Page 8

8

Ben Stirling

It’s a bright and cheery morning, and Luca has woken in a bright and cheery mood.

“I’m telling you, Dad, it’s a pancakes kind of a day today.”

“Sundays are pancake days, sweetheart. Maybe Saturdays. It’s only Wednesday today.”

“Mm.” He scrunches his face. “Feels like Saturday though.”

He’s not wrong. With the move and the fact that I pulled him out of school a few weeks before the end of term, the days of the week have rolled into one. I had to check the calendar on my phone yesterday to see what day it was before I called Amy to see if she could take Luca today. And good thing I did too. I was off by three days. It would’ve been hard to explain if I’d asked her to take Luca for a playdate this morning because her kids still have a couple of weeks before their summer vacation starts. Anyway, she’s taking him for a few hours this afternoon instead, and thank God for that because I need to hit the gym. I haven’t worked out as much as usual since we got here, and I’m feeling it. I need to get my sweat on. I have pent-up energy making an ass of itself all over my body.

I didn’t sleep well. I had that dream again. The one where I’m in the locker room getting ready to play. All the guys are there. T-Dog and Sev are bickering, and Louis and Bryce are laughing. Everyone’s there, all doing what they do to get ready for the game. It’s one of those dreams that feels really real. So real you feel like it’s actually happening. Like that dream you had when you were a kid, where you were busting to pee, so you’d get out of bed, walk down the hall, open the bathroom door, pull down your pants, and sit on the toilet.

It’s exactly like that. It’s so real there’s no way I can tell it’s a dream. I see everything and everyone like I’m still there, part of the team before anything bad happened. I smell the sweat and laughter and inside jokes that have soaked into the bench I’m sitting on. I hear the crowd baying to draw us out. My skin tingles from the quiet, cool whisper of the ice calling my name.

Like the dream we all had when we were kids, this one ends badly. I’m in the tunnel, blade covers off, ready to go on. I have my team lined up behind me. The light crash of helmets tapped against mine and the ghosts of hands clapping me on the back still echo through me. I have my stick in my hand and my game face on. I put my right skate to the ice and push off.

And nothing.

No glide.

No icy blast.

No lines. No nets.

No players. No lights. No arena.

Just me at home, knotted sheets, panting, sitting upright, and clutching my chest as I try to get air into my lungs.

“Feels like Saturday is good enough,” I concede, mainly because I had a grocery delivery yesterday and I’m absolutely positive we have pancake mix in the pantry, “but only if you understand it’s a treat, not something we’re going to do every day.”

Luca chatters happily as I whip up the batter and heat the pan. He checks that the playdate with Rory and Cam is still on twice and then moves his attention to Jeremiah.

“What time do you think Jelly wakes up, Dad?”

Jeremiah is a man in his mid-to-late twenties who doesn’t have a corporate job or a six-year-old waking him with the birds, so late would be my guess. “No idea, sweetie.”

Luca starts climbing down from the kitchen stool. “I’ll go and give him a yell through the fence. Don’t want him to oversleep.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “Let’s let him be. Why don’t you come over here and pour the batter for me? See if you can pour it in the shape of a puck.”

“Dad, pucks are round and so are pancakes. You’ll have to think of something way harder if you want to trick me into staying here.”

I chuckle and say, “Got it.”

A short while later, we’ve produced two hockey stick pancakes that look like a pair of socks and my hockey number, which is one. I mean, which was one. Being such a skinny number, it burned on one side and looks more like a spear than a number. At Luca’s request we made a six, and even though the center is filled in, it’s our most passable attempt.

“Why six?” I ask, though I know the answer well.

“’Cause, Dad,” he explains with a hint of exasperation, “I’m six, so my hockey number is six. That’s how it works.”

“Uh-huh, and what happens when you turn seven?”

That stumps him, but he quickly recovers. “I think I’ll keep six. Luca Stir w ling, number six.” He nods to himself and gets a faraway look. He drops his chin and lowers his voice into one that’s booming and reminiscent of a sports commentator. “Number six has the puck and he’s flying toward goal. He’s unstoppable. No one can touch him.” He throws his hands in the air and roars. “It’s number six for the win! Another g w eat goal by Luca Stir w ling.”

I try not to smile at his pronunciation, especially the way he says his last name. Sometimes, he gets it right for certain words, but so far, the R in his last name has eluded him. His speech impediment is something Liz and I talked about getting him therapy for a while back. Truthfully, we both dragged our heels getting it seen to because it’s just so damn cute, and we were pretty sure it was something that would sort itself out in time.

Since she’s been gone, I’ve been holding on to it, silly as that sounds. I know it’s inevitable that he’ll grow and change. I know there’ll come a day when the boy he was when she was with us will be replaced by a version with big hands and feet, a deep voice, and, most likely, an attitude problem. I know I can’t stop it. I know that kind of change isn’t a bad thing either. It’s good and right. Proof that life goes on. It’s just that I want to hold on to the Luca she knew for a little while longer.

“Now, remember,” I say, “you might have to be flexible about your number. You don’t always get to choose.”

