On the Surface (In the Zone) (24 page)

Even more optimistic than she’d been before, Erin asked Stephanie, “When are you due?”

“June sixteenth. We’ve been trying to have a second for forever. That’s another reason why I couldn’t wait to tell everyone.”

Sharon reached across and touched Erin’s hand. “I hope you two plan on giving me even more grandchildren. Tim’s already proven...” But she trailed off, uncertain. Glancing at Tim, she put her hand to her mouth.

Tim’s smile was reserved. “It’s okay, Mom. I told her about Mollie.”

Sharon sighed in relief. “Thank goodness.”

“I was very sorry to hear about your loss,” Erin said. “I can’t imagine how heartbreaking that was.”

Sharon smiled sadly. “He was devoted to Mollie,” she said with a fierce motherly pride, “from the moment she was born to the day she died in his arms, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that he was meant to be a dad.” She dabbed at her eyes, and she wasn’t the only one. “Shoot. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to depress everyone after Stephanie and Dan’s wonderful news.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Stephanie said with a sad smile of her own. “We miss her too.”

“Mom, it’s fine,” Tim added. “If we never talk about her, it would be like she never existed.”

Richard went to put his arm around his wife. “So, hey, let’s get back to the theme of the day. Thankfulness. What are we thankful for?”

“The Blackhawks won!” Rachel said, prompting some welcome laughter.

“Another grandchild on the way,” Sharon said, sniffling.

Dan raised his arms and pumped his fists like a prize fighter while Stephanie smiled and rolled her eyes at his antics.

“Tim and Erin’s spectacular engagement,” Stephanie added.

Just like he did to his teammates after a Barracuda goal, Tim gently bumped his forehead against Erin’s.

“And don’t forget the win tonight,” Richard exclaimed.

“Grandpa, I said that already,” Rachel said.

“I know, sweetie, but it needed saying again,” he said with a wink. “And that puts the ‘Hawks right on your tail, son. Wouldn’t that be something? The Barracudas versus the Blackhawks in the Conference Finals?”

Tim nodded as he took a bite of pie. “Sure would, Pop.”

“While we’re on the subject,” Erin said, “I was wondering how you deal with him being on a different team.”

Sharon smiled. “It’s been a hard adjustment to make this season. We hope both teams make it to the Finals, but if the ‘Cudas play the ‘Hawks, we’ll be rooting for Tim, of course.”

“How many teams have you played with?” Erin asked Tim.

“Oh, you did not just ask that. What kind of woman are you marrying, Tim?” Stephanie asked with a smile. “She doesn’t have your stats memorized?” Her laughing gray eyes swung to Erin. “Better get on that, girlfriend.”

Erin laughed while Richard said, “He’s been on three NHL teams. He was a New York Ranger before he was a Blackhawk. I have those jerseys upstairs. Come on. I’ll show you.” He jumped to his feet while Tim groaned.

“Here we go.” Tim scraped his chair backward.

Erin chuckled as they trudged up the stairs. It warmed her heart to see Tim’s dad so proud. She knew exactly how he felt.

“So this is the room Tim had when he was a boy,” Richard said, his chest puffed out.

As Tim leaned against the door jamb with his arms crossed, Erin examined trophies with dates from the early nineties.
Top Goal Scorer.
MVP.
League Champion.
She noted the framed jerseys, some from teams she’d never heard of, like the Whales and the Stampede. Judging from the smaller size of those jerseys, those unknown teams were from his early days. The Hollanders even had a small pair of skates, clean, but scuffed up and well-worn, hanging from a peg.

“Is this the same bed from when he was a kid?” she asked.

“Same bed. Same dresser...” Richard rubbed his nose. “Lamp’s new, I think.”

Erin touched the foot of the twin bed trying to picture Tim as a little boy. When she saw several framed pictures of him on the wall, she realized she didn’t have to imagine.

“You had freckles,” she exclaimed with delight. “And buck teeth.”

Tim’s cheeks reddened.

She studied each and every photograph of him as a child, enjoying this peek into his boyhood. “How old was he when he started playing hockey?” she asked Richard.

“He was five.”

Tim cleared his throat. “
He’s
right here, you know. He can answer questions himself.”

Richard ignored him. “I remember the first time we took him to see a pro game. He could barely see over the boards, but he was on his feet more than he was off them and we weren’t even out of the arena when he declared he wanted to play hockey ‘like dose guys.’”

“That’s adorable.”

Richard described his son’s boyhood with pride and nostalgia. She heard about how Tim had spurned the Gameboys and Pokemon cards other kids wanted for Christmas and asked for Bauer gloves with memory foam on the inside and the three-piece flex thumb.

“Did you know he was going to play for the NHL someday?”

Richard leaned against the windowsill. “I had hopes, sure. What self-respecting hockey-fan father wouldn’t? He had loads of raw talent, but talent won’t get you too far unless you work hard to develop it. I don’t think he realized he’d have to work at it until...what, Tim, about seventh grade?”

Tim shrugged. “I don’t know, Pop. Yeah, something like that.”

“I think that’s when he started playing against the other boys with raw talent. See, up until then, he was the big fish in the little pond.”

