Page 30 of The Dixon Rule

“Every day.” He speaks without hesitation, and it brings a clench to my chest.

I can’t imagine how devastating it would be to skate onto the ice for your very first NHL game and suffer a career-ending injury on your very first shift. In one tragic play, Dad tore both his ACL and MCL, and his knee was collateral damage. There was no way he could ever play at the same level again. His joint stability was shot, and the doctors warned him he could do permanent damage if he kept playing.

Hockey was his entire life, and it was stolen from him. When I was drafted by Chicago, I broke down and cried. Seeing the pride on my dad’s face, knowing I was going to play for the same team he had, albeit fleetingly—it had triggered a wave of sheer, throat-closing emotion. All I’ve ever wanted was to make him proud. To make both of them proud. I don’t care how sappy it makes me, but they’re legit the best parents anyone could ever have. Maryanne and I are beyond lucky.

Speaking of Maryanne, she chooses that moment to wander into the family room and flop on the couch between us, chattering on about tomorrow’s itinerary. They’re going to the planetarium.

“Man, space camp actually sounds dope,” I remark.

“It’s fun,” she acknowledges. “But! Geology camp is even better.”

“Uh-huh. Is it now?” I play along. From the corner of my eye, I see Dad fighting a smile.

“Absolutely!” Maryanne proceeds to tell us about geology camp, explaining how there are three whole days dedicated to archaeology, when they do a mock excavation. “And! We get to make our own magnetic fields. And! We go on rock hunts. The brochure says there’s tons of agate around here.”

“A what?” I ask.

“Agate. It’s a gemstone.” She huffs at me. “Don’t you know anything about Vermont geology?”

“Nope. And I’m insulted that you think I would. I was popular in school.”

“I’m very popular,” Maryanne says haughtily, then continues spitting out geology camp stats. “Oh! And we get to dig for serpentine!”

“Like snakes?” I wrinkle my forehead.

“No. It’s a rock. Serpentine. And it’s so pretty. It’s greenish and black and super smooth. The brochure says they give us these little pickaxes we can use to dig.”

“I’m sorry, what? They’re giving children pickaxes?”

“So?” Maryanne challenges.

“So that seems aggressively irresponsible.”

Dad howls with laughter.

The rest of the visit flies by, and I’m bummed to say goodbye when Friday rolls around. I leave Heartsong after the morning rush, making it back to Hastings in the early afternoon.

Almost immediately, I realize something has happened to the residents of my apartment complex.

They’ve been replaced by pod people.

Pod people who, for some reason, have it out for me.

Not that everyone was overly friendly before, but at least I got smiles and introductions when I wandered around Meadow Hill.

Suddenly everyone is borderline hostile.

Like that dude, Niall, who lives downstairs. When I bump into him in the outdoor visitors’ lot where I park my Mercedes, he points his finger at me and snaps, “Your music’s too loud.” Then he clicks the key fob to lock his little Toyota hatchback and stalks off.

Harry, who mans the lobby in the Sycamore building, scowls when I give him a heads-up that I’m having people over on Saturday. I’m not even obligated to tell him. It was a courtesy.

Then, on the path, I pass one of the married couples who live in Weeping Willow, and the wife gives me a look that could freeze water.

When I say hello, she responds with, “Yeah, okay.”

Now, I’m checking my mail after two days away, and the woman who lives next door to Niall—I think her name is Priya?—cautiously approaches the mailboxes as if she’s entering a lion’s cage.

I greet her with a smile and realize, no, that’s not wariness. Her expression conveys deep contempt, as if she’s entering the cage of a lion she wants to murder.

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