Page 103 of The Grumpy Defenseman
I-35 before dawn was a gray corridor with nothing in it but other people who could not sleep. The cab smelled like coffee and dog. Ranger rode with his chin on the console and one eye open, tracking the mile markers the way he tracked squirrels.
The sun came up somewhere around Austin. Pink first, then orange. I drove through it and did not stop.
I had not been back to Clearfield in almostfour years.
The math on that was ugly. Dad had been gone eleven years. Mom had been asking for eleven years, in the Midwestern way that did not ask, and I had been giving her holidays and a wire transfer every month. Once a year, I called long enough to pass for close.
I had told myself it was the season and the road schedule. Every offseason injury had become an excuse. True, all of it.
And not the reason.
The reason was simpler and worse.
Going home made me the kid again. The kid who had stood at a graveside at twenty-two and made a promise to a man who could not hear him anymore, then spent the next decade keeping that promise by never sitting still long enough to notice whether he was happy.
That kid was a good skater.
He was also a coward about certain kinds of silence.
I was a different version of myself today. Or at least different enough to make the drive.
I passed Waco. Kept going.
Somewhere past the Temple exit, my phone buzzed on the dash. I glanced over.
One word from Sam, sent at six-forty-three in the morning from a woman who did not send morning texts unless she meant them.
Sam: Coffee?
I took the next exit and pulled into a rest stop before I answered.
Ranger was awake before I put the truck in park, ears up, tail thumping once against the seat as if he had personally arranged the stop. I clipped on his leash and let him out into the cool morning air.
Me: Driving north. Family thing. I’ll call when I stop.
Her reply came a minute later.
Sam: Okay
No push. No demand. Just the same small word she kept giving me whenthe truth was not easy, but she was still willing to stand near it.
I was sliding my phone into my pocket when a small voice said, “Are you Evan McKinney?”
The kid stood near the vending machines with one hand on a backpack strap and the other wrapped around a bottle of orange juice. Maybe ten. Hair still flat on one side from sleep. His mother stood a few feet behind him, already wearing the careful expression of someone deciding whether to apologize.
Ranger leaned into my leg, calm as a judge.
“Depends who’s asking,” I said.
The kid’s eyes widened. “I knew it.”
His mother gave me a tight smile. “Sorry. He saw the sticker on your truck.”
“It’s all right.”
“You play for San Antonio,” the kid said.
“I do.”
