Page 7 of Home Ice

I look around the yard again, trying not to let it get to me. The grass is up to my ankles, clinging to the front slatted fence that badly needs painting. It’s overwhelming to look around and see everything I need to do, but going inside won’t change that. Since the stroke, Dad has taken up painting and diamond art and anything else he can find to keep his mind busy and his hands working. The result of that is canvas after canvas tucked into all the crevices of our old home.

Dad’s not in a position where he can work, and he gets frustrated more easily, but the antidepressants he’s on help him maintain the happy personality he’s always been known for. I worry that it’s all an act that will crumble at some point, but it’s not on me to police his emotions.

I’m having enough trouble policing mine right now.

I really believe I’m at a good place with it all. I have friends, colleagues who I grab a beer with, I love the kids I coach, and I’ve grown into myself a lot. I’m no longer working a million jobs to keep things steady, and between working at the high school during the week and picking up shifts teaching peewee kids on the weekend, I have more free time than ever. Now that it’s summer, I have a full schedule again, because this is where I work my ass off offering private and group coaching to fill our bank accounts.

And all it took was a couple-of-seconds encounter with Jensen Hawke to bring all that down again.

Fuck me.

He looks so different without a screen between us. I guess, being offseason, he’s in relaxed mode, but the scruffy stubble and red eyes were a surprise. In all these years, he’s never switched up his schedule, so why now?

“Tai? What are you doing out there?” I glance over at Dad’s familiar, slightly slurred words.

“Just thinking.”

“Thinking hard is what it looks like.”

I send a smile back his way. “You know how much I love the great outdoors.”

That’s a complete lie. I’m an active guy, and I go for runs every morning, but that’s time I use to switch off. When it comes to anything outdoorsy, I’ve never been the first one to volunteer. My body is made for the cold of the hockey rinks and the Vermont winters. Not sunshine and dirt.

“You okay, kid?” he asks, worry sneaking into his tone.

Even if I weren’t, it’s not like I’d tell him. But as far as okay goes, I am. Being haunted by my past was a blip. “Yeah, I think it’s past time I gave the lawn a mow. Just trying to get the motivation.”

“Why don’t I help you?”

Dad offering is a good thing, even though there’s no way he’ll be able to push the lawn mower. The stroke has left him stiff down one side, and while movement wasn’t something they initially thought he’d regain, he’s worked hard—and gotten lucky—with how much he recovered. “Tell you what, I’ll deal with the asshole grass, you get to work weeding those garden beds. There’s a chance there are still flowers in there somewhere.”

“Let me get my hat.” He shuffles back inside, and I want to kick myself for the off-the-cuff idea.

Spending my morning off dealing with the lawns is the last thing I want to be doing, but at least it means a few weeks between having to do it again. Then the cycle will continue.

I strip off my shirt and tuck it into my shorts, then fight to open the door on the metal shed around the back that we keep everything in. Thankfully, half of the backyard is taken over by trees, but that still leaves a lot of work to be done.

There’s a good chance this is going to take longer than I hoped.

The backyard takes two hours to wrangle, and when I push the mower around the front, my back is already aching. I find Dad kneeling in front of a garden bed, halfway through meticulously weeding it.

“Ah, look. Still a few pansies in there.”

He grins with the good side of his face. “Might plant some milkweed too.”

“That would look good.” Even though I know the likelihood of it happening will be low, if he’s being positive, then I’ll match his energy.

Dad reaches for a dandelion and plucks out a fluffy white one. “Make a wish?”

I give him a flat look. Dad’s always had a thing about wishing on dandelions or the first star at night. I’ve always had a thing about knowing it’s all make-believe. “No, thanks.”

He gives a raspy chuckle and blows it himself. “Gotta be hard being so cynical all the time.”

“I’m not cynical. I’m logical.”

“And lacking whimsy.”

I snort, because where am I supposed to have time for whimsy in between working my ass off and looking after him? “What did you wish for?”