We’re both somber as we leave the house fifteen minutes later, and the weather matches our foreboding expressions. The sky is overcast, the metallic scent in the air hinting at a downpour.
My uneasiness grows the closer we get to Munsen. By the time I reach the end of the long driveway and park in front of the bungalow, my nerves have formed a solid, immovable ball in the pit of my stomach.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Grace, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
She shakes her head. “Take your time.” Unzipping her canvas bag, she pulls out a psych textbook and holds it up. “I’ll be fine out here, I promise. So don’t try to rush on my account, okay?”
I exhale shakily. “Okay.”
A minute later, I walk through the front door without knocking, flinching when the familiar smell of stale beer fills my nostrils. I swear, it’s like the walls in this house are soaked with alcohol, slowly releasing the sour odor into the air.
“John?” My brother’s voice drifts through the hall. “We’re in the kitchen.”
I keep my shoes on, a habit left over from childhood. I’ve stepped on far too many puddles on the floors and carpets of this house and soaked my socks. Puddles that weren’t always of the alcoholic beverage variety.
I know something’s up the second I enter the kitchen. Jeff and Dad are at the weathered oak table, sitting across from each other. Jeff is sipping a coffee. My father has a longneck bottle of Bud in front of him, both hands wrapped around the base.
“Johnny. Sit down,” Dad says.
The beer isn’t a promising sign, but at least he looks and sounds relatively sober. And by sober, I mean not passed out in a pool of his own vomit.
I sink into the nearest chair without a word. Studying my dad’s face. Waiting. Studying Jeff’s face. Waiting.
“Chad Jensen came to see me yesterday.”
My head swings back toward my father. “What? Are you serious?” Why the hell would Coach talk to my father?
Dad nods. “He called ahead, asked if he could stop by for a chat. I said sure, why not, and he came by yesterday evening.”
I’m still battling my shock. Coach Jensen drove out to Munsen and met with my father?
“I didn’t know about it,” Jeff speaks up hastily, obviously misconstruing my expression. “I was over at Kylie’s when he stopped by, and Dad only told me about it this morning.”
I ignore Jeff’s assurances. “What did he want?” I ask suspiciously.
Dad’s cheeks hollow as if he’s grinding his teeth. “To discuss possible solutions.”
“Solutions for what?”
“For next year.” His gaze stays locked with mine. “He assured me he wasn’t trying to be disrespectful or overstep his boundaries, that he understood the car accident was difficult for me and my family, and why you’re needed at the shop after you graduate.” My father’s hands tighten around the beer bottle. “But he was hoping there might be some way for you to play hockey next year while still helping out your family.”
My hands curl into fists, and I press them tight to the table, trying to control my temper. I know Coach meant well, but what the hell?
“He also asked me why I didn’t go on disability, if my injuries from the accident were bad enough to prevent me from working.”
Fucking Jensen. He absolutely overstepped his boundaries.
“Your coach has no idea I’m a drunk, does he?” Dad mutters, and now he’s no longer looking at me. He’s staring at his hands.
“No, he doesn’t,” I mutter back. “I only told him about the accident. And that was just because I needed to tell him something so he’d get off my case about not entering the draft.”
Dad raises his gaze to mine again. “You should’ve told me you didn’t declare.”
“What difference would it have made?”
“A huge one,” he snaps. “It’s bad enough that I woke up the other morning wearing clean underwear and all tucked into bed like a fucking child, with the knowledge that my twenty-one-year-old son is the one who put me there.” His head shifts to Jeff. “And that my other son is running my business because I’m too much of a mess to do it myself. But now you’re telling me you’re passing up the chance to play for the goddamn Bruins so you can take care of my sorry ass?”
He’s breathing hard, his hands shaking so wildly the bottle is close to toppling over. He lifts it to his lips and takes a hurried sip before slamming it on the table.
Jeff and I exchange a wary look. Seeing him drink brings identical frowns to our faces, which causes Dad to groan in anguish.
“Goddamn it, don’t look at me like that. I have to fucking drink this, because the last time I tried to quit cold turkey I ended up in the hospital with seizures.”
I suck in a shocked breath.
So does Jeff.
Dad looks from me to my brother, then addresses us in a voice that rings with despair. “I’m going back to rehab.”
The announcement is greeted with silence.
“I’m serious. I spoke to someone at the state facility I went to last time and asked to be put on the waiting list, but they told me a slot opened up five minutes before I called.” He snorts. “If that’s not divine intervention, I don’t know what is.”
My brother and I remain quiet. We’ve heard this speech before. Many times before. And we’ve learned not to get our hopes up anymore.