Page 57 of Puck the Coach's Son
His mouth pulls at one corner.
“He's going to know something.”
“He isn't.”
The lamp buzzes a second and steadies.
“Theo.”
“He isn't. I won't let him.”
He taps the ash again.
“Your mouth is going to tell on you every time you look at me on the ice for a week.”
“Then I won't look at you on the ice for a week.”
He smiles.
Not wide. A corner of his mouth. A private smile I'll think about in bed for a month.
“Good boy.”
“Don't call me that when we talk about my father.”
“Noted.”
He puts the cigarette out. He turns around on the bed. He looks at me. He puts one hand on my ankle and leaves it there.
“This was the thing,” he says. “The thing I've been telling myself I needed to do to put it down. I told myself for a week that if I did the thing, I could put it down.”
“Can you?”
He looks at me a long time.
“I don't know yet.”
“Oh.”
His thumb rubs a circle on my ankle.
“I'll tell you when I know.”
“Okay.”
His hand settles warmer on my ankle.
“And you…”
“What about me.”
His face goes serious.
“You have a choice to make.”
“I know.”
His thumb finds my anklebone.
