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“Dear God,” Robbie says. “This is the dumbest fucking thing to pray about. Not that I’m praying, really, just talking aloud. If my ma was here I’d be talking to her instead, you know?”
If God has any opinion on the snub, he’s keeping it very quiet. Not that that would be any different than usual.
“I’m not praying,” Robbie says. “I’m just saying that if dinner could be, you know, good, that’d be nice. Obviously I’m going to do all the actual work here, I’m just — I want him to like it.”
More silence, except the sauce gently simmering on the stove, the hum of the fridge, someone shoveling outside. Miserable fucking time for it, Robbie thinks.
If it was Saul he was talking to, he would have said something by now, something like ‘this is Georgie: of course he’s going to like it’, and then Robbie would have pushed back, and it would have been a whole thing, some kind of tug of war that got Robbie better at — he doesn’t know, life, being human, whatever the fuck it is Saul’s taught him over the past decade. Forgiveness.
“Motherfucker,” Robbie says. Of course while he was sitting there telling Saul he wasn’t ready to forgive Georgie, Saul knew that ship had already sailed, he just let Robbie figure that one out by himself. “Motherfucker.”
His ma’s the opposite of a violent person, but she’d be swatting him with a dish towel right now if she heard him cursing in front of God. Robbie’s not sure why — if God’s everywhere, that doesn’t leave you a lot of fucking places to swear, does it?
“You’ve heard all this shit before anyway,” Robbie says, and then, so low nobody but God could hear it, “Sorry for swearing. Bad habit.”
Fuck knows he has to be better about it if he’s going to be spending time around kids. And the way things are working out —
“Fuck,” Robbie says, then goes to the dining room. He needs to sit down.
*
“This is still not praying, for the record,” Robbie says as he puts the broccoli in. “Just — he only eats like one vegetable. Two if we’re counting potatoes, but we’re not, so. I don’t want to ruin broccoli forever for him.”
The bolognese is almost perfect, just needs a bit more time, which Georgie’s providing — he hasn’t left yet, watching the ball drop with Melissa and the kids. Or whatever it is the British do, because that’s the New Year’s broadcast they’re watching — smart as hell, Robbie thinks, as long as the kids fall for it.
Robbie has his doubts Tessa will. She seems like a savvy one. Not saying Toby isn’t, he’s just three. Robbie’s not sure there are any savvy three year olds, but if there were, he bet Tessa was one of them.
Beer in the fridge is cold enough now, thankfully — he forgot about that until this afternoon. A few kinds, because he’s not sure what Georgie likes anymore, figures whatever he doesn’t, Robbie can drink whenever he feels like having one.
Though he hasn’t lately, when he thinks about it. One of those things that dropped out of his life when he left hockey, so central he would have sworn up and down they were a part of him, but he’s hardly glanced at any of them since. Quit watching the shows he used to watch with Matty when he left the Caps. Will pick anything on the menu but steak. He can’t even remember the last time he stepped on the ice. Well, he can, but not exactly, because he wasn’t paying too much attention to the feeling at the time. You don’t, when you don’t know it’s an ending.
“Okay, maybe I am praying,” Robbie says. “But I wouldn’t get too smug or anything.”
His phone buzzes. No miraculous response, just Georgie telling him he’s run a bit late — the kids saw through the ruse — but he’ll be there soon.
“Look,” Robbie says. “I don’t ask you for much.”
He doesn’t know if the silence is ironic or not. Probably just silence, though maybe the irony is just that Robbie’s still listening to it like he’ll get answers.
He can’t remember the last time he prayed. You don’t, when you don’t know it’s an ending. He just knows some time along the line God stopped listening. He’s not sure if that was before he stopped praying or after. Not sure what he’s doing even counts as praying. He’s pretty sure there are plenty of devout people who would say this shit’s nothing but blasphemy.
“I don’t ask you for much,” Robbie repeats. “But I’m asking for this.”
Another text from Georgie, asking if Robbie wants him to get anything on his way, and Robbie quits praying halfway through to text him not to bother. Maybe that part’s blasphemy. Probably.
“Don’t let me fuck up the broccoli, okay?” Robbie says, and then, feeling absolutely ridiculous, “Amen.”
*
Robbie doesn’t fuck up the broccoli. The way Georgie clears his plate is pretty strong evidence. It wouldn’t be particularly notable for most players, but even when Georgie was going back for seconds, thirds, he’d nudge his vegetables to the side, try to hide them under napkins, chicken bones, forks and knives.
Robbie also knows because Georgie won’t quit talking about how good everything is, and maybe that doesn’t mean much, when they’ve established he knows Robbie likes a compliment, and Georgie’s never been particularly shy to provide.
But then, he cleared his plate, scraped the whole thing clean with bread provided for that exact purpose, then asked for seconds. And it’s not — it’s not the prayer. It’s because he worked hard on it, because he’s a good cook when he actually takes the time for it, and he’s cooking for someone he loves, and he’s trying to impress him, and he made a great fucking meal. Now, best broccoli Georgie’s ever had might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s still getting to Robbie’s head a bit.
Though that also might be the wine. He offered to switch to water for the rest of the night, but Georgie waved him off, said not to quit on his account. Robbie’s been nursing the same glass all dinner, but he’s still got that slightly woozy feeling he gets when he’s had a few.
