Page 88 of The Goalie in Room 1

The case of hot sauce got a raised eyebrow.

“You keep putting that shit on your eggs,” I said.

“I do.”

“And then bitching when you run out.”

“I don’t bitch.”

“You stood in front of the refrigerator last week and said, ‘Goddammit,’ like somebody had stolen your kidney.”

“I was making breakfast.”

“You were grieving.”

Thad laughed again, and fuck, I liked that sound too much.

The third package was coffee. Not the shit we drank every morning. The good stuff he’d brought home once and then complained was impossible to find locally.

He read the label, then looked at me. “Where did you find this?”

“The internet, Grandpa.”

“I know how the internet works, you little prick.”

“Congratulations.”

His thumb rubbed over the label before his gaze lifted to mine again. There was that fucking look.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say thank you.”

“Oh.” I shifted against the sectional. “Well. Don’t get emotional about it.”

His smile softened. “Thank you, Cash.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bigger one.”

By then, he’d figured me out. His gaze went to the box beneath the tree before he carefully moved my leg off his lap and went to retrieve it. When he came back, I held my foot up until he caught it again.

That earned me a look.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He rolled his eyes with a smile and settled my leg back across him before tearing into the package. The second he lifted the lid, he laughed.

There it was.

That sound made the hours I’d spent looking for the damn thing worth it.