Page 16 of Slots & Sticks
I give a humorless laugh. “Not the time, Dad. We’re literally at a funeral.”
He smirks. “I’m not telling you to make a move. I’m telling you to be there. You love her, and you’ve loved her a long time. That’s rare, Cam. Don’t waste it by standing on the sidelines.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “And if she needs you—really needs you—you give her everything you can. You don’t expect anything back. You don’t use her grief to get closer. You protect her, even if it breaks you a little.”
“I won’t hurt her,” I say. “Not ever.”
Dad’s gaze softens. “Good. Then go.”
He nudges me toward the back of the room where Dot stands with Kingsley, her posture small and fragile beneath the storm of condolences. I go, because I can’t not.
And as I move through the crowd, I realize what I want isn’t complicated at all.
I want to be the arms she collapses into when the world gets too heavy.
I want to be the one who holds her so tight the pieces stop shaking for a while.
And if she never looks at me the way I look at her?
I’ll still be there. That’s what you do when the love you feel isn’t a phase—it’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.
Chapter Four
Dot
The day after the memorial, Camden swings by. I turned in my notice for the part-time shifts—Dante’s check buys me time to do the job I already had: running my parents’ life and the house. Bills, contractors, tour logistics, the dogs, the “just one thing” list—now plus a dad in the burn unit who will be weeks from coming home.
About twenty percent of his body took the worst of it—mostly his arms and chest since he was trying to save my mother. His skin is wrapped in thick white dressings. They advised me about the swelling, about the raw red patches that will eventually scar pale and shiny. About the pain that never really leaves, even when the wounds close.
When I visit, I have to wear a gown, gloves, and a mask. The hiss of the ventilator fills the silence between us. I talk anyway—about the flowers that arrived at the house, about the fans camping outside the hospital, about how Knova promised to help with the dogs’ ashes. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake.
His nurse warned me before I went in that he wouldn’t look like himself yet.
She was right.
Dad’s always been larger than life. Six-two, lean muscle from decades on the ice. The kind of man who could silence a locker room by walking through it. Every photo of him—holding me on the boards after practice, arm slung over Mom’s shoulder, grinning with his helmet on—shows that easy strength.
His head is shaved for grafts, one eye sealed, arms slung in white, and his arms—those strong arms—are all bandages. The room hums; he doesn’t.
The doctors say he’ll skate again someday if he wants to, but coaching isn’t about skating. It’s pointing, drawing plays, writing on whiteboards, shaking a rookie’s shoulder when he needs it. It’s touch. And right now his arms can’t even hold a cup of water steady.
I tell myself he’ll heal. That he’ll find a way to be the man he was, even if it looks different. But as I stand there watching the monitor blink in time with his heartbeat, I can’t stop thinking that the man on the bed and the one who used to take slap shots in the driveway are two different people.
And I don’t know how to introduce myself to this new one.
So I plan. I think about the house. I’ve been the default household manager for years; I know how to do crisis by spreadsheet. The bedroom will have to move downstairs. I’ll clear out the study and get help moving furniture. A ramp will need to replace the back step out onto the patio. He’ll need easy access to the bathroom and kitchen, space for a therapist to work with him once the grafts heal.
And then there’s Mom’s stuff. I’m not ready to part with any of it, but the thought of him coming home to her perfume still trapped in the curtains feels cruel. I’ll box up her things, one drawer at a time, so he can breathe without tripping over ghosts.
Every heartbeat feels like a promise I can’t keep: I’ll get the house ready. I’ll make it safe. I’ll bring him home.
Even if the home we get back isn’t the one we lost.
I’m still staring at the checklist in my head when Camden walks in and kicks the door shut behind him. He doesn’t say anything at first—just sets two iced coffees on the counter and waits. That stare of his, all quiet pressure and zero judgment, pulls me out of my spiral.
My friend fixes me with one of his piercing stares. “You haven’t driven since the crash, right?”
I bite my lip. I didn’t realize that he’d noticed.
“You can always call me if you need me to bring you something. Or we could run some errands now. Make sure you have enough groceries.”
