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I huff out a bitter laugh. “Oh, no, I’m totally looking forward to my dad telling me how I let my whole team down by getting hurt, and that I need to either play more carefully or suck it up and play through the pain, because getting a reputation for being injury prone could tank my professional career chances.”
Zoey’s brow furrows. “He wouldn’t say that.” There’s a tiny lilt at the end of that statement that turns it into more of a question than a confident declaration.
Another bitter laugh pulls from my throat. “Yeah, he’d probably say worse.”
Zoey frowns, sadness entering her eyes. I hate seeing that look on her face so much that I wish I’d just lied to her. I wish I kept all this bottled up, kept it to myself. It’s my cross to bear, not hers.
I don’t want anything to ruin this morning.
“Forget about it,” I say, trying to inject some pep into my voice. “Let’s go—”
But she cuts me off by firmly placing her palm onto my chest and pushing me back to the mattress as I try to sit up.
“No, let’s talk more about,” she says, the tone in her voice both sympathetic and firm. She’s not prepared to take no for an answer, not prepared to let me deflect from this or change the subject.
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask.
She presses her lips together, not liking the response. “Well, for one, we can make sure you know how full of shit he is. We can talk about how you should be confident in how incredibly talented and hardworking you are, and how nothing your dad says should ever let you feel any different about yourself.”
“Yeah. I know that.”
“Do you? Do you really? Have you internalized it?”
That’s just the thing—I haven’t.
“Maybe,” I fib. “I don’t know.” That’s a little more honest.
“Well, you should. Because even though I don’t know much about hockey, anyone can tell how good you are. How talented you are. And it’s not just raw talent, but hard work and a team mindset, too. My dad talks about you all the time, you know?”
My eyes light up. “He does?”
She nods. “Dad’s always talking about the team. You know one thing he always says about you as a player? That you’re selfless. A lot of players are so obsessed with their own stats, their own glory, that they want to hog the puck. Not you. He said you’re the kind of player who will pass to a teammate to take a shot if they’re in a position that makes scoring even one percent more likely, rather than to keep the goal for yourself. He said that’s the kind of player that separates raw talent from a player who leads his team to championships.”
I heft myself up on my elbows, leaning towards her. “Really?”
She smiles. “His exact words.”
Pride swells in my chest. That’s the kind of player I’ve always wanted to be.
I’ve never really cared about my stats. I’ve never been interested in making highlight reels. I just want to work together with my team and win, contributing as best as I can to the outcome we’re all fighting for.camaraderie
For me, the game’s all about working together, and the camaraderie that comes with it; not about being personally flashy and sucking up as much attention as I can.
“That’s exactly what my dad always criticizes me for,” I say, the pride subsiding while the bitterness floods back in.
Zoey frowns. “Well, whose opinion about hockey matters to you more? Your dad’s, or your coach’s?”
“My coach’s,” I answer. It’s an easy question.
Zoey nods. “Right. Now, answer this. Whose opinion aboutyoumatters more, your dad’s, or your coach’s, your friends’, your teammates’?”
I open my mouth to answer, but the words stall in my throat. Fuck, that question’s not as easy to answer, even though it should be.
I mean, how can I not care about what my dad thinks of me? He’s my dad, after all.
“It’s just …” thoughts are swirling through my head. Thoughts I usually keep to myself. Thoughts I’ve never even dreamed about expressing out loud, sharing with another person.
But, then again, I’ve already shared things with Zoey I never thought I’d share with anyone.
