Page 198 of The Dixon Rule

“No, you’re going to hear it. You’re going to hear how much I love you. You’re going to hear how proud I am of you. You’re going to hear how sad I am that I can’t be there for your rookie season, sitting at center ice for your first Blackhawks game.”

I’m done for. That’s it. I curl over onto his bed with my face pressed against his arm, unable to control the tears. I shake harder when I feel his hand gently stroking my hair and the nape of my neck.

“It’s all right. It’s okay, son.”

“No, it’s not okay,” I mumble through the pain. “How could you keep this from us?”

But I understand it now. I do. As angry as I am, I think I would do the exact same thing in his situation. I wouldn’t want people pitying me for six months, worrying and fussing. I suddenly remember how Mom didn’t want him to go for a walk after Thanksgiving dinner, claiming there’d been too much activity already. I thought she’d been worried about Maryanne. Now I realize she was talking to Dad. She wanted him to take it easy.

I shut my eyes tight and breathe deep. My heartbeat is throbbing in my fingertips, and it’s more adrenaline than I need right now. When my breathing slows down enough for me to open my eyes, the weight on my shoulders is heavier than ever.

I slowly lift my head, swiping at my tears with the sleeve of my hoodie. “You can’t go,” I say. Because there’s simply no alternative. “You can’t go.”

“I’m going to have to, kid. But I promise you, you’re going to be just fine.”

“No, I won’t.” My eyes are burning.

“You will because you’re the strongest man I know. I’ve loved you from the second you opened your eyes. The nurse handed me your tiny, slimy, little body—”

I choke out a laugh.

“And you peered up at me with this knowing look on your face. Your mom says I was imagining it, that there’s no way you could have recognized me. She says babies aren’t even able to focus their eyes right after they’re born, but I knew you saw me. And that day you became my best friend.”

I have to swallow the howl of pain that wants to escape.

“You’re my best friend too,” I say simply. “And you’re the best father anyone could ever hope for. Like, you put other dads to shame. They ought to feel humiliated.”

He cracks a smile. “Damn right.” His breathing goes shallow again, as his voice trembles with emotion. “I want you to remember that no matter where I am, I’ll always be with you. Watching out for you.”

I squeeze his hand, feeling the unbearable crushing weight of this impending loss. I can’t do this. I can’t say goodbye to him. My heart aches with the knowledge that this might be one of the last conversations we ever have. This man shaped my life. Taught me the values that I live by. What the hell am I going to do without his wisdom? His guidance?

“And I need you to promise to stay on the path that we tried to help you create for yourself. You’re going to go to Chicago and report to training camp. You’re going to step onto that ice for your very first NHL game, and when you do, you’re going to look up and I’m going to be looking down on you.”

I start to cry again.

“Promise, Shane.”

I manage a nod, squeezing his hand tighter. “I promise.”

“Good.” He chuckles softly. “Just one more and then I swear I’m done making demands.”

I can’t return the laugh. I’m in too much agony.

“I need to hear you say that you’ll take care of your mom and your sister.”

“Of course I will. I’ll always take care of them.”

“Good,” he says again.

A short silence falls. I listen to his breathing. It sounds shallow again. Wispy. And his eyes are starting to get hazy.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Just tired. Maybe I’ll take a nap.”

“Do you want me to go get Mom?”

“Yeah.”

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