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“I’m sorry. Your dad should know better. That’s not fair to you at all.” Rust squeezed me tight. “But Isabelle, I’m telling you, it is not yourfault Johnny didn’t make it to the show.”
“Yeah, right,” I said sarcastically, and rolled my eyes.
“It’snot,Isabelle,” he said, stone-faced. “I should know. We’ve been best friends since we were kids.”
“Yes, yes, I know. And you were both promising hockey prospects who were destined to play in the NHL, blah blah blah. But it all went wrong whenIwas born, because Dad had to quit playing hockey to get a job.”
“It’s just not that simple,” Rust said. “Look, Isabelle, you’ve got to understand something. Your dad was agoodplayer. But you need to be more than good to make it to the pros. You’ve got to be insanely lucky. You’ve got to hit the genetic jackpot by having all the right tools—the size, the skill, the hockey smarts. At the lower levels, guys who trulyhave all those attributes have a funny way of making their teammates look better and dragging them into the upper levels along with them. It’s like that saying, ‘A rising tide lifts all boats.’”
“Okay … but I don’t see how that changes anything I said, though?”
“Did you know your dad wasn’t the only player on our high school team to get drafted? Three other guys from our class were. Yet I was the only one who made it. No one else even came close. Your dad isn’t unique in that position.”
“So …?”
He chuckled. “I’m trying not to toot my own horn here, Isabelle, but what I’m trying to tell you is your dad got drafted because he was my defense partner. Scouts were showing up to watch meplay. But more eyeballs on me meant more eyeballs on my teammates. Take me out of the equation and your dad never gets scouted, let alone drafted. I’ve been around hockey long enough now to know that your dad wouldn’t have made it, even if you weren’t born.”
I reared back. That went against everything I’d ever heard about my dad’s playing career. “What makes you so sure?”
“First of all, he was too small to play defense at the pro level.”
“Cale Cotton’s pretty small, isn’t he?” I countered. “And he made it.”
“That’s true, but the game was completely different back when we played; it was far more rugged and physical. A defensemanhadto be tall, thick, and strong to play in the pros. And yes, Cale is ‘small’ by modern standards, yet he’sstillsix feet tall and two hundred pounds. Your dad is what, five foot eleven? And a buck-eighty soaking wet back in those days?” Rust shook his head. “Sure, things are different now—defensemen can be smaller, as long as they’re quick, mobile, and can move the puck and score. Like Cale. But like I said, that simply wasn’t the case back when Johnny and I were kids.”
“So you’re saying my dad never had a chance because of his size?”
“His size was definitely a big issue for him, yes. But that’s not the main reason he didn’t make it. Because size can be overcome.”
“Okay, so what was it?”
“I talked about size and skill and hockey IQ. And those are all extremely important. But there’s something else that’s just as, if not more important, than all those attributes: thedesireto make it. Your dad didn’t have that all-consuming drive to get better and make it to the pros.”
My nose scrunched up. “But … Dad loves hockey. It’s all he ever talks about.”
“True, Johnny loves hockey, like damn near every other kid who grew up in Minnesota. Difference is, he didn’t love the game to the point that it was all he could think about. He didn’t sleep with his hockey sticks like I did. He didn’t wake up at five in the morning before school, just to squeeze some extra practice in on the backyard pond.”
I snickered. “No kidding? You did all that?”
“And I loved every second of it. My story isn’t unique among guys who made it, by the way. We’reallbig time hockey nerds. We eat, sleep, and breathe hockey. We’re pretty boring people once you get to know us, actually.”
I laughed. “Hockey nerds! I love it.”
He laughed, too. “It’s true. Back in our high school days, I wasn’t interested in girls or music or cars or anything else. Just hockey. You know, when Johnny started dating your mom, I was on his ass about how he spent too much time with her. I was always telling him he should be single so he could focus on his game. We had some big time scraps over it, too.”
“Really?!” I giggled, surprised.
“Oh, yeah. Let’s just say Eleanor was notmy biggest fan,” he chuckled. “But see, your dad isn’t built like me. He loved being with your mom more than he loved being at the rink or the gym. I didn’t understand it, because he alwaystalkedlike he wanted to make it, but he didn’tactlike he wanted to make it. You know?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Then youcame along,” he said, and gently rocked my shoulders. “You know, it’s funny. When he told me he’d gotten Eleanor pregnant, I actually thought it mightfinallylight a fire under his ass and get him to finally dedicate himself to the game. Because I wantedmy best friend to make it with me. Hell, looking back, I probably wanted him to make it more than he did.”
“So what happened?”
“Once he knew he was going to be a dad, something shifted in him. With each day, he went more and more into dad mode. Whatever fire he had for the game suddenly vanished, because he became more concerned about providing a good life for his wife and baby. And honestly, it’s for the best. Deep down, your dad probably knew he didn’t have what it took to make it to the pros. I kept him encouraging him to stick with it, to keep grinding, but thank God he didn’t listen to me. He did the right thing. He quit hockey so he could provide for his family and be a good dad.”
“So … wait a minute … that sounds like you’re saying Ididmess things up for him?”
