Page 191 of The Dixon Rule

R Lindley

NOVEMBER

DIANA AND I SPEND THANKSGIVING WITH EACH OTHER’S FAMILIES. MY family has dinner on Thursday, while the Dixons do theirs on Friday, and since our towns are within spitting distance of each other, we’re able to do both. I like having a girlfriend again. Honestly, now that I’m all in, I realize there was never any point in fighting it last year. This is my natural state. I’m a girlfriend guy. That’s just who I am.

On Thursday morning, we drive to Heartsong, where my little sister greets Diana like a long-lost friend, throwing her arms around her. She drags Diana upstairs to show her something, while I wander into the kitchen to help Mom.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask her.

“He’s in the den.”

“Cool. Let me go say hi and then I’ll help you with dinner.”

“Sounds good, honey. Thank you.”

I notice some strain around her eyes before she turns toward the stove. I step forward to touch her arm.

“Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Cooking stresses me out, you know that. Go see your dad.”

The den is Dad’s domain, part man cave, part office. Filing cabinets take up an entire wall. Against a second wall is an array of computer monitors sitting on an L-shaped mahogany desk, with framed photographs and hockey memorabilia hanging above the desk. The third wall boasts a gas fireplace with two overstuffed armchairs and a coffee table in front of it.

I find Dad kneeling on the hardwood floor, rummaging through a big cardboard box.

“Hey. What are you doing?” I ask curiously.

“Hey, kid.” He gets up to give me a quick hug. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

I slap him on the back. “Happy Thanksgiving, old man.”

“Who are you calling old? I’m still a spring chicken.”

“Young people don’t use phrases like spring chicken.”

“Ouch.” He clasps his heart as if I hurt him.

I gesture to the two boxes on the ground. “What’s all this?”

“Oh, I have something for you. Remember I told you last month I was finally clearing out those boxes in the attic? I dragged a couple in here because I found some cool stuff I want to give you and Maryanne. No point letting it all sit in a dusty attic.”

He walks to the desk and picks up a folded square of fabric. He unfolds it and holds the red-and-black garment up by the collar. It’s a Chicago jersey, an old-school one from before they switched to their new uniforms. Grinning, he turns it over. The name LINDLEY is stitched onto the back.

“Holy shit,” I exclaim. “Is that your Blackhawks jersey from when you played there?”

“You mean when I played five minutes of one game?” he says dryly.

“Still pretty fucking cool.” I take the jersey from him, running my fingers over the seams on the logo. “This is actually what you were wearing for your first NHL game?”

“Yep. What I was wearing the night my career ended.”

He doesn’t sound too beat up about it, but I flinch at his blunt words.

He notices and shrugs. “I mourned that life a long time ago. Created something even better. Something to leave you and your sister that’s more tangible than hockey money.”

I grin. “I mean, we could have invested the hockey money.”

“Hey, you can invest the real estate money too.”

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