“No.” It’s out of my mouth before I hear the question. I look over at her and shake my head. I hadn’t even suspected he would be a douche.
She reaches into the popcorn bowl and puts the whole fistful in her mouth.
“Good,” she says, with her mouth full. “I would have killed him.”
I grab some popcorn and eat it. I look at the TV console, at the photo of him, and then I zone out on the black TV.
“Why are you watching it on your laptop?”
She shrugs. “Because I was too lazy to sign in. I hate how it’s always signing me out.”
I lean back. “Yeah, that’s pretty annoying.” I get up and grab a handful of popcorn. “I’m going to take a shower.”
She clicks play on her laptop as I walk down the hall and shower.
When I’m done, I sit at my desk and open the laptop. The Real Analysis problem set is still open to 3.1.4. I read the problem, and the words enter my head and stay this time. I finish it, and then I grab my phone to text my brother, noticing that my mom didn’t text me back.
Me:How was your day?Bear:OkMe:Did mom sign the field trip form?Bear:YeahMe:YayBear:[meme of a frog wearing a tiny hat]Me:[meme of a frog wearing a different tiny hat]Bear:Good nightMe:Good night. Love you.
I do a bit of homework and then turn off the lights. My mom couldn’t even thank me or confirm that she received the Venmo payment. I lie in bed, trying not to think about the situation back at home. I’m out of there for a reason.
Chapter 5
Benson
Thelightsaren’tallthe way up yet. The maintenance guy — Frank, he’s been here since my dad was an undergrad — is in the back flipping Camdenkers, and the rink is in that half-lit state where the glass looks gray, and the flags hanging from the rafters are just shapes. The Zamboni is running on the next sheet over. I can hear it through the wall.
I’m on the bench with my bag at my feet, lacing my skates. I’m threading the laces through the second-to-last eyelet when I remember being eighteen years old in the passenger seat of my dad’s truck. We had just driven home from the rink in Plymouth where I won the juniors championship in double overtime on a goal I will, for the rest of my life, be able to describe in the present tense.
My dad had both hands on the steering wheel as he glared at the garage door. The driveway light was on, the one with the motion sensor that had been broken for two years and stayed on whenever it felt like it. It was December, so there was salt on the pavement. My dad is a legend in my book. He coached my Squirts team, my Pee Wee team, and for two years, my Bantam team. He yelled at refs and called assistant coaches in the parking lot at midnight. One time, he threw a water bottle at the bench in a way he later apologized to me about. But he doesn’t cry.
He put his head down on the steering wheel, and I had no idea what to do. It was dead silent when I noticed his shoulders moving. When he lifted his head, he wiped his cheeks with the back of his hands. I could only stare. The image is branded into my brain to this day. I won’t ever forget that moment.
“I’m proud of you, son,” he said under his Camdenth. He reached over and grabbed my shoulder, forcing a grin through his tears. “So proud.” He meant those words with his entire body. I could feel it in his palm. “It’s not just because of the hockey. Hear me? It’s your perseverance and resilience. You work hard. You challenge yourself. You don’t give up.” He wiped his face with his free hand. “Keep that forever, Benson.” He squinted his eyes, staring right at me. “Hear me? Don’t lose your edge. Soon you’ll be out of this house, and it won’t be about making me proud anymore, son. Make yourself proud. I need you to hear me that this was never about me. You have real talent, but hard work trumps that every time. Understand?”
I nodded as he gripped my shoulder tighter.
“You’re a smart boy. I have no doubt that you’ll go out and accomplish whatever you set your mind to.” He nodded, wiping the tears that followed. “I love you, son.”
“Love you, Dad.”
Then he got out of the truck, closed the door, and walked into the house. I sat in the truck, staring at the closed door. He was right. The man was right about a lot of shit that went over my head, but I get it now. I’m in my fourth year of college, and hard work trumps talent every single fucking time. I finish tying my skates, but I stare at nothing for a minute. I don’t know how long I sit here for, but that night replays in my head.
I walk to the boards. The rubber matting under my skate guards. The smell of fresh ice. I take the guards off and hook them on the rail. The first stride is smooth. I do a slow loop. I’m not pushing. I never push when I’m out here this early. This isn’t training. This is the hour I keep for myself before anyone else gets here. Right now, I’m just a kid skating. I do another loop. The Zamboni in the next sheet shuts off. I have seven months until the draft.
Frank gets the rest of the lights up around six. The rink goes from gray to the white-blue. The shadows under the boards disappear. You can see the lines. The freshmen come in first. Four of them in a clump near the visitor bench, fully geared up, looking stiff. Hayes is one of them — kid from Minnesota, big, slow start to fall camp, missed two assignments in Monday’s practice and got chewed out for it. I watch him sit down to put on his helmet. He’s tense in his shoulders.
I turn my attention to Stan whose walking like he just got out of bed. He’s holding a Dunkin coffee in one hand and his stick in the other. He’s got one shin guard on while carrying the other. He sees me on the ice and lifts the coffee.
“Reeve.”
“Ermington.”
“This is offensive.”
“What is?”
“That you’re already out there. We have,” he checks his watch — he doesn’t have a watch, he’s checking his bare wrist — “fourteen minutes.”
