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Two weeks. That’s all I get, and I’ll take it. Then I’ll head to Boston and figure out what happens with my career, Seattle, and my stubborn father. Maybe I’ll be there longer than I planned, helping him sell the shop and take better care of himself.

While I’m still here, I’m going to make sure Baylor has a reliable truck to make her deliveries.

"Then make it work, son. If you like her and she’s worth the effort, you’ll find a way." He pauses. "In the meantime, crank this old girl up. Let’s hear what she’s doing."

I leave my phone on speaker beside the open hood, then climb into the driver’s seat and turn the key.

Sprinkles hesitates before the engine catches.

My father has the ear of a classical musician when it comes to cars. He can hear the smallest tick or rattle and tell me where to look. I’d trust him over a diagnostic scanner any day, though I’m not telling him that. He’s already enough of a pain in my ass.

We go back and forth for another twenty minutes, trying a few things and listening after each one. He makes me repeat one check, which I complain about before discovering he was right to ask, which won’t make him any easier to live with come the offseason.

By the time I need to leave for practice, the truck starts with less hesitation and sounds better once it’s running. I turn off the engine, collect my tools, and close the hood before picking up my phone.

"Thanks for your help, Pops."

"Anytime, my boy." His voice softens. "I know you’re not looking forward to the surgery, but I’m looking forward to having you home for the summer."

I lean against the side of the truck.

"It’ll be good to be home. But your ass is going to the doctor, even if I have to drag you there myself."

"We’ll see."

"That wasn’t a suggestion."

"And, son?"

I stop arguing long enough to hear him.

"If anyone can pull off a comeback, it’s you. I’m proud of you, Wolfgang. Not just the player. The man you’ve become."

I look down at the rag in my hand, rubbing my thumb over a clean corner.

There isn’t much that could make me emotional out on the streets of Seattle. Apparently, hearing those words from the man I’ve looked up to my entire life gets pretty fucking close.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Now go. You don’t need to be late because you were talking to me."

After we hang up, I stand beside Sprinkles for another moment before opening Baylor’s messages.

Me: Truck should be running smoother tomorrow. Let me know how it goes. I have a couple more ideas if this doesn’t fix it.

Her answer comes while I’m putting the tools away.

Baylor: Best two-week boyfriend ever. I’ll reward you with dinner in bed.

I look at the message, then read it again.

She could’ve left out the two-week part. I’d have been perfectly happy with the rest.

Me: Forget the dinner. I’ll just eat you, Cupcake.

Baylor: Have a good practice.

I put my phone away and head upstairs for my gear. Dinner in bed with Baylor is a considerable improvement over anything else I might have planned.