The Dixon Rule: Chapter 6

“AND THEN WE GOT TO SEND ACTUAL MESSAGES TO THE ACTUAL astronauts in the International Space Station! Can you believe it! And tomorrow we get to see their responses. Can you believe that!”

If she weren’t ten years old, I would question whether Maryanne snorted a pound of cocaine before I got here. She’s pacing the living room, talking a mile a minute, wearing a look that can only be described as euphoric.

Sadly, all this ecstasy is a result not of coke but space camp.

“Firstly, I need you to chill,” I advise her. “You’re making me dizzy. Secondly, what was your message?”

She offers a broad smile. “I asked whether farts smell differently in zero gravity.”

I gape at her. “That? That was your question? We’re talking about a real astronaut in outer space, and that’s what you choose to ask them?”

She shrugs. “I must know.”

“Also, I heard this camp’s got you making bottle rockets. What if you mix all the ingredients wrong and accidentally create a biological weapon?”

Maryanne thinks it over for a beat. “Then I guess we kill everyone at camp.”

“Wow. Kid. That’s dark.” Laughing, I shake off the fact that my little sister might be a psychopath. “All right, go change out of that uniform. Mini golf ain’t going to play itself.”

“Eeee! I love it when you’re home!”

Next thing I know, she throws her skinny arms around me. I lift her off her feet in a big hug, making her laugh in delight.

I love being home too. I love my family, and I especially love this geeky girl in my arms. Some kids might resent their parents for giving them a sibling after eleven years of being an only child, but Maryanne’s had me wrapped around her little finger since she was an hour old and I was a preteen. I used to race home from hockey practice and demand to feed her. At night, I would sing her lullabies until my parents sat me down one day, informed me that I can’t sing, and said they would prefer, for the sake of their ears, not to hear my singing voice ever again. Merciless, those two.

I can hear them chatting in the kitchen, so I drift down the hall toward the doorway.

Mom just got home from a meeting, and she leans against the white granite counter in her trademark business getup—fitted slacks and a silk blouse—with her curly black hair pulled into a tight bun at her nape. She always looks like she stepped off the cover of a corporate magazine.

Dad, meanwhile, is a perpetual bum. Even before he started working from home, he’d wear jeans and a T-shirt to the office. Now the jeans have been replaced with baggy sweatpants.

They make such an odd couple. They met in high school when Mom was the type-A class president and Dad was the laid-back hockey star. Now he’s the laid-back entrepreneur who sort of fell into a super-successful business after his NHL dreams didn’t pan out. And she’s the type-A town manager of Heartsong, Vermont, a position that works functionally as a mayor. She’s the first Black woman to ever hold the position, so it was a big deal when she was elected by the city council. Heartsong has gotten a lot more progressive over the past ten years. The townspeople adore my mom.

My parents glance over at my entrance, halting their conversation.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say.

“Oh, you’re not interrupting,” Mom answers quickly. “Just discussing work stuff. Where’s your sister?”

“Changing out of her camp uniform. I’m taking her mini golfing.” I gesture to my dad’s bare arms and ask, “You been hitting the course this summer? Your arms are looking less pudgy from the last time I saw them.”

He glares in indignation. “Pudgy? How dare you?”

“The truth hurts, bro. You’ve definitely been working out or something, though. You look great.” He must’ve lost a solid fifteen pounds these past few months.

“Trying to.”

“I probably shouldn’t have brought so much sausage, then,” I say with a grin. I might’ve gone a little overboard when I paid a visit to my favorite butcher in Boston on my way to Heartsong.

“Wait, there’s sausage?” His eyes light up. “Please tell me it’s from Gustav.”

“No, I went to some generic grocery store butcher. Of course it’s from Gustav.”

Mom glances from me to Dad. “I will never understand this obsession.”

“Some people just can’t see the big picture,” Dad says, nodding at me.

I nod back. “Exactly.”

She’s exasperated. “What does sausage have to do with the big picture? What big picture are we even talking about? You know what—forget it! I don’t care. I’m just happy you’re home,” Mom says, wrapping her arms around my waist.

Her head barely grazes my chin. At six one, I inherited Dad’s height and the perfect blend of their skin tones. I gotta say, I’m really fucking good-looking.

