The Mistake(104)

32




Logan


Three days before our first game, the team finally clicks. It’s like someone flicked a switch from oh-God-we-suck to we-might-have-a-chance. I still don’t think we’re one hundred percent there yet, but we’ve shown improvement during our practices this week, and Coach isn’t yelling at us as often, so…progress.

Since midterms are in full swing, Grace and I haven’t seen each other in a few days, but we’re taking a break from studying to have dinner with her dad tonight. And because I had practice, she cabbed it to Hastings with Ramona, who’s visiting her own parents. I’m still not sure how I feel about them rekindling their friendship, but Grace keeps insisting that she won’t let Ramona get too close again, and I guess I have to accept that. Besides, after Friday night’s sexual-assault-waiting-to-happen, I’m feeling a lot more sympathy toward Ramona. Not to mention a lot more rage toward St. Anthony’s.

Did I mention we’re facing them in the season opener? Coach isn’t gonna like it, but I’m fairly certain I’ll be spending a lot of time in the sin bin that night.

I check my phone as I leave the arena. There’s a message from Grace, saying she got to her dad’s okay.

And a message from Jeff, asking me to call him ASAP.

Shit.

Jeff doesn’t usually throw around ASAPs unless it’s serious, so I don’t waste time calling him back. It takes five rings before he answers, and when he does, he sounds agitated.

“Where the hell have you been the last hour?” he demands.

“Practice. Coach doesn’t let us bring our phones on the ice. What’s up?”

“I need you to go home and check on Dad.”

“Why?” I say uneasily.

“Because I’m at the hospital with Kylie, and I can’t f*cking do it myself.”

“The hospital? What happened? Is she okay?”

“She sliced her hand open making dinner.” Jeff sounds panicked. “The ER doctor said it’s not as bad as it looks—she’ll just need some stitches. But Jesus, I’ve never seen so much blood, Johnny. They took her in now, so I’m out in the waiting room pacing like a crazy person.”

“She’ll be okay,” I assure him. “Trust the doctors, all right?” But I know Jeff won’t relax until he and Kylie are walking out of that emergency room. The two of them have been madly in love since they were fifteen years old.

“What does this have to do with Dad?” I ask.

“I was over at Kylie’s, and he called when we were leaving for the ER. He was slurring and mumbling and, I don’t know, he might have fallen down? I couldn’t understand a f*cking word he was saying, and I’m only one f*cking person, John. I can’t deal with two emergencies at once, okay? So please, just go home and make sure he’s all right.”

Reluctance jams in my throat like a wad of gum. Christ. I don’t want to do that. At all. Except there’s no way I can pick a fight with Jeff right now, not when he’s freaking out about his girlfriend being in the hospital.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say roughly.

“Thanks.” Jeff hangs up without another word.

With a ragged breath, I text Grace to let her know I might be late for dinner, then head for the parking lot.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel during the entire drive to Munsen. Dread gathers inside me, growing and tangling in my gut until it becomes a tight knot that brings a rush of nausea to my throat. I don’t remember the last time I had to clean up one of my dad’s messes. High school, I guess. Once I left for Briar, Jeff became the sole cleaner-upper.

I kill the engine outside the bungalow and approach the front porch the way those paranormal experts in that shitty movie approached the ghost house. Wary, slow with trepidation.

Please let him be alive and well.

Yup, for all my selfish prayers about wanting my father to die, I can’t stomach the thought of walking into the house and finding his body.

I use my key to unlock the door, then step into the darkened front hall. “Dad?” I call out.

No answer.

Please let him be alive and well.

I inch toward the living room, my heart racing a mile a minute.

Please let him be—

Oh, thank Christ. He’s alive.

But he’s not well. Not by a longshot.

My chest clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t crack a rib or two. Dad is sprawled on the carpet, face down and shirtless, his cheek resting in a pool of vomit. One arm is flung out to the side, the other is tucked close to him—cradling a f*cking bottle of bourbon like it’s a newborn baby. Jesus, had he tried to protect his precious alcohol during his drunken tumble to the ground?