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“Liam. Finally.”
“What’s up?” I ask, even though I don’t need to.
“I think we need to pull up some footage of that bodycheck you took that hurt your back and made you miss Sunday’s game. We should talk about what you need to do in the future to make sure—”
I cut him off. For the first time, I cut him off while he’s gearing up to run down an imagined list of my mistakes before rattling off his ideas of what I should have done differently, even though he’s not qualified to give me advice about hockey.
“Actually, Dad, I don’t think we should do that.”
For a moment, there’s silence on his end of the line. I can practically see his shocked, blank face—and then I can practically see his brow furrowing.
“Excuse me?” he asks, a cold sharpness in his tone.
My jaw clenches, my teeth grinding. I take a deep breath to ease the tension in my muscles. I don’t want this to turn into a fight.
Instead, I try the diplomatic approach.
“With all due respect, Dad, Coach and I talked about that play. There was nothing I could have done. With two defenders, two good defenders, coming at me from the angles they were, there was next to no chance of me getting out of a body check. And there was nothing wrong with the way I took it, either—sometimes, in any sport, you just get hit at the wrong moment, at the wrong angle, and there’s nothing you could have done any differently. I came away with a minor injury, and I’ll be good for the next game. I don’t think we need to read any deeper into it than that.”
Wow. That felt good. Actually standing up for myself, and knowing that I’m in the right.
There’s silence on my dad’s end of the line again. But it doesn’t last long.
“So you’re making excuses for yourself now? I thought I raised you better than that.”
“That’s bullshit,” I snap back. I’m surprised at myself after the words leave my mouth.
But, I realize, it’s a good kind of surprise. If my dad’s not going to be responsive to the diplomatic approach, then I’ll just have to up the ante.
“Excuse me?” My dad asks, his voice stern as iron.
But I’m not about to back down now. “It’s bullshit, Dad. Sorry, but it is. For years, all you’ve done is criticize my play whenever you can, looking so hard for mistakes that you have to make them up. I already have a coach, and a whole team of people who analyze my play and work constructively with me to get better. Most of the stuff you spend hours harping on with me, they don’t even mention.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Maybe they need to open their eyes, then.”
“Dad, you’ve never even played the game. I’m pretty sure a coaching staff on one of this country’s best college hockey teams knows what they’re talking about.”
“You need someone to keep your head screwed on right, Liam,” he bites back. “You always have. You need me to make sure you keep your eye on the ball. If I left you to your own devices, you’d still be making those silly little doodles instead of being an athlete with a bright future ahead of you.”
My chest tightens, my fingers wrapping around the phone so tightly I’m worried I’ll crack the screen. “I liked making those silly little doodles, Dad. As a matter of fact, I still do. You might have a hard time believing this, but it’s possible to like art and play sports at the same time.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. Your attention is split. If you focused on what’s important, you wouldn’t be making so many mistakes.”
I laugh derisively. “Yeah, I make mistakes on the ice. Everyone does. The best players do. But I’m a damn good player, and frankly, if I listened to everything you told me, I’d be worse. I’m going to keep playing the best I can, listening to my coach, listening to the staff, listening to my teammates, and taking all the advice I can get when it’s given to me in good faith by people who know what they’re talking about.”
I feel like I’m on the verge of saying something I might regret, so when there’s another beat of silence on the other end of the line, my dad no doubt preparing a response I won’t appreciate hearing, I don’t give him the chance.
“Listen, Dad. If you want to give me a call to cheer me on, or to ask me how I’m doing, or to check in, I’ll always be glad to hear from you. But next time you have a critique about my hockey playing you want to share with me—keep it to yourself.”
With that, I end the call.
There’s such a heady concoction of emotions swirling around my mind and in my chest that it’s hard to pinpoint one that I feel the most.
There’s still anger at my dad. There’s relief at finally standing up to him and telling him how I feel. There’s pride at the fact I was able to do so. There’s some guilt as I worry whether I crossed the line and was disrespectful. There’s sadness as I wish my relationship with my dad were better, that it never got to this point. There’s adrenaline, too, from the confrontation that was building up so long and finally came to a head.
And there’s gratitude—gratitude for Zoey. For having someone who encouraged me to finally do this, to finally stand up for myself and say what needed to be said. Who knows if I ever would have been able to do it without her?
I look to my closet. The closet where reams of my sketches are hidden behind closed doors.