They finish eating at a weird time — too late to watch a movie without accidentally missing midnight, too early to turn on the ball drop, not that Robbie would ever subject Georgie to that. Subject either of them to that, he should be saying, but something in him’s always liked New Year’s. Fuck knows why — Times Square is a fucking monstrosity, and he’s never been much for resolutions. But then, until recently, it wasn’t exactly an aspiration for him to eat healthy and spend most days exercising, it was his literal job description.
Robbie looks ruefully down at the crumbs of dessert — leftover Christmas cookies courtesy of his ma. He’s still not sure where she was hiding them: he thought he’d gotten to all of them on Christmas. He hopes Georgie knows how lucky he is Robbie’s letting him have any. He probably wouldn’t have, but he ate way too many of them on Christmas. Or maybe he would have made an exception for Georgie. Hard to say.
They’ve made it as far as the living room when Georgie’s phone pings, and Robbie can see Georgie hesitate for a moment before he pulls it out.
“Melissa?” Robbie asks, and Georgie nods. Easy to know what it’s about, given the smile on his face, and when Robbie makes an inquisitive noise Georgie hands his phone over to show a picture of Tessa, wearing a tiara, fast asleep on the couch.
Almost made it the distance. Melissa’s written beneath it, and Robbie laughs.
“It didn’t work, I guess,” Georgie says, rueful, even as he smiles down at his phone with fucking hearts in his eyes.
“I love you,” Robbie says. “I know it’s kind of early to say that, but—“
He has to stop to laugh at himself, because it isn’t, really? It isn’t really early at all. But he’s the only one laughing this time. The only one saying anything, and Robbie would take a little more offense, except Georgie looks absolutely gobsmacked right now, like somehow it had never occurred to him until right this minute that was even a possibility.
But then, Robbie can’t really throw stones, can he, when it hit him like a thunderbolt halfway through dinner while he white knuckled his wine glass and asked Georgie at least four times whether he was enjoying his food.
“You didn’t eat all that because I kept bugging you, right?” Robbie asks. “You actually liked the broccoli?”
“I love you,” Georgie says, and then, before Robbie can ask again, because he knows a fucking misdirect when he sees one, “I told you, best I’ve ever had.”
“So what is—“ Robbie says, lets Georgie steer him to the couch. “Where do we—“
He doesn’t know why it’s so hard, stringing sentences together right now, maybe the way Georgie’s looking at him, close, like he’s trying to memorize him or something. Likely succeeding, judging by his track record, and that’s a bit of a scary thought.
“I mean, you’ve got the rest of the season,” Robbie says.
“Maybe,” Georgie says, and when he goes to knock on Robbie’s coffee table, Robbie follows suit.
“Maybe,” Robbie says. “And I don’t know what you’re going to be doing after that, or where you’re going to want to go. I don’t even know how long I’m going to be keeping this job. But I just, I want you to know — I’m in, okay?”
Georgie doesn’t say anything right away, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t read Georgie’s face.
“Are you in?” Robbie checks.
“Seriously?” Georgie asks, his face finally cracking, all amusement.
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Robbie says. “I know you’re in, I just need to hear you say it.”
“I’m in,” Georgie says. “That’s — whatever you want, I’m in.”
And that’s a terrifying thing to hear and knows it’s true, but Robbie’s dealt with harder shit in his time. He’ll take this kind of fear over it any fucking day.
*
“This isn’t another prayer,” Robbie says.
He doesn’t know why he’s whispering — he’s in the bathroom, and Georgie’s doing the dishes halfway across the house. Robbie said to leave them until tomorrow, but Georgie insisted, said Robbie wouldn’t want to make breakfast in a dirty kitchen, and how was Robbie supposed to argue when he was right? So he let Georgie wash the dishes. How fucking generous of him.
“I don’t — I’m not —” Robbie says. “You didn’t do this. I made the fucking broccoli. I just.”
The silence feels almost physical now, a bubble around him, like nothing he says could make it out, which is good, just in case Georgie walks in him fighting with God about broccoli. Not that it’s a fight. Fuck, it’s supposed to be the opposite.
“My ma didn’t raise an ingrate,” Robbie says. “So, you know. Thank you.”
*
They’re in bed when midnight arrives, though not asleep. That’s not accidental or anything, — Robbie’s honestly past ready for bed and he frankly feels stupid about keeping Georgie awake, talking about the most asinine shit as he runs down the clock, but something in him just wants — he knows it’s not only superstitious, but corny as hell, that idea that the first person you kiss at midnight being the one you spend the rest of the year with, but also — he likes that thought. He’s waiting up for it. He’s making poor perpetually sleep-deprived Georgie wait up for it, and he isn’t telling him why, because it’s cheesy as fuck.
Except then he does, and Georgie’s face lights up like a little kid. Like — Robbie swears to God Tessa is the spitting image of him, but right then he looks more like her, so fucking pumped to learn a new handshake, like she’d never heard of anything more exciting, and it’s Georgie at this superstitious, ridiculous little —
Fuck, Robbie’s lost track of time.
“11:59,” Georgie tells him when he goes to check his phone.
“Oh,” Robbie says. “I see you’ve got it covered then.”
“Yeah, babe,” Georgie says, “I’ve got you.”
Georgie’s more than got it covered — he counts them down, like he must have done with his kids before he came, and Robbie groans at the start, but he joins in for the last few. He isn’t sure who leans forward first at the strike of midnight, he just knows is that when he kisses Georgie all he can taste is himself.