Page 30 of Patrick

“No. Self-satisfied,” Kathleen says.

Liam walks in, pulls out the chair opposite me at the table, and snorts. “Impossible.”

I dart my hand out across the table and flick him in the head. He should know better. Having the table between us isn’t enough to protect him from me. He keeps going, giving me a useless glare, but no complaint.

Mom continues to stare at me as she places a platter of food in the center of the table and takes a seat at the head. Not sure what she’s seeing, I look away from her.

“Not exactly self-satisfied. More like… vulnerable—and happy.”

“Trick?” Daniel says, pulling out the chair next to me. “He ought to feel vulnerable with that game against BC coming up.

“Shit. I’m trying to eat here. You’re all giving me indigestion with your gossip. You know you’re supposed to have this kind of discussion behind my back, right?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom says, ruffling my hair and then bending towards me, giving me a kiss on the cheek and squeezing a shoulder. “Eat up so you can help at the market while I cook Sunday dinner.”

“Can’t argue with that deal.” I could argue, but I’m not going to because Mom deserves a break and Kathleen too. I can do homework later. Sleep? I can’t possibly get a worse night’s sleep than I did last night. Not that I didn’t sleep well, but it wasn’t nearly long enough after I spent too long remembering every last detail about how Fifi looked and sounded when I⁠—.

Dad comes into the room, followed by Rory. Dad takes the seat at the head of the table opposite Mom, and Rory sits next to Liam. Kathleen finally joins us, slowly making her way on one crutch with her leg stiff and her grimace under control. But I see the flush rise to her neck with the enormous effort she makes every time she moves, and I white-knuckle my fork, resisting my urge to jump up and help her.

Daniel watches her, though he keeps eating, and I relax. He’s a good kid and protective of her, and the only reason I feel comfortable staying over at UNH so often when I’m supposed to be living at home.

“Good morning, Patrick.” Dad doesn’t usually call me Patrick unless he has something on his mind. Everyone stops eating at once and looks at him expectantly. Shit.

“Morning,” I say, looking him straight in the eye because there’s no other acceptable way to deal with him.

“Spent another night at school, did you?”

“Yes, sir.” I give no explanation because the last thing I want to do is lie, and there’s no way I’m explaining about spending time with Fifi.

“Hockey season is getting to the thick of it,” he says. “We have a few key games coming up too.” He nods, and a swell of guilt hits me for not asking about his season. Coaching the RHS Devils takes up more of his time than the family’s fishing business every winter when it slows down. The market stays open, but we don’t fish in the coldest months.

“How are the Devils doing?”

He gives me a look that I can’t read, as usual. “You don’t get the news at UNH?”

“Last I heard, you were leading the division⁠—”

“Still are. Your Wildcats are doing well. I’ll be sorry to miss the game against B.C. coming up. Give ‘em hell for me.” He smiles.

“I will.”

Kathleen covers my hand. “Don’t worry, the rest of us will be there. Even Pops.”

“He wouldn’t miss the chance to see you beat the snot out of Vincent Rossi,” Liam says.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dad says, “I’ll be there in spirit. And I’ll watch the game the next morning. Say hello to Coach Winnick for me and thank him again for sending the game film.”

I nod. We both know it’s not the same thing. When he’s at the game, he’ll give me pointers and encouragement—always encouragement. I miss the days when he was my coach, but high school is a distant speck in the rearview mirror of my life.

A grin pops onto my face since I’m aware of how crazy that is. My life has been short in the scheme of lifespans. To prove my meandering mind’s point, Pops ambles into the room, grunting his usual hello.

“Good game last night, Trick.” By the time he gets to his seat, Mom has poured him a cup of coffee and placed it on the table, and Rory has dished some bacon and eggs onto his plate from the platter.

“Thanks. That win was for you.”

“And here I thought it was for your dear mother,” Mom says, hand over her heart and a twinkle in her eye.

“You’re both wrong,” Liam says. “It was for his new girlfriend.”