“I wish you could stay longer,” she clucks.

“Me too, but I’m hosting a goodbye party for Beck on Saturday night.”

Her eyes widen. “Is he moving?”

“No. He’s going to Australia on vacation. This dude demands a goodbye party for a monthlong vacay.”

“I’ve always liked that guy,” Dad remarks, because everyone likes Beckett Dunne. He oozes charm, that asshole.

“I’ll come back again next week,” I promise my folks. “I want to try to be here every weekend for the rest of the summer.”

Mom is pleased. “Your sister is going to love that.” She pauses. “Are you going to see Lynsey while you’re here? We ran into her the other night at the pancake house.”

“Yeah, I know. She told me.”

“Oh, so you’re still talking.” Mom speaks in a careful tone.

I honestly can’t gauge if my parents are upset or thrilled that Lynsey and I are broken up. Sometimes, they really seemed to like her. And then other times, I’d catch them exchanging looks, as they do now.

“You’d be happy if we got back together, right?” I ask them.

Mom blinks in surprise. “I didn’t realize you two were discussing getting back together.”

“We’re not. Just hypothetically, you’d be happy with it if we did?”

“We will always support whatever you do,” she says, and Dad nods in agreement.

It’s not quite an answer. But I’m also not going to push a hypothetical, given that Lynsey has shown zero desire to rekindle our relationship.

“All right, I’m going to track down the squirt and head out. Let her expend some energy on the putt-putt course and then fill her up with junk food and sugar so she crashes hard when we get home.”

“Thanks for taking her out. We’re excited to have a quiet night in.” Dad winks at Mom.

“Seriously, gross. I don’t want to think about the activities you have planned while we’re gone.”

Dad offers a wolfish look. “Probably a good idea.”

“I literally just said I don’t want to know,” I growl.

I hear them laughing at me as I stomp out of the kitchen.

The following night, Dad and I indulge in a Stanley Cup marathon where we watch old footage featuring some of our favorite championship wins. He’s been recording every single game for the last twenty-five years, so we have plenty to choose from. When we get to the game Garrett Graham won with the Bruins, sweeping that series 4–0, Dad says, “I can’t believe Luke married into that family.”

“Right? I mean, I can’t believe he’s married, period. But that’s a serious family to join.” I marvel. “Hockey royalty doesn’t even do it justice.”

I note the way Dad’s eyes shine when Graham scores one of the most beautiful goals I’ve ever seen to secure the Cup for the team. Fuck, I can’t wait for the opportunity to chase that trophy. I want to hold the Stanley Cup in my hands. I want to see the cool silver shimmer under stadium lights.

“Do you miss it?” I ask my father. “Playing?”

“Every day.” He speaks without hesitation, and it brings a clench to my chest.

I can’t imagine how devastating it would be to skate onto the ice for your very first NHL game and suffer a career-ending injury on your very first shift. In one tragic play, Dad tore both his ACL and MCL, and his knee was collateral damage. There was no way he could ever play at the same level again. His joint stability was shot, and the doctors warned him he could do permanent damage if he kept playing.

Hockey was his entire life, and it was stolen from him. When I was drafted by Chicago, I broke down and cried. Seeing the pride on my dad’s face, knowing I was going to play for the same team he had, albeit fleetingly—it had triggered a wave of sheer, throat-closing emotion. All I’ve ever wanted was to make him proud. To make both of them proud. I don’t care how sappy it makes me, but they’re legit the best parents anyone could ever have. Maryanne and I are beyond lucky.

Speaking of Maryanne, she chooses that moment to wander into the family room and flop on the couch between us, chattering on about tomorrow’s itinerary. They’re going to the planetarium.

“Man, space camp actually sounds dope,” I remark.

“It’s fun,” she acknowledges. “But! Geology camp is even better.”

“Uh-huh. Is it now?” I play along. From the corner of my eye, I see Dad fighting a smile.

“Absolutely!” Maryanne proceeds to tell us about geology camp, explaining how there are three whole days dedicated to archaeology, when they do a mock excavation. “And! We get to make our own magnetic fields. And! We go on rock hunts. The brochure says there’s tons of agate around here.”

“A what?” I ask.

