My voice came out sharper than I intended.
“You’ve been talking to him for three months and didn’t tell me?”
Marcus looked down at the quilt.
“I kept trying. Every time I was going to say something at dinner, I chickened out. Then I figured if I waited any longer, you’d hear it from someone else, and that would be worse.”
I rubbed a hand across my face.
“What were you scared of?”
“That you’d think I was choosing him.”
The clock beside the bed read 11:14 a.m.
Puck drop was less than 18 hours away.
“Marcus, do you know what time he called me the night your mom died?”
“Dad.”
“Two in the morning. And when I got there, you were the only one left in that house.”
“I know the story.”
“Then you know what kind of man walks out on a four-year-old.”
Marcus finally looked at me.
His eyes were wet, but his jaw was set.
That was what got me.
He wasn’t backing down.
“Dad, please try to understand. I’m not asking you to like him. I’m asking you to trust me.”
Every part of me wanted to forbid it.
I wanted to tell Marcus that Danny didn’t get to disappear for 14 years and then show up at one of the most important moments of his son’s life pretending to be a father.
The words were already on my tongue.
Then I looked at Marcus sitting there.
I saw the same little boy I’d taught to tie his shoes on our kitchen floor.
And I knew that if I tried to control this decision, I might damage something between us that I could never repair.
“Okay,” I said.
He blinked.
“Okay?”
“You invited him. He’s coming. I’m not gonna make a scene.”
“Thank you.”
Marcus stood, then stopped at the doorway.
“Dad. I love you.”
“Love you too, kid. Get some sleep.”
He closed the door.
I stayed there beneath the lamplight for hours.
I didn’t sleep at all.
Instead, my mind replayed 14 years.
The emergency room visit when Marcus was six and split his chin open on the coffee table.
The science fair volcano that ruined our oven.
Every birthday.
Every Christmas.
Every parent-teacher conference where I sat alone in one of those tiny plastic chairs.
—
Around 5 a.m., I finally got out of bed and walked into the living room.
On the bookshelf sat a framed photograph of Marcus at five years old.
Gap-toothed.
Grinning.
Holding a plastic hockey stick almost as tall as he was.
I picked up the frame with both hands.
In a few hours, the man who had walked away from that little boy would walk back into his life.
The arena smelled of ice, popcorn, and cheap concession-stand coffee, the way it always did on big nights.
I’d been going to that building since Marcus was in fifth grade.
I knew nearly every row.
Then I saw Danny.
He walked inside wearing a navy suit that probably cost more than my truck, polished shoes, and a watch that flashed beneath the overhead lights.
He scanned the stands until he spotted me.
Then he headed straight toward the front row.
My row.
“Tom,” he said, sliding into the seat beside me as though 14 years had been nothing more than a long weekend. “Been a long time.”
I didn’t look at him.
I kept my eyes on Marcus warming up on the ice.
“Danny.”
He cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket cuff.
“I’m doing well now. Cheryl, my wife, has been good for me.”
He paused.
Then he said more quietly, “Marcus left the ticket at the gate. Said my seat was next to yours.”
“You picked a hell of a night.”
“Marcus invited me.”
That hurt because it was true.
A few minutes later, Eddie slid onto the bleacher behind me, smelling like the garage and the freezing air outside.
He had left work early to be there.
Like always.
He leaned toward my ear.
“Who’s the guy in the suit?”
