Marek (Cold Fury Hockey 11)

My smile is tight and my voice gravelly with all this emotion raging through me. "How about tomorrow night?"

"Okay," she says with a toothy grin.

Gracen blanches slightly when I turn my gaze on her. There's no smile left, and my voice is razor sharp. "I need to talk to you when she's asleep."

She swallows hard and nods at me, and I try not to be bothered by the tiny bit of fear in her expression.

* * *

--

Galeti and Joan Fabritis are the best parents in the world. It's no exaggeration either. My dad was born and raised in Lithuania, but received his higher education in the States. A few years after finishing grad school, he became a naturalized citizen and insisted people use the more Americanized name Gale.

He met my mom in college and fell instantly in love with the sassy midwesterner from Wisconsin who cursed like a sailor when cheering on her beloved Packers. Dad learned to love the Packers too.

They lived and worked in New York City for years. They married young, but put off having kids so they could concentrate on their careers. By the time they were ready, they were in their late thirties and were really, really ready. They'd done all their partying, traveling, and working hard to climb the ladder of success, so when I came along they were devoted to me. Dad moved them to the suburbs of Wilkie, an hour and a half drive north of the city. My mother became a full-time mom and Dad commuted to the city for work. They wanted another kid, but it wasn't in the cards for them, so Marek Graham Fabritis became their entire life. Some might call me spoiled from the lavish attention they've given me over the years, but I call myself just insanely fucking lucky to have the best parents in the world.

My parents were both so successful at their careers doing financial planning they were able to take early retirement. My dad still dabbles for a few clients here and there, but he pretty much just plays with his money now.

Oh, and he and my mom follow me around the country watching me play hockey.

Both my parents recognized my talent and love for the game when I was very young. They put a lot of time and money into me, encouraging me to develop and nurture my passion for being on the ice. While they worked hard, there was at least one of them at every one of my games growing up. When I went to college in Boston, it became a little trickier, and they couldn't travel to watch me as often as they'd liked.

But three years into my career as a professional hockey player, Dad walked away from Wall Street and I purchased season tickets for them. They became my personal traveling fan club. They've always been there for me.

Always.

It's why when I made that call to them yesterday, I was already grieving the loss they'd be feeling, because there were never two people who were more suited to be grandparents than Gale and Joan Fabritis.

Drumming my fingers on the kitchen counter, I look at the digital clock on the oven and will it to move faster so I can get this over with. I pick up the bottle of bourbon and pour another inch into my glass. No way I'm getting drunk, but I'm finding the liquor is quelling my rage somewhat. I can hear the floor above me creaking while Gracen gets Lilly tucked into bed. It goes silent again and I can envision Gracen sitting on the edge of Lilly's bed, singing to her. She does this every night, and it's always the same five songs.

Lilly's favorite lullabies, she told me.

Sometimes it only takes one song before she's out. Sometimes it takes all five before those eyes close. On the rare occasions it takes more than five songs, Gracen starts at the top all over again. I know this because I observed it that second night I'd returned from my beach trip with Holt to avoid Gracen and Lilly. I lurked outside her room and listened. When Gracen came out, quietly closing the door behind her, she gave me a sheepish look.

"Sorry...my singing is pretty bad," she muttered.

"She likes you to sing to her?" I asked curiously, because my voice was awful and I couldn't imagine singing those songs to Lilly.

Gracen told me about the five songs, two I knew the lyrics to and three I didn't. I have since looked them up--the songs being "Bringing Home a Baby Bumble Bee," "You are my Sunshine," and "The Circle Song"--and I'm determined to learn them.

I pick up the bourbon and slug it back, my eyes watering from the burn in my throat. I set the tumbler down and don't pick the bottle back up again. I want to keep my wits about me.

Lilly must have fallen asleep fast, because Gracen's footsteps echo lightly on the staircase as she comes down. I turn on the stool where I'd been sitting to face her as she steps into the kitchen.

She doesn't even give me a chance to attack first. Her eyes narrow at me and she crosses her arms over her chest. Her voice is as soft as butterfly wings, though, and I know that's in deference to Lilly asleep upstairs. "Okay. Let's have it. You're clearly pissed at me for something."

"Mom...Dad...I have to tell you both something."

That was the start of the conversation.

