He could not look more the part.
“Are you seriously wearing a green tinted visor?” I flick the underside of Jake’s stupid hat while grandpa belly laughs.
Jake straightens it and scowls at our attacks.
“This hat is legit. I saw that Phil guy wear it on ESPN,” Jake defends.
My grandpa rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair, cupping his mouth to pretend he’s speaking only to me, though the real intent is for Jake. “Phil Hellmuth probably makes a buck off every sucker who buys one of those.”
The garage booms with cigar-fueled laughter. My mom has buried herself inside with movies for the night. Her room is the farthest one from the garage, so I hope between her binge of period dramas and the house’s insulation, she’s able to spare herself any hint of this scenario.
“All right boys, I came ready to play. And if it’s all right, I brought one more?” My heart leaps hearing Eleanor’s voice, but I take a quick step back when her sister stands over her shoulder. Our eyes meet for a moment and we give each other a nod. I credit Morgan for coming around and giving her sister the boost she probably needs to truly fight for her spot on the squad.
“You got cash, honey?” Gary speaks out of one side of his mouth, his cigar precariously hanging from the other.
“I mean, I’ll have yours in a minute, so does it really matter?”
The room explodes in Oooohs at Morgan’s burn. She wears the smug smile with pride after that, and I think Gary might have a rough night with this one. I get a good sense that she can walk the talk.
We divide up, Eleanor and I at a table with my grandpa and his friends Rufus and Clark. I think Grandpa wants it to be a little easy on Eleanor for her first go at the game, and Rufus and Clark aren’t very big risk takers. I also think my grandpa wants to watch the showdown at the other table as Dale throws a tantrum every other hand and Morgan silently pushes them all to the brink of bankruptcy.
The play goes on for an hour without much action at our table, which is fine by me because I’m much more interested in the way Eleanor’s ankle is hooked around mine between our chairs. A few people in the neighborhood walk by, all of them shouting hellos and lingering at the end of our driveway to see what fun they’re missing. Some of them stop to warm themselves at the fire pit grandpa wheeled out from the shed while the rest of us cluster around the portable heater filling the garage with the acrid scent of propane. My grandpa had me help him set up the living room TV out there so we can all watch the Blackhawks game while we play. They might all be enemies at the tables, but they are united when it comes to the Chicago ice.
“They have hockey down there in Boca Raton?” Grandpa teases Gary.
“If you can call it that. You know what they do have, though? Bikinis!” Gary tips his head up from his cards and puffs out cigar smoke as he laughs.
My mom is right to avoid this place at all costs.
“What’s going on in here?” There’s a small break in the action in both the room and on the television that lets Mrs. Trombley’s voice cut through. She’s clinging to her husband’s arm as if they encountered aliens and they aren’t sure whether or not they’re hostile.
“Mom,” Eleanor says, getting up from her seat a second before Morgan does.
“We thought maybe . . . it’s a good night to get out.” She looks up toward her husband, his face tired but more alive than the last time I saw it.
“Yes, I mean, Morgan said she was coming over to the neighbors’, and I know we don’t talk much, but . . .” Mr. Trombley keeps looking to his wife for help, but she only grows more tense at his side.
Lucky for them both, Hank Wydner is in this garage, and he can set anyone at ease.
“Come on in. We were just getting ready to watch young Jacob here pull off a move I like to call Losing His Shirt.”
“I mean, come on!” Jake says on cue, tossing his cards to the center of the table.
Grandpa threw my friend under the bus for a laugh, and it earns one. I get up and pull out more chairs from the far corner of the garage. I don’t think we’ve had this many people in here since my mom tried her hand at being a scout mom. Turns out neither she nor I were made for knots, fires, and general roughing it. If I ever actually get to camp with Eleanor, I hope she knows what she’s doing.
Eleanor’s parents sit over our shoulders so they watch us play but also take in the game. It seems that hockey catches her father’s eyes first.
“Did you see that boarding call against the Sharks last week?” Eleanor’s dad could not have uttered a more welcome sentence. Within minutes, cards are abandoned and tables rearranged for better viewing of the third period against Detroit.
Morgan, Eleanor, and I slip toward the back of the garage, watching a mix of generations all come together over something meaningless in the grand scheme of things, especially amid all that’s happening to the Trombleys right now.
“Gemma’s on her way,” Eleanor says at my side. “I’m going to wait by the curb.”
“Want me to come wait with you?” I ask.
She leans forward, noting her sister watching over both of us while trying to pretend she isn’t.
“No. You stay. I’ll be right back,” she says, rocking back on her feet. She kisses my shoulder and heads down the driveway, her body bundled in her