“Agate. It’s a gemstone.” She huffs at me. “Don’t you know anything about Vermont geology?”

“Nope. And I’m insulted that you think I would. I was popular in school.”

“I’m very popular,” Maryanne says haughtily, then continues spitting out geology camp stats. “Oh! And we get to dig for serpentine!”

“Like snakes?” I wrinkle my forehead.

“No. It’s a rock. Serpentine. And it’s so pretty. It’s greenish and black and super smooth. The brochure says they give us these little pickaxes we can use to dig.”

“I’m sorry, what? They’re giving children pickaxes?”

“So?” Maryanne challenges.

“So that seems aggressively irresponsible.”

Dad howls with laughter.

The rest of the visit flies by, and I’m bummed to say goodbye when Friday rolls around. I leave Heartsong after the morning rush, making it back to Hastings in the early afternoon.

Almost immediately, I realize something has happened to the residents of my apartment complex.

They’ve been replaced by pod people.

Pod people who, for some reason, have it out for me.

Not that everyone was overly friendly before, but at least I got smiles and introductions when I wandered around Meadow Hill.

Suddenly everyone is borderline hostile.

Like that dude, Niall, who lives downstairs. When I bump into him in the outdoor visitors’ lot where I park my Mercedes, he points his finger at me and snaps, “Your music’s too loud.” Then he clicks the key fob to lock his little Toyota hatchback and stalks off.

Harry, who mans the lobby in the Sycamore building, scowls when I give him a heads-up that I’m having people over on Saturday. I’m not even obligated to tell him. It was a courtesy.

Then, on the path, I pass one of the married couples who live in Weeping Willow, and the wife gives me a look that could freeze water.

When I say hello, she responds with, “Yeah, okay.”

Now, I’m checking my mail after two days away, and the woman who lives next door to Niall—I think her name is Priya?—cautiously approaches the mailboxes as if she’s entering a lion’s cage.

I greet her with a smile and realize, no, that’s not wariness. Her expression conveys deep contempt, as if she’s entering the cage of a lion she wants to murder.

“Hello,” I say, my smile faltering.

“Sure.”

I don’t know if “sure” is better than “yeah, okay,” but it sort of feels like it’s a rung lower on the greeting ladder.

“Priya, right?” I reintroduce myself. “Shane.”

“I remember your name. I don’t forget names.”

“Right, you must be good at that. Keeping track of all those clients. Diana mentioned you were a counselor or something?”

“I’m a psychotherapist.”

“That’s really cool. Did you go to school for that?” It’s the dumbest question I could have asked, but she’s making me uncomfortable with those sullen eyes and the frown marring her lips.

“I chose to go the psychotherapy route, but I have both an MD in psychiatry and a PhD in psychology.” She spares me a disparaging look before turning to unlock her mailbox. “From Harvard.”

“Wow.” I’m suitably impressed.

“I know, right? Isn’t it astonishing that women can be doctors in the twenty-first century? That our worth is no longer tied to the way men treat us?”

I blink.

She’s smiling sweetly at me.

I have no idea what the fuck is going on.

So I keep a pleasant expression plastered on my face and say, “Definitely. Five gold stars for women’s liberation.”

Her eyes narrow. Jesus. Those eyes. Dark as coal. “Are you mocking the feminist movement?”

“Not at all. I think it’s great.” I hastily tuck my mail under my arm. “Okay, I have to go now.”

I hurry out of the vestibule, feeling Priya’s gaze piercing into my back.

What the hell is the matter with these people? None of them threw a welcome parade for me, but I assumed that’s because they didn’t like the idea of a college guy moving into a complex full of couples and families. But there’s a large number of singles in Meadow Hill too, and nearly all the ones I’ve run into today have acted like total dickheads.

It isn’t until I go outside for a swim a couple of hours later that I finally encounter a friendly face, belonging to a woman in her early fifties who’s leaving the pool area as I’m entering. I’ve seen her hanging out at the pool before, but this is the first time she’s stopped to chat. Before now, she seemed content to ogle me from behind her book while I pretended not to notice.

“Hello! It’s Shane, right?” She has dyed-red hair, very tanned skin, and, unlike everyone else in this goddamn place today, is sporting an actual smile.

