CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Noah
Noah stared at his dad lying in that hospital bed. He looked so small, so fragile. His face was beat up, some cuts and bruises, probably from the air bag. There was a lump and cut on his left temple. As a feeling of doom filled his gut, Noah had to remind himself that his dad had pulled through, and he was going to recover.
“Son, tell me about this friend of yours,” his dad asked.
His mom leaned forward curiously.
“I told you, she’s a friend.” He watched as neither his mom nor dad’s expression changed at his answer. So he kept talking. “She’s the general manager of Slap Shot.”
“Your general manager flew all this way to be at your side?” his dad asked. “I’m not buying it.”
“Why the third degree? Geez.” His dad was laid up in a hospital bed with fractured body