“Now he’s a big fish—a Barracuda!—in a big pond. The biggest, most prestigious pond there is,” Erin said proudly.

“Amen,” Richard said.

They both looked at Tim who, red-faced, scoffed and turned to go. “I’m getting out of here,” he said.

After Tim had trudged down the stairs, Richard said, “I love embarrassing him.”

“Oh, I do too,” she replied.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Every February on National Pancake Day, the Barracudas participated in the Annual Pancake Chow Down. Dozens of staffers set up huge tents, electric griddles, tables, chairs and autograph stations at a park in Del Mar. The players rotated between pancake flipping duty and five-dollar autograph and photo sessions. There was even a popular pancake-eating contest. Goalie Booth MacDonald was the reigning champ three years running.

Erin had been delighted to attend an event involving her favorite food and her new favorite sport. She was also eager to watch Tim interact with the fans. She was so proud of him. He was playing so well compared to the previous season. She knew this because Tammy’s new mission in life was to make sure Erin was up on Tim’s stats, past and present.

“Remember what his sister said? As his wife, it’s your duty to be his number-one fan. So, bone up on his Wikipedia page. You don’t want to look like a moron during an interview.”

She had a point. Honestly, it wasn’t a hardship to keep up with how Tim was doing this season. The press had started calling him Hat Trick Holly, and one of the items expected to go for big bucks at the auction was a set of pucks Tim had scored one of those hat tricks with.

All the money collected went toward the Barracuda Foundation, which in turn sponsored projects to benefit the children of San Diego. Tim had never attended the Chow Down before but he told Erin they were expecting a ton of families. The Neptune Feast, another player-attended fundraiser, came with a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate price tag. The Pancake Chow Down allowed those with less disposable income a chance to interact with players and contribute to a good cause.

* * *

Tim enjoyed these types of events. He remembered the day at Q Burger and how small his line had been compared to Chastain’s. Today, he realized as he signed someone’s hat, his line was longer than even Mac’s. What a difference a few months could make. Well, that and the fact that he led his team in points and was currently one of the top five goal scorers in the league.

A round, red-headed woman in her thirties stepped up. She said she’d loved him when he was a Blackhawk and had done a victory dance in her kitchen when she heard he’d been traded to San Diego. He liked that too.

Then, he came face-to-face with a girl who could have been Mollie’s twin. He felt a fleeting pain in his heart at the sight of her. Even though she was a couple of years older than Mollie would have been, she had a single dimple just like Mollie. She had silky, straight, blond hair and bangs too.

Dressed in a Barracuda jersey and jeans, she stood there, tongue-tied. Her dad was behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

“Hi, sweetie,” Tim said, forcing himself to focus on the present. “What’s your name?”

“Natalie,” she almost whispered.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“You’re Tim Hollander,” she answered, a little stronger now. “You’re my favorite player. I watch you on TV.”

“Oh yeah?” He glanced at the dad who nodded vigorously.

“Every chance she gets,” the dad said. “She’s a real tomboy. Plays squirt at the BIC.”

“I used to be the only girl,” Natalie said, lifting her chin. “But now there’s Lauren and Lauren Two.”

“Hey, I’m impressed. I bet you guys skate circles around all those boys.”

She grinned, obviously proud and much less nervous.

“So you want me to autograph your jersey?”

“Yes, please.”

“And if you want to take a picture with me, that’s okay too.”

“Yes, please.”

Natalie turned around and Tim saw his name and number on her jersey. He smiled as he scrawled his name on the white two. Then, with her dad’s permission, he hoisted her on one shoulder and she grabbed onto his head and squealed in delight. Dad, quick on the draw, snapped the picture, checked the screen to make sure it came out all right, then shook his hand and thanked him.

As Tim watched Natalie skip away, he chugged some water, trying to tamp down his emotions, which were already too close to the surface. Mollie’s birthday was coming up and he was scheduled to fly to Chicago early tomorrow morning to visit her grave like he did every year. Problem was, he hadn’t told Erin about the trip or the anniversary. He should have, but he hadn’t. First, she might think it was creepy. But if she didn’t think it was creepy and understood why he needed to make this annual pilgrimage, she might want to go with him for moral support. But he didn’t want her to come along. He wanted to keep his old life with Waverly and Mollie separate from his new life with Erin. If pressed, he couldn’t have given a logical reason for that. It didn’t really make any sense, but mixing the two felt wrong to him.

He’d thought about telling a white lie about the trip, but didn’t want to do that either, and as a result had procrastinated telling her anything at all.

He turned to the staffer running the autograph table, “I need a break. Just a few minutes.”

“Okay, Tim.”

“Oh, just one more!” a familiar voice pleaded.

He looked up to see Erin’s smiling face. He forced himself to smile back as the staffer went to placate the fans still in line.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he guided her out from under the canopy. “You must have a dozen things with my autograph on them.”

“I couldn’t resist. It reminded me too much of how we met. Are you all right? You look tired.”

“I am tired,” he admitted.

“Tim, that little girl who was in line before me? She was absolutely adorable. And you were so great with her. You’re so good with kids.”