“You got to choose number one, didn’t you?”

The blade enters my side through my intercostal muscle and angles up, slicing a path straight to my heart. There’s a blinding flash of pain as I see Liz and the way she looked in the bar that night years ago. We’d known each other for a while by then, but not very long. More than a month, less than two. She’d blown my hair back already. She was fun and unpredictable and something about her made it hard for me to tell up from down when in her presence.

It was hockey season, so of course, I was traveling a lot at the time. I’d see her for a few days and then leave town for a few days. Wash, rinse, repeat. All the coming and going made it hard to know what we were to each other, and it was eating at me. I was nervous as hell to ask her because something about the way she threw her head back when she laughed told me a question like that could make her bolt. I was losing sleep from the not-knowing, so I asked anyway.

“Are we exclusive, Lizzie?”

That’s what I said. I said it exactly like that, only a little more spluttery and a lot less eloquent. The song that was playing ended as I spoke, so my words echoed and sounded a lot louder than I had intended.

She gave me a wry smile. A deadly grin I felt in my knees, and then she took me by the scruff of my collar, pulling me down just enough to make sure I heard her reply clearly.

“You’re the one for me, Stirling,” she said. “The only one.”

When I got signed by the Blackeyes a few months later, I had them assign me number one despite a little kerfuffle over the fact that I’m not a goalie. I was determined. I pushed for it and made them write it into my contract. Liz raised a single brow and one cheek dimpled the first time she saw me wearing my jersey, and that time, I felt it in my chest.

“I know, bud,” I say, ruffling Luca’s hair, “but I’d been playing for a while by the time I got the number I wanted. I’d done my time and proven myself.”

Luca dunks his pancake into the syrup pooling on his plate and shovels it into his mouth. His eyes shift from me to the French doors that overlook the backyard. “Do you think Jelly has a wife?” It’s a radical change in subject that would take me aback if I didn’t know him as well as I do. For him, this is typical.

“I don’t think so.”

“A girlfriend?”

“No, I don’t think so either.”

“How do you know? Did he say?”

When I think about it and try to put it into words Luca will understand, it’s hard to explain. There’s nothing specific about how Jeremiah dresses or acts or what he said that gave me the impression he’s gay. It’s just a feeling. A knowing. An unquantifiable lightness to him. A kindness. A gentleness that told me.

“’Cause I think Jelly would rather have a boyfriend or husband,” I say.

“Oh, like Jonah’s dads.”

That’s one of the things I love about kids. They’re born without judgment or hate. Luca learned Jonah has two dads at a birthday party last year. Luca suggested they get some more candy, and Jonah said, “I can’t have more because one of my dads says too much candy gives me the zoomies.”

Despite not having met a kid with two dads before, Luca didn’t bat an eye. He simply said, “Which one of your dads says that?”

“The one with red hair,” Jonah said sadly.

“’Kay, let’s go and ask your dad with brown hair then.”

The very thing I love about kids is the thing that makes me angry about adults. Discrimination is taught, not born. The fact is that at some point in lots of kids’ lives, an adult asshole takes it upon themselves to pull them aside and carefully and deliberately instructs them to hate people because of who they’re attracted to.

Assholes.

Luca hops off the stool and heads to the sink to wash his hands.

“All done?” I check.

“Mm, yeah. Thanks, Daddy, that was good. How long is it until Amy picks me up?”

I glance at my wrist. “Still a good seven hours, sweetie.”

“Ugh. And how long do you think until Jelly comes over?”

And that’s the problem with time machines that spit you out at breakfast—once breakfast is done, you’ve still got the rest of the day and, conservatively, three million questions to contend with.

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to wait and see, but don’t forget, Jelly has lots of other things to do. He has his pottery, and his photography, and a massage business, and—”

“—His yoga. That’s when you stretch, Dad. Like this. And make yourself into a pretzel. See? Look, I can do it.”

I stand to the side and watch, nodding now and again, as Luca performs a yoga practice I don’t believe many yogis would be familiar with. His demonstration lacks grace but not enthusiasm.

I toy with the idea of finding a kid’s yoga class on YouTube for him to do. It might distract him because I know I’m right. It’s unlikely Jeremiah will come back so soon. He was here yesterday, and yeah, he said he’d be back, but he was probably only trying to be polite after the ass I made of myself when I gave him his thoughtful gift back.

I feel a little warm when I think about it. I’m not generally someone who embarrasses easily, but man, I hate when there’s an obvious expectation of how I’m supposed to behave, and I do the exact opposite.

Oof. It’s the worst.

As soon as the warmth passes, it’s replaced with something flat. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I know the man. He’s practically a perfect stranger with his own full and rewarding life to live. It’s neither here nor there whether he comes over again today or not.

An hour or so later, there’s a barrage of little footsteps from my room, followed by a joyful cry that causes Luca’s voice to lilt up by an octave, at least. He makes no effort whatsoever to hide it. “ Jelly’s on his way! ”

“Slow down, buddy, that’s too fast down the stairs.”