The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(97)

“Then we’ll hire someone to run it until you’re ready to come back. But that someone won’t be your brother, Jeffrey. And it won’t be you, if you don’t want it to be.” He slides his chair back and gingerly gets to his feet, then reaches for the cane leaning against the wall. “I know you boys have heard this before. I know it’ll take a lot more than a few promises to prove I’m serious about this.”

He’s right about that.

“The center is picking me up in an hour,” he says brusquely. “I have to go pack.”

Jeff and I stare at each other again.

Son of a bitch. He’s really going to rehab.

“I don’t expect a hug goodbye, but it’d be nice if you boys called me every once in a while, let me know how you’re doing.” He glances at Jeff. “We’ll talk about the shop when I’m done packing. Not sure if we should close up while I’m gone, or if you want to stick around a while longer. If we do close, I’d appreciate it if you could finish up the current work orders for this week.”

Looking slightly dazed, my brother manages a nod.

“And you…” My father’s bloodshot eyes zero in on me. “You better make it to that Providence practice. Jensen said it’s pretty much a tryout, so don’t screw it up.”

I’ve been silent for so long it takes me a moment to find my voice. “I won’t,” I say hoarsely.

“Good. I expect you to tell me about it when I call you in two weeks. You probably won’t hear from me before that. Not during the detox.” His voice is equally hoarse. “Now get outta here, John. Your brother says you’ve got shit to do today. Jeffrey, we’ll talk shortly.”

A moment later, he’s gone, and we hear his labored footsteps in the hallway, heading toward his bedroom. Suddenly I feel as dazed as Jeff looks, and once again, we gape at each other for several long moments.

“You think he’s for real?” Jeff asks.

“Sure seems like it.” Old doubts creep in, bringing a cagey note to my voice. “Think he’ll manage to stay on the wagon this time?”

“Fuck. I hope so.”

Yeah, me too. But I’ve been burned by my father too many times in the past. Fooled by his promises and his supposed resolve. The cynic in me thinks we’ll be having this same conversation in a year or two or five, and maybe we will. Maybe he’ll sober up, come home in six months, and start drinking again. Or maybe not.

Either way, I’m free.

The realization slams into me with the force of a tidal wave, nearly knocking me out of my chair. I won’t have to live here in May. Won’t have to work here. Dad’ll be on disability, the garage will either be sold or managed by someone else until Jeff is ready to take over, and I’ll be free.

I shoot to my feet, startling my brother. “I have to go. My girlfriend’s waiting for me in the car.”

He blinks. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yup. I’ll introduce you another time. I’ve really gotta go.”

“John.” His voice stops me before I reach the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll give me a signed jersey when you make the team, right?”

A smile stretches across my entire face. “Damn right I will.”

I leave the kitchen with the sound of my brother’s laughter at my back and sprint out of the house. From the porch, I see Grace in the pickup, her feet raised on the dashboard and her nose buried in her textbook. Her peripheral vision must have caught the front door flying open, because she lifts her head and turns it toward the porch, and I must still be grinning like a fool, because a little smile curves her sexy lips.

I quickly descend the porch steps and make my way to the truck. It’s still gloomy out. The trees are swaying ominously. The clouds are a thick, dark mass undulating overhead. The sky is more black than gray.

And yet my future has never looked brighter.





Epilogue




Grace


Two Years Later

Man, this executive suite at TD Garden is fancy-pants. I feel like a queen reigning over her kingdom as I lean forward in my plush leather seat and sweep my gaze over the massive arena. Thousands of screaming hockey fans fill the seats, an endless sea of faces, a blur of black and yellow occasionally broken up by the white and turquoise of the Sharks fans who happen to be in attendance.

“This is so intense,” Hannah whispers in my ear, and I know she’s trying to keep her voice down so the three beer-sipping wives standing five feet away don’t tease us again about our novice status. Or mine, at least. This is Logan’s first season with Boston—he played in the AHL for a year after college, until the Bruins finally decided he was ready and signed him.

Since Garrett had an amazing rookie season last year, I figured Hannah would be an old pro by now, but when we were being led into the private suite, she confessed that she’d sat in the club seats last year because she’d been too intimidated to sit up here alone.

We haven’t stopped marveling since we arrived. Each time the other people milling in the suite turned their heads, the two of us have oohed and aahed about something else. The private bar across the room. The gourmet spread on the granite counter. The seats. The view. No detail has gone un-oohed or un-aahed.