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prologue
Brody
For much of my life, I was a storyteller. One who told harmless fibs and watched people listen with envy to every word I said.
These fictions involved my father taking me to Disney World for the weekend, just for the hell of it. I told my friends we rode every ride and stuffed our faces with junk food to the point of feeling sick. I boasted about some crazy roller coaster I went on that went upside down at high speeds or backward through a dark tunnel. And I told them about the fireworks show that lit up the whole damn sky. Fireworks that I had really only seen on TV commercials when I was at my grandmother’s house.
I bragged about my infamous trip to Six Flags, telling a tale that none of the rides were too scary for me. And told the story about the desert. That I had seen it and felt the sand. And it wasn’t all that interesting. But before I bragged about my visit to Universal Studios, I made sure to do my research first because I hadn’t seen much of it on TV. The more I researched, the more stories I told.
It wasn’t until I was eleven that my stories finally caught up with me because, this time, when the class all gathered round to hear about my latest adventure, dickhead Bentley Grover called me out on it. He told the class that I had made up everything. That my house was an old trailer that had trash around it and run-down cars in the yard. That my old man didn’t leave the place because he was always drunk. That I couldn’t possibly afford to travel to the county fair, let alone to an amusement park in another state.
I tried to do damage control, but it was no use. The whole class had finally figured out who I really was. Trashy. Poor.Filthy. A loser who was going nowhere in life.
I remember when Bentley smirked, proud that he had taken the one thing that had brought me joy—my stories. I launched myself at him, beating the fuck out of him. And with every time my fist connected to his body or face, I wanted to do it again. It was in that moment that I realized I had more of my father in me than I’d ever wanted to admit to myself.
I’d like to say it was worth it because, for a moment there, it sure felt good. But when my dad came to pick me up, warning me with those nearly black eyes the second he walked into the principal’s office, I knew I was going to pay for this. The stench of alcohol came from him like the smell of a skunk. Strong, putrid, and unmistakable. And in that second, Ialmostregretted standing up to Bentley. I sayalmostbecause even though getting my ass kicked that night sucked, punching Bentley for taking my joy had felt good. And for that, I couldn’t regret it. Not with my whole heart.
I guessed it was good that my suspension meant I couldn’t go to school for the rest of the week. Because if I had gone, my cuts and bruises definitely would have been suspicious. And I would have looked like a bigger loser than the class already knew I was.
Stories. Folktales. Lies. All created in my fucked up brain in a weak attempt to take me far, far away from my reality. That was what had always gotten me through the hardships that made up my life. In the darkest of nights—even during my dad’s drunken, angry stupor or when I heard other kids’ stories of family camping trips—I had my imagination I could count on. To go somewhere besides that house. Or that school, where all the kids surrounding me had something I never would. Parents who loved them. Memories they’d cherish.
That had been ruined for me. And feeling the anger growing inside my veins, creating a monster, I knew right then…I was just like the man I had grown to hate. My father.
But shortly after, something else came. Something where it was okay to take my aggression out on others. In fact, it was sort of a good thing when I did. I was praised for it.
That thing was called hockey. And it numbed my pain.
Looking back, I think it might have also saved my life.
1
Brody
Age Seventeen
Here I sit, in this overly cushioned chair, looking straight ahead with my hands resting in front of me. My heart is still racing. Not because I’m scared of the punishment coming my way, but because my body is still high from the fight. I knew I was going to get in trouble. It doesn’t matter that I was only doing what I thought was right. And it sure as hell doesn’t matter that I didn’t take the first swing. No, none of that makes a difference. Because in the end, I finished it.
I always finish it.
I know fighting like the back of my hand. Each move before it’s made. The exact moment someone is going to throw a punch. And that is the mistake most make when they come at me. I’m not the person who keeps his calm and uses his words. No, that is never the answer in my opinion, and maybe that’s because, for most of my life, I’ve taken someone’s shit and couldn’t fight back. My anger isn’t an act, nor is it to appear big and bad or swing my dick around and show off how enormous it is.
I don’t need to do that because I already know it’s huge.
My anger is just that…anger. Fury. Rage. All of those words that mean the exact same thing. The person I really want to hurt, I can’t. So, anyone else who pisses me off, they get the wrath of it all. And the only way I can cope with it? Smash my fist into someone’s face when they deserve it. At least, it was until I was in seventh grade, and the athletic director told me I should try out for the hockey team. They’d let me join—under one condition. No more fighting unless it was on the ice. And that worked…for the most part. I mean, I wasn’t fighting nearly as much as I used to.
So, in my opinion, I’ve been doing great.
Until the past few weeks.
I continue to sit here, not hearing a word Principal Jones is saying and not pretending to either. As a junior, I know scouts from colleges are already watching me. I’m going to pick whatever school I want to go to. You see, aggression might not be a selling point in other sports, but as a hockey player, it’s what separates me from the rest.
“Well, Mr. O’Brien, do you have anything to say for yourself this time?” Principal Jones says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know, if I expel you, no diploma means no college. No college means no hockey.”
My eyes move to his slowly. “Your boy had that kid, Dawson, in tears in the restroom. That kid has Down syndrome. What the fuck did you want me to do, stand there or defend Dawson?” I recline back in my chair, shrugging. “So, with all due respect,sir, no…I don’t have anything to say. Well, besides,fuck Bentley Grove. He’s lucky he was able to ride home with his mama and can continue to drink her titty milk instead of leaving in an ambulance or a hearse.”
“O’Brien,” he growls. “You can’t speak like that.”
“Because that prick is your stepson, you mean? Or because the titty milk is supplied by your wife?” I shrug. “My bad. Do better, I guess. Kid’s an asshole.” I start to stand. “So, look, I’ve got to run. Practice starts in ten minutes.”
