“You could be. Youseelike a coach. So cool out there, no wasted energy. It’s like you can read the ice.”
“Thanks,” I say, but my brain is saying something else.
What good is it to read the ice when my book is already out of print?
I shower more slowly than the rest of the guys, mostly because I need the heat to loosen my muscles. I’ve been keeping sharp all off season, but there’s a difference between weights and off-ice drills and getting shoved in a scrum. In the locker room,the guys are talking big dreams—social media followings and endorsements, deals and scouts.
These dreams feel like a memory of a different life, one I never got to live.
Don’t say “got” like you were forced out of the NHL. You chose it. Dad needed you, but you chose it.
Patty, Dad, and I watched a movie when I was in eighth grade. I don’t remember what it was called or a thing about the plot except for the main character. He was living a boring life, but there were hints of something dark and exciting from his past. When he got a desperate call, his whole aura shifted. He said something like, “I’ve been training my whole life for this.”
I can still remember the desperate callIgot. The urgency in the tone of the paramedic who called me after my dad’s accident—head-on collision, total paralysis from the waist down.
And that exact quote in that exact weathered, determined tone came to mind:
I’ve been training my whole life for this.
I had finished my second season in the AHL and the Bruins had just called me up. I was supposed to report to Boston the next week—but I never got on the plane.
Patty was on the road, touring. He offered to hire a full-time nurse, but I said no. I imagined Mom would stay this time and that we’d tag team taking care of Dad.
Then the pressure of becoming a full-time caretaker overtook her and she left.
I was the only one who could take care of Dad.
My NHL dreams were shattered.
I frown, running my hand through my soaking hair as I wash out the shampoo. Something doesn’t line up …
Is that timeline right? When did I call the Bruins to let them know I couldn’t accept their offer?
It has to have been after Mom left, right? After it was clear no one could help Dad but me?
But if that’s the case, then why do I remember the beeping of hospital machines? Why can I still remember the look of the speckled gray vinyl floor—ugly and shiny, like wet concrete pretending to be clean—when I called the front office and told them I couldn’t take the spot?
They said they understood. To call them back when I was ready …
Wait.
Did I ever call them back?
Did I really abandon my own dreams before Mom ever left?
Mom tried. She really did. But eventually she packed a bag, kissed Dad on the cheek, and turned to me with tears in her eyes.
“You’re just better at this than I am,” she said. “He listens to you. He trusts you.”
I remember nodding, like I was willing to make whatever sacrifice they needed me to make.
But I’dalreadymade the sacrifice. I made it easy for Mom to leave, for Patty to stay away, until he had his own near-fatal car accident only a few months later. Then I helped him, too, but his recovery was lightning fast. Dad and Patty were both stable within months. Certainly within a year.
Did I really never call Boston back?
My family didn’t need me anymore. I held myself back. Made myself their fallback plan, whether they asked it or not.
Same as with Serena.
