Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After another delicious homemade barbeque dinner, I reach an obvious conclusion: Eric’s spoiling me, and I enjoy being spoiled.
My first two days in his company have been nothing short of a culinary journey. If I were back in Chicago, I wouldn’t be eating half as well as this. I’m not used to being around someone who understands an athlete’s appetite while still cooking great food.
“That was another great meal,” I tell him after dinner. “Thanks for making it.”
“You’re welcome. Ribs are always a home run when the guys come over.”
“I legitimately haven’t had them in years. Yours just fell completely off the bone.”
“Happy to satisfy.” Eric grins, preening under my praise. “Why don’t you go pick something for us to watch while I clean up.”
“You sure you don’t want help? You cooked.”
“I’m good. Go get comfy on the couch, and I’ll join you after.”
At his insistence, I crash on the couch and flip through the TV channels, unsure what to settle on.
In the past, Eric expressed that he doesn’t have much time to watch TV other than the occasional game of hockey or some other sport.
I have no idea what he’d enjoy. A cooking show?
Maybe another time, not after we just ate.
A documentary? With a full stomach, I might fall asleep. The news? Talk about a mood killer.
My stomach churns when I land on ESPN showing hockey.
Tonight’s the first game of the Stanley Cup series between Los Angeles and New York.
Thankfully, it’s only the pregame show with the commentary panel, not the actual game.
I linger on the channel, my focus fixed on the screen, my mind elsewhere—skating back onto the ice after game four’s first TV timeout, seconds before the words I hoped to never hear were shouted at me.
You’re done.
You’re done.
You’re—
The remote’s snatched out of my hands, and the channel’s changed, shifting to a home and garden show. Eric’s beside me on the couch, his arm draped over the top cushion. Just how long had I zoned out for?
“There’s this series on streaming I’ve been wanting to start. The Gambit of Ravens? Have you heard of it?”
I rub my eyes and nod. Yeah, I’ve seen the series. Anyone who’s a big fantasy fan has probably watched it a hundred times. The series is one of only a handful of book adaptations to become an instant television classic, and it’s one of my all-time favorites.
“I’m sure you’ve already watched it before, but do you want to watch it again with me?”
Eric knows me too well. Of all the ways to take my mind as far away from hockey as possible, this show would be the perfect distraction.
“Alright,” I say while grabbing one of the throw pillows and holding it against my chest.
When Eric starts up the first episode, the first few notes of the show’s music immediately take me back to my youth. The series’ opening monologue is one I’m deeply familiar with, and I’m able to recite it by heart to this day.
“Be honest,” he teases, “how many times have you watched this?”
“All the way through? A dozen or so.” Started and had to stop because of life? That number’s much higher. “My dad and I watched it together when it first came out.”
“I remember everyone talking about it week after week. Not watching it made me feel like I was out of the loop.”
“Yeah, I bet.” I snicker, imagining poor Eric clueless while everyone around him was intensely into the show, discussing fan theories ad nauseam. “I actually cosplayed as the main guy for a convention during college. My parents fashioned one of my old hockey sticks to look like his staff.”
“That’s awesome.”
I’ll never forget the long hours my parents put in to make sure my costume was ready in time. It was one of the last major activities we did as a family before I became too busy with hockey and school.
“I was constantly stopped for photos and compliments. I even won the cosplay contest. Still have the trophy and everything back home in Boston.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
I reach into my pocket, but my phone’s not there. I pat my clothes, searching for it, and then it dawns on me: the other day I tossed my phone into my luggage to banish it away.
“Hang on, I forgot I left it upstairs.”
“Do you want me to pause the show?”
“No, no, keep watching, seriously,” I insist. “I can jump back in no problem. I’ll just be a minute.”
Eric lets me slip away, but I don’t hear the sound of the show playing again. I head upstairs to the guest bedroom and fish my phone out of my luggage. I haven’t used it since I powered it off yesterday afternoon, so it takes a moment to turn on.
When the screen lights up, I’m shocked to find countless missed calls and messages, mostly from my dad, each increasingly more worried than the last.