"I told my parents about Lilly yesterday," I tell her through gritted teeth as I stand from the stool. "I'm sure you can imagine how it went."

Gracen's face crumbles and her eyes get glossy with wetness. I steel myself against it, though.

Lowering her face, she whispers, "How...how did they take it?"

In two long strides I'm before her, my hand going to her chin to force her face up. I lean into her and growl, "How did they take it? They're devastated. Torn to pieces for everything they missed out on. For everything I missed out on. They're not only hurting for themselves, they're hurting for me too."

"Marek," she implores, but I roll right over her.

"They didn't get to hold her after she was born, or change her diapers, or sing her lullabies. They didn't get to fucking sit in bed with her and read The Three Little Pigs. They didn't get to spoil her the way grandparents have the right to do."

Okay, I might be laying it on a little thick, and I'd have to admit I'm probably pouring out my hurts and not my parents' at this point. My dad was shocked, then he showed the famous Fabritis temper. He was pissed. My mom cried. God, how she'd cried, but toward the end, her tears were happy knowing she had a granddaughter.

By the end of the conversation, it was all about Lilly, and they asked a million questions, most of which I couldn't answer. They're getting on a plane this weekend to come and learn the answers themselves.

At the end, my mom told me something I didn't want to hear. "Marek, you know that had to have been horrible for Gracen too, right? I can't imagine the difficulty she must have had in making those choices."

My mother had fucking loved Gracen like a daughter. They didn't stay in contact when I left, although my parents would have loved to keep seeing her. I'm sure it was just too painful, though, for Gracen, and I understood that.

But I cannot understand how she couldn't let them be a part of Lilly's life.

I thought perhaps I'd rail at Gracen for a good long time, but my momentum is completely depleted. My hand drops from Gracen's face and I scrub it through my hair. "They're flying in Saturday. They want to meet Lilly."

"Of course," Gracen murmurs. She sounds thoroughly beat down, and I wish it made me happy to know that.

But it doesn't.

It makes me feel ashamed.

I push past Gracen, my intent to head for my bedroom and some solitude so I can just brood alone while preferably watching a baseball game on TV.

"Marek," she calls out to me. I stop and turn to face her. "Next time you decide to go off, you need to at least have the decency to let me know that you won't be home."

My ears start buzzing as heat flushes up my neck.

"Decency?" I ask her. I'm astounded she'd talk to me about decency.

"Yes, decency," she says with her chin lifted stubbornly. "And the courtesy of letting me know if you're not coming home."

My laugh is hoarse, my expression condescending. "I owe you no such courtesy, Gracen. You're a roommate. You live in my house. It's none of your busi--"

"It is absolutely my business," she growls at me with her fists curled tight. "When Lilly asks me at night where her daddy is and when he'll be home and I can't provide her an answer, well...it's my fucking business."

Guilt presses down on me. Awful, burning shame that Lilly asked for me and I wasn't here.

I'm on the verge of vomiting out some type of apology when Gracen adds, "You're a dad now. Start acting like it."

Every bit of disgust in myself turns right back around on Gracen. I'm a fucking basket case the way my emotions have been reeling back and forth. One minute I'm angry. The next I'm smitten with tenderness for Lilly. The next I'm feeling guilty. The next I want to scream and yell at Gracen for her injustices. The next I want to kiss her.

Except right now I'm pissed, and I choose to focus on that. I stomp up to her, get right in her face, and snarl my fury at her. "I would know better how to be a dad if I'd had the same three and a half years you did to perfect this parenting shit, now wouldn't I?"

To my astonishment, Gracen rolls her eyes at me. She isn't cowed as usual, but instead goes to her toes to get right in my face. "Enough already. I am so sick of you throwing that at me. I've apologized for it."

"Not enough, you haven't," I say in a harsh whisper, slightly impressed that both of us are still cognizant of a sleeping toddler upstairs.

"Oh get over yourself, Marek," Gracen drawls with another eye roll. "I'm done apologizing to you."

That eye roll.

The way she's dismissing my feelings.

The sheer temerity she has in refusing to shoulder more responsibility when I'm clearly not done with making her feel like shit.

The way she's fighting back at me. Eyes all passionately glazed with indignation, those fantastic tits heaving under her T-shirt.