“And for Houston.” Finn looks down at his hands. “I know it cost us.”
“That wasn’t on you.”
“Wasn’t only on me.”
There it is. The kid is learning the wrong lesson because men keep teaching him that pain comes with a debt.
I lean forward. “Listen to me. You got hit dirty. That’s on him. What happened after was on me.”
Finn swallows. “Okay.”
“Understood?”
“Understood.”
In the truck, I text Mom.
How are you feeling?
Her response comes fast.
Much better. Your father is hovering. Tell him I am not livestock.
I breathe out through my nose.
Before I can answer, another message comes.
Also, Peyton has manners. Do not ruin her.
I stare at the screen.
That sounds like Susan.
It also sounds like a warning from a woman who knows her son too well.
I should drive home. I do not.
The children’s hospital across town asked me to come by back in the fall. I said yes and told Jennifer to keep it off the calendar because the second it goes on the calendar, it stops being the thing and becomes content.
Four hours of sleep.
A body that has been arguing since I woke up.
There is no part of a playoff push that has room for it.
I go anyway.
The banner version of me has been too loud lately.
No camera.
I said it twice and will say it a third time if anyone pushes.
The nurse who meets me at the elevator is named Dolores and is not impressed by captains.
“Some of these kids are waiting on hearts,” she says. “Do not tell anybody they’re going to be fine. You don’t know that.”
“Understood.”