Dad
We need to talk. I just saw what your coach said. I know you’re hurting after the way the series ended, and now this, but I need to hear from you. Please let me know you’re okay ASAP.
Dad
Still haven’t heard from you. Please, please call as soon as you can to let me know you’re okay.
Dad
I tried calling the Comets’ front office, and they aren’t able to reach you either.
Dad
Please talk to me, even if it’s just a text. I need to know you’re safe, James.
As I read through the messages, more and more guilt piles onto my shoulders.
We haven’t spoken since the start of the Conference Final, and I didn’t respond to the message he sent the night we lost the series.
I promised to make a better effort to keep in touch, but I completely blew that promise.
I turned my phone off like an idiot because I couldn’t handle seeing texts from my agent.
While focusing on my breaths to stay calm, I call my dad, relieved he answers on the first ring.
“James? Thank God.”
“Hey, dad. I’m sorry for being hard to reach. I turned off my phone yesterday.”
My dad deeply exhales, and I can picture him inside his home office, leaning back in his chair, pinching his brows in frustration while still trying to be polite.
“Well, I’m relieved you finally called,” he says with a twinge of irritation. “You know, I try to give you space, son, since you’re a grown man, but do you know how much I’ve been worried about you?”
My guilt forms into a ball of lead in my stomach, weighing me down.
“James, I know you have every right to be upset over what happened, but as days passed, and I still didn’t hear from you, I was… I was extremely concerned.”
From the way his voice warbles, he was more than just concerned. He was terrified.
“I’m sorry, dad. It was stupid of me to turn off my phone.”
My dad lets out a weak, sad laugh. “A little, yes.”
He’s never been one to shout or yell when he’s angry. When I was younger, sometimes I wished he would so I wouldn’t have to face his disappointment whenever I did something wrong.
“I know how much the game means to you, and I know you hate losing, but you can’t do that to me.” My dad’s voice cracks, causing me to swallow the lump in my throat. “You’re all I have left, James. Please don’t drop off the face of the earth like that ever again.”
My throat clenches up. For the past few seasons after big losses, mom always told dad to give me space, reassuring him I would drop off the grid for a while but that I’d eventually come around.
She was right, I always did. So I can imagine my dad must have expected the same this time; I’d leave him on read for a few days to process the loss, but then I’d respond.
My dad’s not the type to watch sports shows or go on social media for commentary, so it must have taken him a few days before either someone told him what happened with Coach Miller or he found out on his own.
He must have jumped to the conclusion that the combination of being pulled in game four, losing the series, and then being trash-talked by my own coach would be a potent mix that could push me to do something incredibly reckless.
I can’t blame him; I wasn’t well in the aftermath, and…
and I don’t know what I would have done if Eric hadn’t called.
“I’m really, really sorry, dad, I just—” I run a hand over my jaw and screw my eyes shut. “I just needed to get away from everything.”
I’ve no doubt aged my dad several years while he waited around for my call to know if I was alright.
“I understand, but you can’t leave me hanging like that. I know I can’t replace your mother, but I would rather do everything in my power to help and fall short than do nothing and lose you.”
I’m never going to be able to live down the words I said the night of my dad’s lecture.
“You aren’t… You aren’t replacing her. I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve always been there for me. You never stopped.”
“But I gave you reason to doubt my commitment before. It’s not entirely unfounded, James, I’m not going to deny it. Hockey was just… It was you and your mom’s thing. I didn’t want to step in between. Things are…”
My dad trails off with a sigh, haggard and deep, and I grip my phone tighter.
“Things are different without your mom. I miss her so much, James. Every single day. She always knew what to say to make you feel better after a terrible game. Watching the series against LA, I felt powerless. I didn’t need the commentators to tell me you were struggling.
It was obvious. I didn’t know how to help other than by watching and sending you all my love. ”
His breath catches, his voice waivers. My dad must be on the cusp of crying too.
“There’ve been times over the past year where I’ve missed your mom, but I never missed her more than that series. I wish I could have traded places with her just so she could have been there for you.”
Pain lances through my chest. “Dad, I would never…”