Page 43 of The Stud

Father loves history.

Dad loves hockey.

And I am a walking amalgamation of both.

Once his amusement dies down, he investigates, “You are absolutelycertainthat you are equipped to make it on your own?”

“I believe so.”

Truthskies?

I fuckinghopeso.

I’ve never had to make the shite on my own, just reheat it.

See, whenever Father comes to town for a visit, healwaysmakes a batch for me to eat and then freezes a batch for me to periodically eat over the next stretch of time.

He’s thoughtful.

I’m lazy.

It’s quite an incredible balance we have.

“You have all your basics, yes?”

“I bought everything you sent me.”

“Includingemerald greenserrano peppers?”

“And chipotle peppers in Adobo sauce.”

“Does your teammate have a crockpot to cook all of this in?”

“Bought one.”

“Youbought oneorbrought one?”

Um…which one is less weird?

Which onesoundsless weird?

The lull between us unfortunately stretches on for too long prompting Father to curiously investigate, “Whichteammate did you say this was for again? I do not recall.”

I didn’t.

I have been specifically skating around certain verbiage to avoid having to be on the PK of explaining my very real yet simultaneously nonexistent relationship with the one woman I’d be willing to hang ‘em up for.

Especially if she insisted on it while she was naked.

I’d swear to never touch my 3Ps again to have endless access to such a view.

“I-I-I have to go,” I awkwardly stammer and slip the key fob into my pocket. “I’ll text you later when I have the opportunity.”

An arrogant, all-knowing chortle I’m quite familiar with hits my ears. “Very well, Tanner. I love you.”

“I love you too, Father.”

Ending the call is quickly followed by me gracelessly gathering all the materials I bought at the nearest Concession Stand, our local health food chain, and traipsing up what I easily confirm is her pavestone pathway due to the hockey themed address plaque near the garage.

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