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THIRTY-NINE

Jethro

APRIL

The regular season slowly grinds toward the finish line. Day in and day out, I play hockey. I go to practice. I go to the gym. Then I do it all again.

My stats are showing a lot of improvement, but one thing never changes—I watch Clay a little too hungrily each time we’re in the same room.

We still text, but lately I’ve forced myself not to reach out much. He asked for space, and I’m trying to give him that, for both our sakes.

On the home front, things are a little more upbeat. My father’s health is stable. Toby seems more settled in school, where he’s made two friends, Kavi and Dave. “They’ll never be Trevor, but they’ll do,” he’d told me.

Our condo is nicely furnished now, and I lead a surprisingly domestic life for someone who’s always been single and never intended to have a kid. I’ve been stocking the place with groceries, because I know the playoffs are going to hit me like a freight train. With the help of Clay’s assistant, I’ve found a pediatrician for Toby who’s accepting new patients. I even made it to parent-teacher conferences.

The brightest spot of all our lives is that my sister has made good on her word; every Monday night she calls Toby, and they talk. It’s made a huge difference for him. He’s more relaxed now that he can tell she’s doing okay, and he knows she still cares.

I still feel like I’m bailing water out of the ship rather than sailing it, but it is what it is.

On a quiet Friday night, on a tiny break between the end of the regular season and the start of the playoffs, I find myself staring into the refrigerator, contemplating what to have for dinner. There’s been no significant improvement to the Hale family kitchen skills, so we eat a lot of frozen food, and I’m a little sick of takeout.

Toby has Robotics Club, and I’ll be picking him up from school around six o’clock. So I get a wild hair. “Hey, Dad, what do you think about going out? I’m in the mood for Japanese.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “If they have other stuff besides sushi.”

I’ve been working on expanding Toby’s palate, but Mr. Old School doesn’t share my passion for trying new things. “This place I found has ramen dishes and chicken skewers. I know you’d like it.”

“All right,” he says grudgingly.

At six, we swing by the school. Toby bounces toward the car looking happy to see us. “Are we going out?” Toby guesses as he slams the car door. “Pizza, maybe?”

“Sushi,” I say quickly before my dad can jump on the pizza train.

“Cool. Is it close? I’m starved.”

“Buckle up, kid, I’ll have you there inside of ten minutes.”

“Okay. I guess I can make it. Hey—did you hear when the last day of school is? Grandpa said May twenty-third ! That’s, like, a whole month earlier than in Detroit!”

It’s actually three weeks earlier. I’d already checked. And I’d already been just as surprised as Toby. “Weird, right? I bet you like Colorado a little better now. They go back earlier in the fall, though. There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

“Free lunch is totally a thing,” he says. “There were kids at my old school who have free lunch tickets. And I won’t care if they go back earlier if I’m in Detroit, right?”

I hesitate. “Why would you be in Detroit, pal? There’s another year on my contract. You’ll have to pull that scam the following fall.”

The backseat is very quiet, and now my father is looking studiously out the passenger window. I wonder what these two have been discussing.

“But…” Toby finally says. “If you win the Cup, then you might retire, right? Going out on a big note?”

“A high note?” I ask. “Who said that?”

More silence.

I glance toward my father. “Dad, were you speculating about me retiring?”

“Not speculating,” he says. “Just thinking aloud. If your team goes all the way, I thought you might call it quits.”

It’s not a ridiculous idea. But it’s also not a great topic of conversation. “I can’t even think like that right now. Anything could happen.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But I was trying to explain to Toby that just because school gets out in May, we might not go right back to Michigan. Your playoffs season could go deep into June.”

“God willing,” I say, stopping at a light.

“I can’t wait to go home,” Toby says. “It’s going to be awesome.”

“Yeah, buddy,” I say with a sigh. “Just don’t plan next year without me, okay?”

“Okay,” he says sullenly.

It’s only a few more minutes until we reach an upscale commercial street in central Boulder, and I even get lucky with a parking spot. The restaurant is a bright and popular little eatery that gets good reviews online. Through big front windows, I see an attractive mountain mural and maybe twenty busy tables.

“Looks full. I hope there’s no wait,” my father says, because optimism isn’t a Hale family trait.

“Let’s ask before we worry.” I pull open the door. I’m hit by the fresh scent of soy sauce and sesame, and my stomach grumbles.

A slender man with a riot of earrings greets us. “Konnichiwa. Table for three tonight?”

“That’s our hope.”

He looks over his shoulder. “Give me five minutes,” he says, “I’ll get a table ready.”

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” I grab a menu off the host’s stand and hand it to my father so he can find something besides raw fish to order.