Damn it.
Tim’s smile faded. Why did she have to say things like that? Was this what he had to look forward to now? She’d been doing this ever since Thanksgiving, dropping veiled hints about parenthood. Sooner or later they were going to have to talk about it.

“If you’re tired, after this is over, we can go home and I’ll give you a massage and you can take a nap while I make dinner. I got a really nice bottle of wine and I’m making lasagna from scratch.”

“Lasagna?”

“Yes. I wanted to make something special since it’s our six-month anniversary. Can you believe it? Six months since you defended my honor at Q Burger.”

He looked at her, horrified. “It’s our anniversary?”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t realize it either until yesterday.”

Damn it.

“You should have told me,” he said, hearing the anger in his voice but unable to do anything about it.

“Calm down. It’s not a big deal. It’s just lasagna. And it might not even turn out. I’ve never made it before.”

“Erin, that’s not...” He trailed off.

“That’s not what?”

He exhaled hard in frustration. “Look, I’m—I’m catching a flight tomorrow morning to visit Mollie’s grave in Chicago.”

Her eyes widened but she said nothing.

“It’s her birthday and I go every year.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s fine, Tim. But why didn’t you tell me before?”

He exhaled. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I should have, but I didn’t.” He took another swallow of water. “Look, I have to get back to the table. We’ll talk about it tonight.”

He walked past her, aware he was acting like a jerk, but sort of feeling she should give him a pass, considering the emotional baggage he was dealing with.

* * *

That evening, for the first time in, well, six months, he was not looking forward to seeing her. After the Pancake Chow Down, he’d ended up going to work out at Power Play. Then he went to sushi with Jason and Alex for a late lunch. He knew he’d behaved badly at the pancake thing, but a charity fundraiser was not the place to have the conversation he needed to have with her.

Around four o’clock, dreading the confrontation like he did ice baths, he opened the door to the apartment.

“Hey, I’m home,” he called.

When he didn’t get answer, he worried for a brief moment that she had left him. Gone home to her own apartment, even though he didn’t think she’d do that.

He spotted her then. She sat in the armchair in the living room, one leg tucked underneath. She held a mug of something warm—tea, judging from the tag draped over the side of the cup—and sat staring at nothing. She didn’t look up at his approach.

He knelt and put the gerbera daisies he’d bought on the way home on her lap. She put a hand on them, crackling the cellophane. He took that as a good sign.

“I’m sorry. I was an asshole,” he said.

She looked at him. “What I don’t understand is
why
you were an asshole. You could have just told me you wanted to take this trip. I would have been fine with that.”

“You’re right. I should have just told you.”

“Tim, I’m going to be your wife. I want you to feel you can tell me anything. I want to be here for you. Whenever you have a problem, I want it to be our problem.”

He smiled humorlessly. “I hope you mean that.”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” she said with a little attitude.

“Then here’s the real problem. I’m not interested in being a dad again. I’m done with that.”

He stood up and went to the kitchen. She followed and watched him get a beer and guzzle about a third of it down.

She leaned a hip against the granite counter. “You’re afraid of what might happen. Because of Mollie. Right?”

“Of course, I am. I’m fucking terrified. Do you know what that did to me? Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch her die? I actually found myself wishing she’d been hit by a car instead. Or fallen off the slide at the park and broken her neck. Because at least that way she wouldn’t have suffered so long and I wouldn’t have had to keep hoping they’d find a match for her. That was the worst part. The hoping.” He drank more of his beer.

“People always talk about hope like it’s a good thing, but I’m here to tell you it sucks. See, when Mollie got sick, the entire Blackhawks organization rallied behind me. Every player on the team and a lot of the coaching staff volunteered to have their bone marrow typed. No one ended up being a match, but that didn’t stop them. Jon Price, the owner, organized a massive bone-marrow registration drive at every home game over a three-month period. Two pavilions inside the United Center were dedicated to getting people to join the National Bone Marrow Registry. Each registrant received an autographed puck. But we never found a match. And none of the other treatments they tried worked. She hung on for two years, my little girl did...”

Fuck. He realized he was fucking crying in front of her again. He swiped the snot off his upper lip with the hem of his T-shirt, not caring if she thought that was disgusting or not.

“So, fuck hope. It just drags on the inevitable. I would have been much better off knowing there was no hope for her. God would have been doing me a favor if He’d just told me flat-out, ‘Tim, your daughter’s gonna die.’ But no.” He waved his beer bottle around angrily. “Instead, they tell you leukemia is curable. They rattle off all those bullshit survival statistics—”

“But, Tim, that’s not bullshit. Leukemia is treatable. Lots of people survive it.”

“Well Mollie fucking didn’t.”

She had tears on her face too. “I’m sorry, Tim. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that she died, but this is different. We’re different. What are the odds that that would happen again?”

“You know what? They’re not zero and those are the only odds I’ll accept.” He took a draw from his beer and dared her with his eyes to contradict him.

She looked at him a long time. A stubborn set to her jaw said she had plenty more to say on the subject, but eventually she chose to let it go and left the room.

He drained the rest of his beer and set the empty on the counter with a sharp
clink
of glass on granite.

Game over.