Page 177 of The Blame Game

“How do you like playing for Gilly?”

Dom snorted. “We have a little bit of a love-hate relationship.”

“Because he benched you?”

“No.” Dom scoffed. “Because he was taking shit out on the team that he shouldn’t have.”

By the time dinner was over, the conversation segued into talk about the team’s power play and what the lineup would look like as they headed into the post-season.

Toronto had snagged a playoff spot early and they were in a solid position now.

Shea fell silent after a while, watching father and son debate the merits of various power play strategies.

Kurt was in favor of a 1-2-2 strategy—not a big surprised since it had been popular in his era—while Dom argued that Toronto’s 1-3-1 was more effective.

While Shea cut slices of cake, he watched them use salt and pepper shakers and flatware to set up their power plays and debate their point.

As Shea watched them, heads bent together as they moved pieces around and argued, Shea got a flash of what their relationship must have been like when they were younger.

Shea could see the matching stubbornness in both their jaws as they debated, but there was laughter too and little flashes of real connection.

He could see that they were both trying, both wanting to bridge that divide. Shea hoped, for Dom’s sake, that they were able to accomplish that.

Maybe Kurt was right. Maybe Dom did need this.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Between the three of them, they went through the better part of three bottles of wine and Dom’s head swam as he stood after dinner to help Shea clear the table.

Kurt regaled them with stories as they worked and when they were done, he slid a case out of his pocket.

“How would you feel about some cigars and whiskey?”

Shea smiled but shook his head. “No thank you. I appreciate the offer though.”

“Dom?”

“Sure, why not?” Dom was going to regret it in the morning but fuck it. It was as good of an opportunity as any to talk one-on-one with his dad. “Let’s go out on the balcony.”

He gestured for his father to precede him, then walked over to Shea, who was putting food away.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Shea’s cheek.

“For what?”

“For understanding.”

Dom retrieved whiskey stones from the freezer, then popped them into rocks glasses and carried them out, along with a bowl to use as an ashtray.

The sun was low on the horizon as Dom settled into a chair overlooking Lake Ontario, remembering the first cigar he’d ever smoked with his father, after his draft day.

Dom had choked and sputtered on it and his father had slapped him on the back and told him it would make a man out of him. And if that didn’t say everything about their relationship, what did?

But he was here and he was trying and maybe, just maybe, they could clean up some of the mess their relationship had turned into.

Dom poured a few fingers of the whiskey his father had brought and they were both silent as they went through the ritual of cutting the cap off the cigar, warming the tobacco, then lighting it.

For a few minutes, they puffed in silence.

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