"No worries. Call me later when you can."
I nod at her and then watch her walk down the stairs. I don't close the door until she's out of sight, but then I do with a sigh and turn to face my father.
"Friend of yours?" my dad asks genially.
"Yeah," I answer but don't provide anything more.
"Seems like more than just a friend."
"You heard her … we were going over some business together."
"On Christmas Eve?"
Shrugging my shoulders, I say, "Sure, why not?"
"Why are you lying to me, boy?" my dad asks in censure.
"Because if I don't, you'll make a big deal about me having a girlfriend," I say in exasperation.
"Girlfriend?" He actually wrinkles his nose in distaste.
"Yes! Girlfriend. And it's none of your business. I'm an adult and allowed to date."
My dad holds his hands up in surrender, but he's not fooling me. I can see it in his eyes. Yet it is with seeming nonchalance he says, "Your life, not mine. Got any coffee for your old man?"
I lock eyes with him, dying to know what he really wants to say but dreading it all the same. Instead, I just nod and head into my kitchen to make a pot of coffee, making a mental note to call Cameron later to let him know I've found our wayward father.
As I busy myself pulling out the coffee and filters, I try to take stock of my feelings. I'm mostly pissed that my night with Sutton got canceled. Even though I had been having some dark thoughts earlier, there's no doubt that my spirit was rejuvenated the minute I opened the door and saw her. She just does good things for my soul.
I am, however, oddly relieved that my dad is here, because I can gauge that he looks to be okay. In fact, I can't remember him ever looking healthier.
The sickest part, though, the thing that means I should be checking myself into a mental hospital just for having the thought, is the fact that there is a part of me that is wanting to get my dad's advice about my game. It's still been sucking donkey ass and while I'm scoring again, I'm certainly not playing to the potential of the first line. I simply haven't been able to regain complete convergence on my game, and it seems that my thoughts are all jumbled among Sutton, my dad, my brother and hockey. I know, without a doubt, that my dad has been following my progress and I'm sure the minute I ask, he'll have a ton of advice to give.
Yes, I know it will be destructive and negative. Yes, I know I shouldn't listen to a damn word he says.
But God help me, I can only think that this man made me into the great player that I was up until a few weeks ago.
Up until he went into rehab and went off my radar.
Up until he stopped dispensing said advice.
I want to knee myself in the nuts for even thinking that perhaps the reason for my crappy play is because I haven't had my dad riding me these last several weeks, but to hell with it … I'm going there. I need to know what he would say.
After pouring a cup of coffee for my dad, I grab a bottled water for myself from the fridge and head back into the living room. He's sitting on the couch, his chin resting in his hand, and he's staring pensively into the fire I started earlier as a romantic gesture for Sutton. Now all it seems to do is make my apartment feel sweltering.
"Here you go," I tell my dad as I hand the cup to him. He looks up at me with a smile as he accepts it.
I head toward my loveseat that sits perpendicular to the couch, mainly for distance and so I can easily face him as we talk. "So, you don't think you need rehab anymore?"
"Not really," he says. "I need to get into AA as soon as possible, but I'm not sure what more I can learn there."
"Why are you here?" I ask bluntly, because my dad and I are long past the point in our relationship where we have to tiptoe around each other.
After taking a sip of coffee, Dad sets the cup down on my end table and looks back to me. His eyes are limpid and soft, and he's giving me a look such as I've never seen before. It's almost caring-tender-and it makes my belly tighten because it is awkward.
"I, um … I needed to come see you. Face-to-face. I needed to apologize to you-"
I cut my dad off by holding a hand up. "No, you don't," I say quickly, because hearing my dad sound so considerate is sort of freaking me out. It's evoking emotion inside of me that I had been conditioned by this very man to ignore, and I feel like this could be a trap. Maybe he's doing this to see if I will prove to be the weak and delicate man he always accused me of being.
"Yes, I do," my dad says firmly and with a tone that tells me not to interrupt again. "This is hard on me … to admit this to you, but it needs to be done. I was wrong in many things I did to you growing up. I'm an alcoholic, and my drinking led me to do things that I am so very ashamed of."