“Yup. That’s me.” I extend a hand to her. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Veronika. Cherry Blossom, 1A.”

Her hand lingers a little too long, until I’m forced to wrench mine away. I use the pretense of needing to pull my phone out of my pocket, but that simply draws her attention to the phone and gives her the wrong idea.

“Yes, good call, we should exchange numbers!” Veronika sounds delighted. She has one of those raspy voices that tells me she probably smoked two packs a day in her youth. Maybe still does. “It’s always smart to have a neighbor’s contact info. Would you like me to add you to our Meadow Hill group chat?”

There’s a group chat?

Fuckin’ Dixon. I bet she’s been scheming to keep me off it.

“I’d love that,” I tell Veronika, flashing her my dimples.

She giggles like a schoolgirl. We exchange numbers, and she saunters off with the exaggerated sway of her hips.

I’m pretty sure that lady wants to bone me.

I stretch my towel over one of the loungers and settle on top of it, deciding to scroll on my phone for a while before swimming laps. I just completed an hour workout in the Meadow Hill gym, and I think maybe I overdid it. It’s arm day, so the thought of using my arms again to propel myself through water makes every muscle in my body weep.

I take my off-season training seriously, but this summer I’m kicking it into a whole new gear. I plan to be in the best shape of my life when hockey season starts. There’s no room for slacking off anymore. This time next year, I’ll be reporting to training camp. The last thing I want to do is show up for my first NHL training camp huffing and puffing like a fifty-year-old smoker because I let myself get out of shape.

I find some new messages in our guys’ group chat. THE BOYS ALL CAPS, as Beckett named it. And yes, ALL CAPS is part of it. I truly don’t know why women fawn all over that guy. He’s not funny.

BECKETT:

Anyone feel like hitting up a club tonight?

WILL:

Pass. I’m too sunburnt to move.

Originally the group chat was only for me, Beckett, and Ryder, but Beck added Will after they became joined at the hip. I’ve never met two dudes more obsessed with time-travel movies. And group sex. They do a lot of that too. But I don’t judge.

BECKETT:

You should have asked one of the milfs to rub sunscreen all over your dick.

WILL:

I don’t fuck the clients. Gonna keep saying that until you’re forced to accept it.

BECKETT:

Never. Ryder, you down?

RYDER:

Me personally? Fuck no. But lemme ask the wife. If she wants to go, I’ll go.

BECKETT:

Wow.

RYDER:

Wow what?

BECKETT:

That woman owns you now. You realize that, right, mate?

RYDER:

Yes and?

I raise a brow at the screen. Lord, what’s happened to my buddy Ryder? Dude’s gone from avoiding girlfriends like the plague to getting married and happily handing over his balls on a silver platter.

Although I suppose if my wife were Gigi Graham, I’d gladly let her handle my balls.

I heard her come once. I still think about that sometimes. Jerked off to it a few times too, though I’d never tell Ryder that. He’d rip my throat out.

Or maybe he wouldn’t?

I mean…he was fully aware I was standing outside the door of that study room when he and Gigi fooled around in the library last fall. And I’m sure he knows I would’ve had to be painfully hard listening to her soft moans. Part of me thinks he might’ve let me watch if Gigi had wanted it. He’d give that woman anything she asked her. Man’s smitten.

Watching isn’t my kink, though.

Being watched, on the other hand…I could get on board with that. But that’s not something I’d ever suggest to a girlfriend. The one time I mentioned this kink to Lynsey, she was so disgusted that I never brought it up again. She accused me of watching too much pornography. Which is laughably not the case because I very rarely use porn to jack off. I prefer the real thing.

Well, not so much these days. Now that random hookups are off the table thanks to the Crystal fiasco, the only way I’m getting laid is if I 1) have a girlfriend or 2) find myself a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Someone I spend an extended amount of time with. Someone to have regular sex with instead of impersonal and hollow one-night stands.

I’m sending a message to the group chat saying I don’t feel like going out tonight when the phone vibrates in my hand. I brighten when I see the notification.

Hell yeah. Progress! I may have been spurned by everyone else today, but at least I won over Veronika. And now maybe the rest of them will be wowed by my stellar personality via my hilarious messages and start warming up to me.

No sooner does the optimism take root than another notification pops up.