby, with soft white lights and shiny ornaments. There’s also a special menu in the hotel restaurant, featuring a choice of Lobster Thermidor or filet mignon with a king crab crust and a roasted beef demi glaze.

“What the heck is that ?” Toby demands.

“It’s a steak,” I say quickly. “You’ll love it. It probably comes with mashed potatoes, right?” I prompt the server.

“It certainly can,” the man says, because that’s how it works at the Four Seasons. The customer is always right, even when the customer is a surly ten-year-old boy who’s missing his mom on Christmas Eve.

My father, who’s wearing saggy jeans and a Mike’s Repair Shop sweatshirt while sitting in the center of a swanky restaurant, orders the Lobster Thermidor.

“Have you had that before?” Toby asks.

My father shakes his head. “No, but it has something to do with lobster and cheese. So what’s not to love?”

I catch myself chuckling. But five years ago, if anyone had told me I’d be eating Christmas Eve dinner with my dad, I would have questioned their sanity. My father abandoned our family when I was six. Then he’d taken a multi-decade detour into alcoholism before getting sober about five years ago.

At first, I wanted nothing to do with our new-and-improved dad. I don’t have a lot of time for people who never had time for me. But then he started showing up for my sister and Toby in a big way. So I grudgingly accepted him as a part of my life.

Then, last year, when my sister wreaked mayhem on the world and on my family, I no longer had the luxury of keeping my father at arm’s length. He’s five years into his sobriety and his redemption tour. And now that I’m legally somebody’s parent, I couldn’t get through the week without my dad’s help.

So here we are on Christmas Eve, like a real family. This new version of my dad is a calm and quiet man—a little like me in that regard. Honestly, we have a lot in common, which is amusing and sometimes terrifying. I worry that I’ve inherited his bad heart and his penchant for abusing alcohol.

And I worry that Toby will, too.

Given the chance, my dad would still be back in Detroit, tinkering with engines at the garage where he worked, and planning his retirement. He’s almost sixty-six years old. I pay him a salary as Toby’s nanny, which means he hasn’t had to start collecting social security yet. The unspoken plan is that I’ll retire when my contract is up in eighteen months, and we’ll revisit the plan for Toby’s care.

But here we are instead, twelve hundred miles from home, linen napkins in our laps as we listen to a string quartet play “Silent Night” in the corner.

Toby and I both order the steak, and, damn it, when the food shows up, it’s fantastic. The meat is tender as butter, and the green beans spike memories of the ones Clay used to make—with slivered almonds. He called them haricot vert , with a French accent, and I teased him for days. “Just say beans like the rest of us, you preppy fucker.”

Maybe it sounds like a harsh comment to give the guy who was feeding me. But that’s how we were with each other. Clay had a slew of names for me, too. “Jethro the grouch” and “you broody fuck” both come to mind.

I take another bite, and the beans are perfect—buttery, with a nutty crunch. Clay is the only person I’ve ever known who cooked the same kind of food you might find at the Four Seasons. Young, stupid me thought maybe all rich kids could do that. One time I asked him where he learned to cook, and he’d winced. “Our, um, private chef taught me,” he’d said. “I was ten or eleven when I started. Figured out that if I was helping in the kitchen, nobody would make me go do my homework.”

That vault where I store my memories of Clay? It keeps drifting open, damn it. And the more I think about him, the more unsettled I feel. The man fed me every day with his own two hands. For an entire hockey season.

And then there’s all the sex we had…

“Uncle Jethro?”

I look up and realize that I’ve been mowing down my food without speaking to anyone. Toby’s steak is half gone, so I guess that’s not so bad. “Yeah?”

“This is super good,” he says quietly.

“Isn’t it?” I agree. “What do you think we’d be eating right now if we’d stayed in Michigan?”

He flashes me a quick smile. “Little Caesars?”

“Possibly.” I snort. “But it’s the holidays, so maybe I would have gone all out. Extra garlic bread, maybe. Or a bag of Christmas Oreos for dessert.”

Toby gives me an eyeroll. “You big spender.”

“Amirite?” I wink at him and slide my fork through my mashed potatoes. I think they put a whole stick of butter in these, and I’m here for it.

“Mom and I used to make gingerbread on Christmas Eve.” Toby looks suddenly crestfallen. “If we’d stayed in Michigan, maybe we could have gone to see her. I could have brought her some.”

“We couldn’t have,” I remind him. And Toby should know this because we’ve discussed it already. “She’s in a treatment facility.”

“Even on Christmas?” He squints at me, as if maybe I’m pulling some kind of con on him. “That’s mean.”

“It’s not mean,” my father says, sipping his Coke. “It’s what she needs to get her life back on track. She’s lucky to get treatment at all.”

The glance I send my father says thank you . I need his help driving this point home. Toby needs to understand that his mother suffers from a disease. But also that the treatment of it is dependent on her in addition to support and intervention.

There’s no telling if my sister will ever get her life together. And neither Toby nor my father have any idea how many strings I pulled to get my sister into a pilot program for addiction treatment. I wrote a few checks to the right politicians and sent some hockey tickets to a state senator. That led to a phone call, where he asked me about my biggest concerns as a citizen in the great state of Michigan.

“Since you asked,” I’d said, and then I’d told him how my drug-addicted sister had better access to drugs inside prison than outside it. I’d explained how I’d had to stop putting money in her commissary account once I figured out what she was trading it for.

