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“My son will be the best, the absolute best, and nothing less.”
My ringtone pulls me out of my nightmare of a memory.
“Fuck!” I scream for what feels like hours, hating that I remember his voice so clearly after all these years later.
Utterly enraged that he still holds this power over me, I smack my hand on the countertop. It worsens when we lose games or when I make a mistake in practice. The feeling of impending agony that would await me still chills me to my bones.
My father was and is the most repulsive human I have ever known. He abused and manipulated my mother and me for years and years. Until the pain killed her and left me wishing it had done the same for me. But he was a hero to everyone else in town—Deputy and Coach Costello.
He had to have the perfect image—a beautiful, doting wife and a son who was the best hockey player in town. After all, he had been the best in his day.
If there is one thing I learned from him, it’s how to play hockey. He was unofficially my coach for my whole childhood and officially my coach for all of high school. The love and absolute hate I have for the game is overwhelming some days. Sometimes, I can’t seem to find the difference.
Picking up the ringing phone, I see Kos on the screen. My thumb swipes to answer.
“What’s up?” I say, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice as I wipe the running tears from my cheeks.
Alec says, “I’m here. Hurry up.”
“I’ll be right out,” I tell him before hanging up.
I usually ride with Brett to practice, but he had physical therapy today, and he is just going to meet us there. I’ve lived with Brett since I joined the team three years ago. Neither of us had family here and figured it would be the easiest and most sensible decision with how much time we’d be spending together on the ice anyway. And he wanted someone to split rent with him.
The redness in my face has dissipated when I meet my stare in the mirror again. I hastily throw on boxers, joggers, and a shirt along with some tennis shoes before heading downstairs with my duffel bag.
When I get downstairs and reach the front door, I see Alec parked against the curb. I hurry outside and slide into the front seat, knowing time is running out before we’re late. I barely have the door shut when Alec speeds off.
“About time,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot and flashes me a sincere smile. He opens his glove box and grabs something. “Here.” He tosses me a bottle of eye drops.
“Still red?” I ask, uncapping the bottle.
“A little. Are you good?” he asks, glancing over at me for a moment with concern in his eyes.
Concern, not pity, which is an important distinction. One that made telling Alec about my past okay. He never pitied me. He respected the pain and torture I had gone through, but he’s never looked at me any differently.
“Yeah, just an episode,” I confess.
Ones I wish would stop happening. But I don’t know that they will ever fully go away.
Alec nods and turns the hype music up.
We arrive at the arena a few minutes later, and I’m itching to get on the ice. I love hockey more than I ever thought possible when I was younger. It’s my constant, and it always has been. On the bad days, on the good days, when I need an outlet, hockey is always there. It has been the only thing in my life I can truly rely on.
Alec parks, and we walk inside and head to the locker room to gear up. My body moves through the motions of changing into gear from the thousands of times I have done it before.
Gliding onto the ice feels like flying. It’s one of the best feelings in the world. Skating next to Alec, I survey the team. We are looking good this year, and I’m excited for the first game next weekend.
Brett nods at me as I fall into the shooting drill, slapping my stick on the ice. Brett passes it to me, and my focus narrows on the goalie and the net. Working the puck side to side, I purposefully favor my right side, hoping MacArthur falls for it. He does, leaning just the way I want him.
I shoot the puck, and MacArthur dives for it, but the puck flies into the net with force.
“Nice shot,” he calls out to me as he passes the puck and readies himself for the player going next behind me.
This practice is drill and skill heavy, focusing on puck handling and one-on-one, one-on-two, two-on-three, et cetera.
I’m facing Kos and a rookie, Rich Kremmer. The rookie I’m not worried about, but Kos is fucking fast. Dribbling the puck, I pass the rookie with ease, leaving Alec. I’m illegally checked from behind, and I fly forward hard, but I manage to maintain my balance.
It’s like a light switch is flicked in my head. I might still be on edge from earlier, but I forget about the puck and spin to find the rookie with a smug smirk on his face.
