Instead, my mind replayed 14 years.
The emergency room visit when Marcus was six and split his chin open on the coffee table.
The science fair volcano that ruined our oven.
Every birthday.
Every Christmas.
Every parent-teacher conference where I sat alone in one of those tiny plastic chairs.
—
Around 5 a.m., I finally got out of bed and walked into the living room.
On the bookshelf sat a framed photograph of Marcus at five years old.
Gap-toothed.
Grinning.
Holding a plastic hockey stick almost as tall as he was.
I picked up the frame with both hands.
In a few hours, the man who had walked away from that little boy would walk back into his life.
The arena smelled of ice, popcorn, and cheap concession-stand coffee, the way it always did on big nights.
I’d been going to that building since Marcus was in fifth grade.
I knew nearly every row.
Then I saw Danny.
He walked inside wearing a navy suit that probably cost more than my truck, polished shoes, and a watch that flashed beneath the overhead lights.
He scanned the stands until he spotted me.
Then he headed straight toward the front row.
My row.
“Tom,” he said, sliding into the seat beside me as though 14 years had been nothing more than a long weekend. “Been a long time.”
I didn’t look at him.
I kept my eyes on Marcus warming up on the ice.
“Danny.”
He cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket cuff.
“I’m doing well now. Cheryl, my wife, has been good for me.”
He paused.
Then he said more quietly, “Marcus left the ticket at the gate. Said my seat was next to yours.”
“You picked a hell of a night.”
“Marcus invited me.”
That hurt because it was true.