Shelby is one hundred percent responsible for all four of the gray hairs I’ve counted on my head. But I still got her ungrateful ass into a medically assisted residential treatment program. The downside is that they don’t allow visitors, which is hell on Toby. But if it gets her off the junk, it will be a small price to pay.

Toby stares down at the remnants of his dinner. “Maybe you can call the hospital tomorrow and see if they’ll put her on Facetime.”

I look at his sad face and silently curse my sister’s name. I know she has a disorder and that I’m not supposed to blame her for it. But some days that’s easier than others. “Bud, she’s not allowed to accept incoming calls.”

“What about making outgoing calls?”

“Um…” I don’t even know what to say. I think I read that she was allowed to call us once she passed the sixty-day mark. And she passed it a week ago. “I’m not sure,” I hedge.

He pushes his plate away. “Let’s not even have Christmas. What’s the point?”

Aw, hell. I search my heart for the right thing to say, and I don’t find it. Thanks, Shelby! Great work, here!

“The point of Christmas is chocolate lava cake,” my father says from the other side of the table. “That’s what we need. I saw it on the menu.”

Remarkably, Toby perks up. “Do we have to split one? Or can I get my own?”

“You can have one all to yourself,” I say quickly. “It’s Christmas.”

No dessert could make a dent in the shitty week we’re having. But for ten minutes maybe I can pretend.

On Christmas morning I wake up in my Four Seasons suite and check my phone. There’s a text from Tate the PR guy.

Tate

Please check your email for an Instagram login. Your password is COUGARS! and the “o” is a zero. There are three posts in draft.

I guess that guy never takes a day off. I already regret saying yes to social media.

But I log in anyway and peek at the posts he’s set up for me, preparing to hate them.

Except I don’t. This Tate guy must be pretty good at his job, because he’s chosen a few photos I don’t hate. One of them is me in a Cougars practice jersey standing next to Stoney. I’m actually smiling, which is rare these days. There’s also a photo of the Colorado mountains from the view of an airplane window, and a shot of my new Cougars jersey hanging in my stall on game day.

None of the captions offend me, so I post the one of the jersey, because why not make the publicist happy? At least someone on the team will like me.

Toby wakes up before long, and my father and I usher him toward the small pile of presents that we’d arranged on the coffee table in the living room of our suite. He’s getting some clothes and comic books in addition to the gaming console, which suddenly seems like a really smart purchase.

“Omigod! Omigod! Where did you get this?” he gushes.

“Just got lucky,” I say proudly. But the truth is that I paid triple for it on Ebay. And would have paid more if necessary. Anything to see this kid smile.

He takes it out of the package and holds the controller lovingly in two hands. Then his face crumples, and he shoves a hand in front of his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, panic creeping into my voice.

“I just realized I can’t show Trevor. Or play Ninjammers with him.”

My dad meets my gaze across the room, mirroring my helpless expression back to me.

Shit . “Can I play Ninjammers with you?” I ask.

“I guess.” Toby scrubs at his eyes. “You’ll have to do.”

Ninjammers, as it turns out, is nothing like the sporty games that Clay taught me to play back in the day. It’s a juvenile fighting game with ostentatious weaponry and an incomprehensible plot line. After an hour, I’ve had almost all I can take.

“Kid, it’s time for the Christmas brunch buffet,” I insist.

“But we just started,” he whines.

“I’m not sure you understand. There’s strawberries and M&M pancakes, and you can go back as many times as you want.”

He finally caves. “But bring your phone,” he says. “What if Mom calls?”

So I bring my phone. I’m mowing down a plate of bacon and frittata when my father passes his phone to me across the table. “Hey, look.”

“Is it Mom?” Toby asks quickly.

My dad shakes his head. “Just a news story about Jethro’s new team.”

“Hmm?” I ask, shoving cheesy eggs into my maw.

“You’re gonna want to see this.” He taps the screen.

When I glance down, I see a studio photograph of Hudson Newgate and the interview the publicist told me about. “Oh, yeah. I heard about this. Newgate used to play for Brooklyn, so they timed this story to come out right before the Brooklyn game.”

“Did they?” My father’s eyes narrow. “Kinda weird, right? Having this guy in your same locker room?”

My appetite takes a sudden dive. I put down my fork and try to figure out what to say. I can feel Toby listening, too. I guess this is what you’d call a teachable moment. “He’s a great player, Dad. None of my business if he has a boyfriend.”

“I suppose,” my father says slowly. “Still weird, though.”

I take a gulp of coffee instead of arguing with him, and it makes me feel cowardly. But I’ve never felt compelled to explain my complicated sexuality to my family or my teammates.

On the other hand, I’ve lived my life in a way that made sure I never had to. That makes me a chickenshit.

Toby looks up from his comic book. “Well, I think Newgate’s cool,” he says. “He’s not just another hockey bro. Now he’s a trailblazer. Because it’s hard to be different.”

For a second, I can only stare at Toby. It’s pretty pathetic that a ten-year-old who’s currently shoving half a pancake into his mouth did a better job explaining this than I did. “You know who else is pretty cool?” I ask. “You.”

He looks startled. “Thanks? Will you play more Ninjammers with me after breakfast?”

I guess I earned that. “Sure I will.”