“Mmm, dumplings,” he says appreciatively.

I scan the tables to check out people’s entrees. And my gaze snags on two men in a booth together. They’re both laughing about something, leaning in the way you would on a date. And I’m a little shocked to realize that one of them is my teammate, DiCosta. And his date? The excellent interior designer he recommended to us back in December.

Casually, I pull my phone out of my pocket and fire off a text to Clay.

Does DiCosta have a boyfriend?

He must be glued to his phone because he answers immediately.

Yeah, why are you asking? He’s pretty private about it.

No reason. Just spotted them at Little Zen Garden.

Ooh. Get the spicy salmon roll. It’s my favorite.

Good tip.

I stash the phone in my pocket and glance toward DiCosta again. It’s amazing to me that Clay heads up the most queer-friendly team in the league, but he’s still not out himself.

It makes me wonder—what if I hadn’t run from him all those years ago? Would that be us sitting there?

My attention to that table must tip off Toby, because he suddenly says, “Hey, there’s Carter!” And before I can stop him, he zips over to stand at the end of their booth. Uninvited, he starts chatting up Carter. If I had to guess, he’s telling him how he reprogrammed the LED lights in his room to pulse to the music he plays on his Bluetooth speaker.

DiCosta glances up and catches me watching them. I lift a hand in greeting, and he gives me a nod before picking up his chopsticks.

“Gentlemen?” The host approaches. “Your table is ready.” He gestures toward a spot on the opposite side of the room.

I cup my hands by my mouth. “Toby,” I say just once.

His head swings in my direction, and I beckon to him.

A minute later, we’re all seated at a table by the window, and my father is still studying the menu.

“I was just telling Carter about the lights,” Toby says. “I wasn’t bothering him.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” I agree, trying to keep the peace. “But they’re having a nice conversation, and I wouldn’t want us to interrupt.”

“Might be a date,” Toby says.

“A date?” my father scoffs. “There’s no way DiCosta has a boyfriend.”

“You never know,” I say mildly.

He closes his menu and laughs. “Oh, please. Your whole team can’t be fags.”

My heart lurches. “Dad, don’t ever use that word.”

“Why?” He shrugs. “Nobody can hear me.”

“I can.” I look directly into his florid face. “It’s offensive.”

His eyes bulge. “To you? Come on.”

My heart pounds against my ribcage because I know what I have to do. “Dad, it’s not okay to make assumptions about anyone’s sexuality. For the record, I’m bisexual. I’m attracted to men as well as women,” I add, in case Toby doesn’t know that word.

Saying it aloud is awfully weird. I’m not sure I ever have. And now my father is staring at me with wide eyes.

Suddenly, he bursts out laughing, dropping the menu on the table and tipping his head back in glee. “Nice one, Jethro. Very funny.”

“Uh, I don’t think he’s kidding,” Toby says, studying my face, which is probably as red as a tomato.

My father’s laughter dies. “No, he is. Tell Toby you’re joking.”

I hadn’t planned to discuss this tonight, but I slowly shake my head.

He gapes at me. “You can’t be serious. I’d know. And you never had a…” He grimaces. “Boyfriend. Jesus .”

“I did,” I say quietly. “Once. A long time ago.”

His eyes bulge, and his face reddens. The man has a heart condition, and I wonder if I’m going to be dialing 911 in a second. But then he takes a deep, gulping breath and looks down at the table. “Jesus Christ, why are we discussing this in a public place?”

“But you said nobody can hear us,” Toby chirps.

I can’t hold back a snort. “Right. And this conversation is probably overdue. I’m not ashamed of it, by the way. Not anymore.”

My father looks up sharply. “Did something happen?”

Yeah, I lost Clay . “No. There’s no story. I was just young and dumb back then. I thought I cared what other people think.” The implication is clear. People like you .

“Goddamn it, Jethro.” My father gives his head a shake of disgust. “You’re always pushing my buttons. Always trying to put me in my place.”

“It’s not like that at all,” I insist. “I’m not looking to have a long conversation about it. But it’s not okay to use slurs. Even if they didn’t apply to me, it’s still not cool.”

My father looks like he wants to snarl at me, but the waiter picks this moment to approach the table. “Have we decided what we want?”

“I have,” Toby says brightly. “Can we please have the gyoza to start? The large size. Fried. And can I have the shrimp tempura and an avocado roll?”

“Yessir. And you, sir?” He turns to me.

“A dragon roll, four pieces of tuna nigiri, and the spicy salmon roll. That’s my ex-boyfriend’s favorite.”

The waiter writes that down without even blinking, while my father looks mildly nauseated.

Toby, though. He watches me with bright eyes and a proud smile.

So I know I did good.