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A twenty-two-year-old driving home from a party—drunk as all hell—ran a stop sign and rammed into the driver's side of my dad's truck.
He was killed on impact.
Watching my newly widowed mom struggle to keep her family above water was hard. But the decision I made to help her no matter what wasn't. I couldn't watch her struggle any more than I could lose the ability to play hockey. I live and breathe the damn sport. It was, and always will be, my passion.
I get that from my dad.
I remember sitting on the couch with him, eating pizza and watching a game every Saturday night in our Vancouver Warrior's jerseys. The silly old man never could pick a good team to cheer for. Even at the age of seven, I knew they were a shitty team, but they were his favourite, and that's the only thing that ever mattered to me. Some days are harder than others, but we make do.
"Oakley? Are you listening to me?" Coach asks, annoyance written clearly on his worn-down features.
"Sorry, Coach. What did you say?"
"I said, what do you plan on doing once you have been drafted? You know you're going to have to leave them at some point. This is your dream." He's giving me that familiar determined stare, trying to convince me to change my mind.
Too late for that.
"I haven't thought that far yet," I say, looking down at my shoes. I am far too drained for this conversation. "I really need a shower, Coach. I'll be back this week to get all my stuff. We can talk about this then." Or not.
He lets out a long sigh but nods reluctantly. "Go on. I'll see you then. You did good tonight." I force a small smile on my lips and give my head a nod before quickly rising from the sofa and leaving the office.
