Page 41 of Gamechanger

"You could say that," Moose agreed, his gaze flickering to me. My heart swelled, remembering how nervous he'd been about this career change.

"Speaking of dream jobs," Mom chimed in, turning to me. "Finn, honey, have you been eating enough? You look a bit thin."

I rolled my eyes. "Mom, I'm a professional athlete. Trust me, I'm eating plenty."

"Oh, you should see him at team dinners," Moose jumped in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "This one time, we were at this all-you-can-eat sushi place, and Finn—"

"Moose," I warned, feeling my cheeks heat up.

"No, no, I want to hear this," Dad said, leaning in conspiratorially.

Moose grinned, launching into the story. "So there's Finn, surrounded by empty plates, and he turns to the waiter with the most serious expression and says, 'I think I broke your restaurant.'"

The table erupted in laughter, and I couldn't help but join in, even as I shook my head in mock exasperation.

As the laughter died down, I watched Moose stifle a yawn. The shadows under his eyes seemed more pronounced in the soft lighting of the dining room. A pang of worry shot through me.

"How about you, Moose?" Dad asked, oblivious to my concern. "You play any sports growing up?"

His smile faltered for a split second before he recovered. "Ah, not really. I was more of the science fair type. Though I did have a mean bubble hockey game."

"Bubble hockey?" Mom asked, looking confused.

"Oh, you've got to see it to believe it," I jumped in, grateful for the chance to take some pressure off Moose. "It's like table hockey, but with this big plastic dome over it. Moose is unbeatable."

"Sounds like a challenge," Dad said, a competitive gleam in his eye.

Moose chuckled, but I noticed the laugh didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe we can set up a tournament while you're here."

As the conversation flowed, I found myself hyper-aware of every sign of fatigue from Moose. The way his responses grew shorter, how he'd blink hard every few minutes as if trying to stay alert, the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his water glass.

"So there's Finn, covered head to toe in green slime," Moose was saying, recounting our latest PR stunt. "And he just grins and says, 'Well, I guess I really am a Lumberjack now!'"

My parents roared with laughter, and I felt a surge of pride. Moose had always been able to win people over with his charm and humor. But tonight, I could see the effort it was costing him.

"Honey, that sounds awful," Mom said, still chuckling. "Please tell me there are pictures."

"Oh, there's video," Moose winked, and I groaned dramatically.

"Don't worry, son," Dad said, patting my arm. "We've got plenty of embarrassing home videos to even the score."

"Dad, no," I protested, but I was smiling. It felt good, having the people I loved most in the world all together like this.

As the night wore on, I watched Moose's energy flagging. His animated gestures became less frequent, his booming laugh a little quieter. By the time we were clearing the dishes, he looked ready to collapse.

"Moose?" I said softly as we stood side by side at the sink. "You okay?"

He gave me a tired smile. "Just a bit worn out. It's been a long week."

I wanted to push, to ask what was really going on, but this wasn't the time or place. Instead, I squeezed his hand under the sudsy water. "Thank you for tonight. They love you, you know."

Something flashed in his eyes—doubt? fear?—but it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "I'm glad," he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "They're great. You're lucky."

***

In the wee hours of the following morning, with my parents still jet-lagged and asleep, I slipped out onto the balcony, phone in hand. The city was just waking up, a cool mist hanging over the streets.

I punched in Quinn's number, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air. He answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.

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