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the . . . uh . . . thing . . . that I wanted to ask you . . .”
    Hank’s eyes dart over to me, though his head remains dead straight. “Yes?”
    “It’s . . . kind of embarrassing,” I say.
    The sportscaster suddenly bellows, “He shoots, he scores!”
    Hank’s shoulders slump.
    “Oh,” I say. “We missed it. Sorry.”
    Hank takes a breath. “It’s OK. This is more important. What’s on your mind, bud?”
    Oh, good Christ. All right. Here goes.
    “So, you . . . know . . . your, uh . . .” I say, glancing downward. “A guy’s . . . you know his . . . his . . . testicles?”
    I look over at Hank. A mortified pink climbs his neck like the red in a thermometer.
    “Yes,” Hank says with a curt nod. “What about them?”
    Just then a middle-aged Indian guy in an age-inappropriate team hoodie steps up to the urinal next to Hank.
    Abort! Abort! Abandon ship! Cut bait! Cease and desist!
    No!
Charlie’s voice drowns out my inner coward.
Witnesses are a good thing. The more humiliating it is for you, the more embarrassing it is for Hank.
    “Um, well . . .” I clear my throat, which is rapidly closing up. “I was just . . . wondering . . . are your”— I lower my voice —“you know . . . are they supposed to be . . . really small?”
    “Really small?” Hank’s eyes dart over to the Indian guy.
    “It’s just . . .”
    Oh, shit, I can’t go through with this. Charlie, what the hell were you thinking?
    Do you want this man out of your life, or do you not? Say it. And say it convincingly.
    “I’m just . . . sort of . . . worried,” I croak. “Like . . . what size . . . is normal? For a testicle? Like . . . the size of a peanut? Is that normal?”
    Hank squints one eye. “A peanut? Like, in the shell?”
    Oh, Jesus, I think I might faint. Or throw up. Or both. I’m sweating through the pits of my shirt. Hank may be embarrassed, but I am beyond mortified.
    “No . . .” I swallow. “A . . . cocktail peanut. That’s tiny, right?”
    Hank blinks. “Listen, bud, maybe we should, uh . . . you know . . . Maybe we should talk about this later, in private.”
    “Never mind.” I shake my head, starting to hyperventilate. “It’s OK. Forget it.” I zip up and head to the sinks.
    A moment later Hank steps up next to me. I look in the mirror. I can’t tell whose face is burning redder, his or mine.
    “Listen, Dan,” he says, soaping his hands. “It’s all right. You can talk to me. About anything. It’s good. That’s what, you know, a father — stepfather — is for.”
    “It’s nothing,” I rasp. “I didn’t . . . it’s fine. Really.”
    “We can take you to the doctor,” he says. “If you’re concerned.”
    “No,” I squeak. “I mean. I’m fine. I’ll just . . . I’ll ask the doctor about it next time I see him. I’m probably just being paranoid.” I turn to him. “Please don’t tell Mom. Seriously. I’d die. Promise me. Please.”
    Hank nods. “Sure, bud. Absolutely. Between you and me. As long as, you know, you’re sure you’re OK.”
    “Totally, yes, I’m good, thanks,” I say, then bolt from the bathroom.

I take a tour around the entire concourse to try to gain my composure, pushing through the crush of people to buy a bottle of water. Letting the blood drain from my face.
    That was
way
harder than I thought it was going to be. Stupid Charlie and his stupid ideas. I can’t believe I let him talk me into doing that. When I get home, we’re going to need to regroup and rethink our strategy.
    When I finally return to my seat, Hank and Mom are pointing and laughing at the two guys dressed in giant plush sumo suits, battling on the ice. The referee counts one of the wrestlers out and a cheer goes up from the intermission-thinned crowd.
    “Oh my God,” Mom says, shaking with laughter. She sniffles and wipes a tear from her cheek. “That was hilarious.”
    I watch her carefully to see if she gives me any kind of