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“So that ends now. You’re dead. There will never be anything else between us because I’m here, and you’re not and will never be again. You lost your chance to have me in your life. There will be no forgiveness. I don’t care anymore. It’s too late.”
The words come easier now.
“People always seem to wonder about their legacy. You know, for once they’re gone. Well, here’s yours. I am never going to become a man like you. A small, petty coward. I will do better. That’s your legacy. Guess you did something good for me after all.”
I take one more look at the gravestone.
I have absolutely nothing else to say.
Do I feel better now?
No. Not really.
But I do feel like there’s a possibility of being better.
Yeah.
I think… I might be okay one day. What’s that saying? Admitting you have a problem is the first step. And in that case, here’s me. Admitting I have a problem. Something I will work on and fix.
One way or another.
I glance at my watch when I reach the car. I won’t make it back to Boston by the start of the game. It’s already four o’clock, the game starts at seven, and I’m still about two hundred miles away from where I’m supposed to be.
And anyway, I need to make one more stop before I get to Ryker.
LAKE
The road to Boston hasn’t gotten any shorter in the few hours I spent driving through Vermont. By the time I make it to the rink, the game is well into the second period, the score is 2-2, and the atmosphere is tense to the max.
The place is packed. I’m not even going to bother trying to find my seat. It’d be impossible to push through all the bodies. The noise is deafening, and it’s difficult to find a good vantage point. I catch glimpses of Ryker as he flies across the ice. He’s so fast it’s insane. It’s a blink-and-he’s-gone kind of speed.
He’ll go places. I just know it. Deep inside. This is a man who will leave his mark.
And he wants me by his side while he does. I’m still not sure why. So far I haven’t given him any proof that I’m in any way worth the hassle.
So I guess it’s high time I prove to him that I am.
How I’m going to do that is anybody’s guess.
But the first step is going to him after the game and telling him I’m all in. The first step is to stop being a coward.
I stretch my neck and go up on the toes of my sneakers to see better. To see something. It’s very little use. I flick glances between the screen and the ice, too nervous to properly concentrate, and I wince when I catch Ryk taking a puck to his thigh. That’s going to leave a nasty bruise. I’ve seen it plenty of times by now. Can vividly picture the bruises he carries on his thighs and sides and shoulders after games. The black and blue that lingers for days and days that he just shrugs off like it’s no big deal.
Now three Brighton players are all rushing toward the goal. I have no idea who they are, but two of them plus one Maine guy land in a heap in front of Maine’s goal, in a mess of blades, sticks, and helmets. A piercing whistle echoes through the arena.
I hold my breath until they get up again. Ryker stretches his neck from side to side as he skates away. He’s talking to Hayes, and everything about him looks pissed off. The tense set of his shoulders. The way he gestures with his hands and taps his stick against the ice.
There’s a line change.
My eyes stay on Ryker. I will him to look in my direction, but this isn’t some magical Disney shit where he somehow, absurdly knows I’m here.
The whistle blows, marking the end of the second period. The teams hit the locker rooms. I fidget in my spot while people move up and down the stairs and wait.
Twenty minutes to go.
Ryker skates onto the ice again. People settle in.
The game is back on.
