Page 75 of The Girlfriend Card
“Use the clutch!” I reminded her.
“Oops! Sorry!” She tried again, this time using the clutch, and made a perfectly smooth shift into second gear.
“Perfect,” I said, impressed by her progress. “You absolutely nailed that shift, babe. Now hit the gas and see how much fun second gear is.”
Ottavia sped around our parking lot training ground. It wasn’t always perfect, of course, but she got the hang of it pretty quickly—definitely a lot quicker thanIdid back when I first learned to drive stick at age fourteen. All I remember from that weekend was not getting it, and my dad yelling in frustration at me because I kept killing the engine and grinding gears—which only made memorenervous, and then I fucked up more.
But Ottavia was a natural. After a short while, she had the basics down well enough that we could talk while she drove us around the parking lot.
“So why is your beer called The Golden Son?” she asked, the Porsche growling as she dropped it into third and blipped the gas. “I know it has something to do with the fact your dad plays hockey, right? But what, exactly?”
“Back when my dad played, his nickname was The Golden One.”
“Ohhhhhh.” She giggled. “I get it now. He’s the Golden One, you’re the Golden Son.”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“So your dad was a pretty big deal when he played then, huh?”
“He was a first-ballot Hall of Famer, so yeah, you can say that.” I snickered. “I mean, he’s not in the mafia, but …”
“Maybe your dad is in the hockey mafia, though?” she joked.
I laughed. “Hockey mafia. Man. What would that even be?” I took a second to think it over. “Actually, I know exactly what it is—it’s the Old Boys Club.”
“TheOld Boys Club?!” Her eyes lit with delight. “That doesn’t sound very intimidating. Sounds corny, actually.”
“Wellyeah.They don’t actually kill anyone, Ottavia! They’re just a bunch of old guys in hockey.” We both laughed. “But if you want a job in the NHL, then you’d better be in tight with the Old Boys Club.”
“So who are they? What do they do?”
“They’re a bunch of retired players who have front office jobs now. They’re your coaches, your general managers, your team presidents. And they usually only hire other guys from the Old Boys Club.”
“And is your dad in this club?”
I shook my head. “Nah. Hecouldbe if he wanted, but he made enough money he doesn’t have to work anymore. He spends his days golfing and hanging out at the lake with his hot young wife.”
She laughed. “Hot young wife? That’s a weird thing to call your stepmom, isn’t it?”
“Actually, I think it’d be weirder to call her my stepmom. She’s practically the same age as me.”
Scandalized by my family dynamics, Ottavia’s eyes widened. “Yikes. That must make family gatherings interesting …?”
“Yeeeep. Pretty bizarre.” I clicked my tongue. “I mean, she’s nice enough. It’s just a little weird.”
“How’s your relationship with your dad?”
“It’s good,” I said with a wave of my hand.
That was my normal line, what I told anyone who asked about my dad, what I toldmyself,even.But after I spoke, I found myself hesitating, grappling with the weight of something buried deep within me. It felt like a tangible barrier, like a jarring ball of tightness in my chest, and it made me uneasy, made me want to turn away and think about something else.
But Ottavia turned to me, her pretty eyes so attentive and patient. In her presence, I couldfeelthe trust and comfort sheprovided me, and suddenly, I found myself speaking words I never even knew I felt.
“I guess it’s a little hard sometimes,” I said, a surprising rawness in my voice.
“Aw. I’m so sorry.” She laid her hand on my thigh to soothe me—before having to jerk her hand away to shift a second later. “Can I ask why?”
“My dad wassogood when he played. You know. He could do everything—score goals, make a sick pass, throw a huge hit, beat the wheels off a guy in a fight.”
