Page 62 of Chips & Checks
I head back to the bedroom, pull on a shirt, and call my dad.
“Bowie!” Dad exclaims. He answers my FaceTime on the second ring in classic Dad fashion. I can’t tell what he’s wearing, or even where heis.
“Don’t call me that,” I said automatically. “Are you at a bar?”
“No. Well, yes.” Dad bobs his head back and forth. “We’re trying something new with the basement.”
“Sincewhen?”
“Maybe you’d know if you called more,” says Dad, but with no real bite. He’s pretty easygoing. As a teenager, it bothered me because I could never figure out how to push his buttons. Now that I’m no longer a hormonal little pimplemonster, I’m grateful that his even-keeled nature eventually rubbed off on me. Mostly. I can usually brush off nonsense on the ice, but Chad’s behavior is pushing me toward Hulk mode day after day.
Dad’s smile relaxes. “You look stressed, Bowie. I know you didn’t call me to talk about the tiki bar—”
“In my defense, I didn’t know therewasa tiki bar.”
“—so what’s up?”
I run my hands through my hair; I need a trim soon. “So, there’s this girl.”
“Girl problems!” Dad punches his fist into the air. “Yes! I’m being tagged in on girl problems!”
“No, it’s not like that.” I scramble to find my footing, but as with any conversation involving Violet, it’s increasingly difficult to know where I stand. “I don’t have a problem with the girl; she has a problem with one of my teammates. And before you get the wrong idea… it’s a safety concern.”
Dad’s still staring off, starry-eyed, into some make-believe world he’s concocted in which I am madly in love and planningto build a nursery in my bedroom. Dad’s always been great with kids. Mom is, too, I suppose, but not in thewhere are my grandbabieskind of way that some moms are. Dad, though? Dad is feral for romance and family. Probably because his family life was a little rough growing up.
“Dad? Are you listening?”
“I’ve been waiting for this call since you went to your first overnight camp.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Right. Here’s your moment to shine. Lay it on me. Since roughing the guy up is apparently not an ideal response…”
“Aside from rage, what else are you feeling right now?”
“Honestly, Dad?”
“You want my help. I need to know.”
I’m not the best at talking about feelings. They’re sointangible.With hockey, I can look at my stats and know how I’m doing, but feelings are amorphous, confusing, and can be influenced by all kinds of factors like hormones, poor sleep, hell, how muchproteinI’ve eaten in a day. Feelings can’t be trusted. Especially not my feelings for Vi.
But that’s just it, isn’t it? This…whateverthis is between me and Vi is not a stat line I can analyze. There’s no instant replay to study. All I know is that when I saw her face after what Chad did, something in me cracked. Not because I wanted to protect her. Because I needed to. Because the thought of her hurting—of someone else putting that look in her eyes—makes me feel like I’m unraveling from the inside out. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
Dad waits patiently while I sift through the mess in my brain.
“Fine. I guess I feel helpless. I don’t know what to do. We’re friends. I want to protect her. We live in the same neighborhood, and that’s not close enough. I worry about her allthe time. Hell, I swear I’d move her in, if I thought she’d do it, but she’s stubborn and tough, and—”
“Absolutely fucking perfect?” Dad interrupts.
If we’re doing this, I might as well tell him the truth. “Definitely.”
Dad’s lips twitch. “I feel the same way about your mother.”
From offscreen, Mom sighs. “That’s sweet. Can we focus on the PR nightmare?”
Dad turns to face her. “Almost. I need more info.”
“Hold on. Mom’s there?” I swing around, momentarily convinced that I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of my mother eavesdropping on what Ithoughtwas a private father-son conversation.
Mom sidles her way on-screen. “Please, you know your father. He can’t keep a secret to save his life. How did you meet this girl?”
