Billie was nearly to the kitchen when she heard the soft whistling. It was barely above a whisper but, nonetheless, she could make out the tune.
The [i]Rocky[i] theme.
She clutched the edge of her sweatshirt as goose bumps rolled across her skin. Her Dad used to whistle to her when she was younger. It was a way to get her to focus and the theme from [i]Rocky[i] was their song. It was the one he used when she was five or six and he was tying up her skates. The one he’d whistle on those long drives to games and practices, or while out in the driveway practicing shots for hours at a time.
Jesus, it was hard to listen to, because he sounded so damn…normal.
Billie peeked into the kitchen and held her breath.
Her father was at the stove, whistling his tune while he stirred—she sniffed the air—porridge. And not the microwave stuff she’d been buying lately, but the real deal. The stuff that would stick to your stomach and get you through the most brutal hockey practices ever.
The stuff that made mornings like this one doable.
Her father was dressed casually, in jeans and a sweater—the red cable knit that he’d owned forever. He looked frail and she hated how the sweater and jeans hung off his frame. [i]Hated it[i].
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes because it was so hard to see him like this. Trent Barker had always been a tall, strapping guy, who could easily scoop all three of his girls into his arms and make everything instantly better.
“Pull up a chair, Billie, this is almost done.”
Shock held her silent for several long moments, until he turned around, eyebrow arched and pointed toward the table. “Are you going to stand there and gawk, or are you going to eat?”
His voice, slightly weak, was gruff enough to automatically elicit a response and she jumped, nodding stupidly—blinking away the tears—as she moved toward the table.
“I’ll grab some juice,” she said softly.
She filled two glasses and then sat down, watching in silence as her father moved around the kitchen, gathering two bowls and a couple of spoons. He searched through the cupboards for some brown sugar and then finally filled their bowls with steaming hot, porridge.
Just like so many mornings she’d spent with him in the past.
The need to throw her arms around him—to hold on and kiss and hug him—was overwhelming. She’d been home for nearly a month and there hadn’t been many days when he’d been ‘himself’. The man she remembered.
The dad she loved.
Trent Barker slid into the chair across from her and quietly fixed his bowl of porridge. Billie did the same, watching the way his fingers curled around his spoon and the slow methodical way in which he ate.
It was something she’d done many times before. Countless times. Billie and her father up before dawn, getting ready to head to an early practice or leave for a tournament.
It was so familiar and so achingly sad.
Once they were done eating, Trent grabbed her bowl and rinsed them both in the sink. They’d not spoken at all, instead, they’d eaten in silence, a silence that not only hid things, but was in a way, comforting. As long as no words were spoken, Billie could almost believe that nothing had changed.
Almost.
“So, you’re back from Europe.”
Billie nodded, watching the way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he concentrated. There were a lot of new lines around his eyes, and deep grooves in the pockets of his cheeks. His hair, thick as ever, was now nearly silver, the ebony curls long gone.
“Uh huh,” he responded, handing her the bowls so she could dry them and put them away.
“You going back?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, Dad.”
The pain in her chest was near crushing now and the food she’d just eaten sat like a lump in the bottom of her gut.
“Head injuries are tricky things and they can’t be treated lightly, so maybe it’s good that you’re taking a breather.”
Billie glanced up sharply. How did he know?