34. CONNOR
THIRTY-FOUR
CONNOR
I’ve been checked into the boards so many times over my career that I’ve lost count of how many hits I’ve taken. I’ve given just as many. But none of them hit as hard as the pressure Parker’s put on me.
Win a Stanley Cup for his late father. Hockey players chase that Cup for their entire careers. We’re taught to live and breathe for the day we’re allowed to touch it because everyone knows if you haven’t won it, you don’t get that honor. And if you do touch it, you’re doomed to never hoist it above your head after a Championship game.
Everything I’ve spent the last couple of months to change comes rushing back to me, old Connor filling my mind and trying to take over.
It’s too much responsibility to put on my shoulders. Last season, I would’ve said, “Let’s do it,” and be eager to fulfill his wish. But also, last season, I probably would’ve punched Parker that day in the locker room, gotten fired, and I wouldn’t have to worry. I also wouldn’t have him now.
It figures the minute I decide to give up hockey, the next second is someone asking me to be great at it for them. No, not them. Their dead father .
How am I supposed to say no to that? How am I supposed to say, “I’m sorry, I would rather be unemployed than try to win you a Cup.”
It has nothing to do with Parker. If I could, I would go out and win it for him this very next game. But that’s not reality. The reality is more players walk away without their name on the Cup than with it, and the idea of sticking around until I can possibly pull it off makes my stomach churn.
Parker’s still rambling about his software program and how great it’s going to be, and I have no doubt, but I’m stuck on the amount of pressure he’s dumped on me. The expectations.
“I’m so excited.” Parker’s voice breaks through the fuzz in my brain.
I force a smile. “I’m so happy for you.” Everyone else fucked off to go shower and go home to rest up for our game tomorrow. We’ll have a morning skate, then some downtime, and because it’s Pride night, we’ll be showing up extra early to sign some jerseys and interact with the fans. Which brings me to another depressing thought that feels way too much like a tourniquet around my chest.
It’s Pride night.
And I can’t show off Parker on my arm like I want to.
While I’m playing hockey, I never will be able to. Unless I sign with a different team. But then if I do that, would there really be any point in continuing this with him when we’d be in two different cities?
“You okay?” Parker asks, snapping me out of my inner freak-out again.
“Yeah. Fine. I should go shower though. Rest up.” Go hide under a blanket fort and never come out.
I want to be me. I want to be out. And most of all, I don’t want hockey to get in the way of that.
Yet, with only one sentence, Parker has made sure it will. I may claim to be a new person, but all I am is old Connor: someone tied by responsibility. I could tell Parker the truth, or I could make it easier on him by shutting up and doing as he expects.
Only problem with that is I could do everything in my power to win and still miss out.
I could see what will happen if I try to play the shittiest game in all existence. Maybe that will be able to lower his expectations when it comes to me and this team.
Pride nights have, unfortunately, always been a source of contention within the sport of hockey. Sure, the league can say it’s an issue with all theme nights as it detracts from the point of hockey itself, but it seems to only be when it’s Pride. Military nights, cancer awareness themes, they’re okay. But Pride always brings out the worst kind of people and comments.
From those who think it’s shoving sexuality in people’s faces to the players who refuse to wear rainbow anything, I can see why they once tried to ban rainbow-themed jerseys and gear. Not because the NHL as an organization has homophobic policies but because of the backlash it caused. That was long before Easton came out, and I’m thankful that allies in the league stood with those of us when we boycotted the ban and used rainbow tape anyway.
But not everyone did.
And one of the most defiant players is here tonight, playing for LA. He’s next to me as we sign jerseys, hats, and anything else that a Sharpie can mark up.
Radimir Novicov, affectionately known in the league as Novi, is a great hockey player. One of the greats, even. And even though he was drafted at twenty, is now pushing thirty-eight, and he’s been in the States that long, he still refuses to participate. He cites Russian anti-LGBTQ laws as the reason. He’s never come right out and said he believes in those laws, but seventeen years here and he has no wiggle room ?
Still, I’m not going to throw the homophobic label at him. It must be hard being from a country where laws are so extreme you can’t show support for a cause in fear of repercussions. Maybe he’s an ally, maybe he’s not, but with how uncomfortable he looks as he signs a jersey for a fan—a fan who is wearing overtly queer-focused apparel—I have to go with he’s not someone I need to be friendly with.
I almost feel sorry for the kid, who’s probably sixteen or seventeen, has bright eyes, and is obviously obsessed with Novi. The jersey he’s brought with him is Novi’s, and even though he’s getting everyone to sign it, Novi doesn’t even acknowledge that this fan is there for him.
He’s never been a big talker to begin with—in interviews and as a reply to the countless chirps thrown his way during games, he says in perfect English, “I don’t speak English,” or “I don’t understand,” when it’s obvious he does—but he barely makes eye contact with this kid. Doesn’t say anything. And with every passing moment, I see the brightness in the kid’s eyes dim.
I finish up with the fan in front of me and move on to them, smiling wide. “Am I allowed to sign too, or do you really have that bad taste you have to root for LA?”
Novi scoffs and walks off.
The kid pulls out a Colorado jersey from the backpack at his feet. “I’ve got that covered.”
I emphasize my fake disappointment. “Novi and my brother’s jersey? Who hurt you?”
It’s a joke, but when his face falls and he looks around, I realize the answer to that might be “everyone.”
“I’m joking,” I say. “My brother is awesome, I’ll give him that. But it’s not going to stop me from doing this.” I take the jersey and sign, “Number 91 Kikishkin is better,” and then my signature.
The kid smiles. “I like your playing too. But Easton is out and an inspiration and?— ”
“Say no more. I get it. I really do.” More than he could know. More than I’m allowed to say.
“Do you play?” I ask.
He hangs his head. “Yeah.”
“You going to try to get drafted?”
“My team isn’t very good.”
“You still have time to hone your skills.”
“I was on a different team, but then they found out about, well, all of this …” He waves a hand over his “love is love” rainbow shirt. “Let’s just say the locker room was no longer a safe place for me there.”
“That’s horrible. What’s your name?”
“P-parker.”
Of course it is. I almost look up and ask the universe what they’re doing to me because I can’t help flashing back to the day I shoved Parker against the cubbies in our locker room. How I threatened him in high school. And as adults.
I was part of the problem this kid is facing now, and in the ten years since I was his age, it seems nothing has changed. Sure, I never attacked Parker for his sexuality, but that doesn’t make what I did any different to what the kids of today are doing to this Parker.
“I wish things were different for you,” I say.
I wish things were different, period. I want to fix this for him, but how can I do that other than going to his old team and tell them to shut the fuck up. Hey, maybe they’ll listen to me. I am a Kiki brother, after all.
“Thank you for this.” He holds up the jersey when I hand it back.
I need to move on. There are more fans here to see.
“You’re welcome. And remember that no one deserves to hold you back from who you are.”
No one.
Not even the guy you’re falling for who has unrealistic expectations of you .
I don’t want to hide who I am. Or who I’m with.
I can’t wait as long as it takes to win a Stanley Cup to follow my own advice. So I have two choices here:
Push hard and try to take out the Cup in my last contractual season or lose spectacularly to stop giving Parker hope.
I should try for the former, but the pressure and expectation makes me opt for the latter.
From here on out, forget technique. Forget skill and proper form or the aim to do nothing but score. I’m going to go out there and wing it. Foolproof plan. I love it.
Losing, here we come!