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FORTY-ONE

Jethro

We win the first two games against Seattle at home with Volkov in the net.

I celebrate by baking up the lasagnas that Clay left on our doorstep after that weird night when he got drunk. There was a sealed envelope inside the bag, with a note addressed to me:

J—

Yikes, right? When I make a mess, I make it big.

Thank you for sorting me out. That was totally above and beyond.

I appreciate you more than you can know.

C

I guess we’re even now, because I seem to remember showing up at his door feeling particularly messy a couple months ago.

Although Clay has begun avoiding me at the rink again. Maybe he’s embarrassed.

Or maybe he’s just very busy trying to win a championship, and I’m a whiny little bitch.

But at least I have lasagna for dinner.

“Where did this food come from?” my father asks as I’m serving it onto plates.

“It’s from my secret gay lover.” I hand him a plate.

“Hey.” He gives me a sour look. “You’re the one making it weird now. I haven’t made a single comment. Why do you have to keep bringing it up?”

Because it amuses me and irritates you . “The lasagna is from Coach Powers. I did him a favor the other night, and this is like a thank-you note.”

My father gives the plate another look. “Huh. Wow. He cooks?”

“Yeah. It’s his hobby.”

“Damn useful hobby.” He opens the silverware drawer and takes out three forks. “Let’s eat.”

“ Toby! ” I call upstairs. “Dinner!”

“Coming.” Footsteps thump on the stairs. It’s kind of shocking how loud a boy who weighs seventy pounds can be.

We all sit down, and I lean over the plate and sniff. I get a whiff of garlic and homemade tomato sauce.

“What’s the green stuff?” Toby asks suspiciously.

“There’s basil and a layer of zucchini. It’s so good you won’t even notice you’re eating a vegetable.”

He looks unconvinced.

I dig in. The sauce is bright and zesty, the pasta is tender, and the cheese is crisp on top and gooey inside. It’s heaven.

The only thing that could make it better is if Clay were sitting across the table, too.

My family agrees that the lasagna is fantastic. I can tell, because nobody speaks for a while. We’re too busy eating.

“Mom called today,” Toby says eventually.

“But it’s not Monday,” I point out.

“I know!” He beams. “She’s back at the regular jail now.”

“ Oh .” I swallow. “Already?”

“Yup,” he says. “She can call me any day she wants.”

“That’s great,” I say hollowly. Although it isn’t. There are drugs in jail, which boggles my mind. And while I know my sister wasn’t lying when she told me she wants to stay clean, I wonder how she’s going to do that when temptation strikes.

“She said you wouldn’t be happy,” Toby says, licking his fork. “She said you’d worry.”

“Well, it is jail ,” I say lightly. “Who’d be excited about that?”

“I am.” He shrugs. “When we go home for the summer, you can bring me to see her every week.”

“We’ll see,” I say automatically, like every parent everywhere.

“Why do we have to see ?” Toby demands. “When we’re home again, it’ll be easy to go there.”

Sure, kid. Easy to watch your mom relapse . “Look, we’ll see her, okay? I just don’t know when. Let me get through some more games and we’ll see what happens.”

He tosses his fork onto the plate with a clatter. “You’re not even playing ,” he says. “How hard could it be?”

I take a slow breath, so I won’t start yelling.

“Toby…” my father says wearily.

“I hate Colorado,” he says. Then he shoves his chair back and runs upstairs.

My father takes another bite of lasagna, holding his comment until after he hears the door slam upstairs. “He just misses Shelby.”

“I know.”

“It’s not gonna stop, though. He needs to move home. I need to move home. I don’t have anyone here.”

Except for me. I don’t say it, though, because I don’t need verbal confirmation that I don’t really count. I’ve known it all my life. “You shouldn’t have put that idea in his head about me retiring,” I say. “That’s not your call.”

He lifts his eyes heavenward. “Really? You win the Cup, and you’re going back to training camp in August? How many championships does one man need?”

I eat my last bite of lasagna. Then I set down my fork. “What do you think I’m going to do with myself in Detroit, anyway? I can’t even think about working for my old team, not after the way they treated me.”

He shrugs. “You’ll take a little time and figure it out, either this year or next. Either way, your boy needs his mama, and our life is there.”

On that depressing thought, I swap my plate with Toby’s and finish the scraps he left behind.

Nobody can dent my appreciation for Clay’s lasagna.

Not even my father.