He looks up. Looks at the fan. Looks back down at me. The corner of his mouth twitches.
"Fine. We need a ladder."
"We don't have a ladder."
"Buy Buy Baby?"
"They don't sell ladders, Tyler."
"Home Depot?"
"It's Christmas Day."
"Right."
He steps off the chair. Stands in front of me. The screwdriver set is on the floor between us. The fan is still clicking.
"Next weekend," he says. "We’ll get a ladder and fix it together."
"Next weekend."
"Yeah."
"Deal."
He doesn’t move, but neither do I. The teasing is gone now, slipped out of the room while we weren’t looking, and what’s left is the two of us standing close enough that I can see his pulse at the base of his throat. His eyes drop to my mouth and stay there a beat too long.
He doesn't kiss me. I can see him deciding not to.
"Merry Christmas, Red," he says, quietly.
"Merry Christmas, Ty."
Upstairs, Harper sleeps.
Downstairs, we don't move.
The fan keeps clicking.
For now.
26
TYLER
It's been about two weeks since Christmas, and I'm back at practice, which is, you guessed it, a fucking nightmare.
It’s Thursday afternoon, and Reaper's in one of his moods. The kind where he makes it his personal mission to remind everyone, especially me, that he runs this team and I'm just barely tolerated.
We're running power play drills, and I'm positioned where I should be—at the top of the circle, the one-timer spot. It's my job. It's what I'm good at. Danny wins the faceoff, gets it back to the point, and the defenseman has a clear lane to me.
I'm open, calling for the pass.
The pass goes to Reaper instead, who's in a terrible position and forces a shot that gets blocked.
"West was open," Coach says, but there's no force behind it. Just an observation.
We reset. Run it again.