Chapter 14
Fourteen
Olivia
I skate off the ice and slam the door shut behind me. Fresh legs chase the puck into the offensive zone while I slide down
to the middle of the bench. With my head between my knees, I suck air, trying to catch my breath. I forgot how long beer league
shifts last when your bench is short. My knee aches, despite the ibuprofen I took before the game. The knee injury that sidelined
my college career lingers—like most of my invisible wounds.
When Tori asked me to sub on her queer pickup hockey team, the Barn Muckers, I fumbled over an excuse, but ally guilt ultimately
got the best of me. She’s been so hospitable to me (save for the time she caught me sanitizing my menstrual cup in a communal
cooking pot). The least I can do is help her team secure a couple points tonight.
There’s no rust on these skates thanks to Chilly’s weekly community skating events. Without the weight of the costume dragging
me down, I’m free to move as fast as I did when I was playing NCAA DI hockey years ago—though I’m sure my physical therapist
would advise against it.
“Everything comes so naturally to you. It’s annoying,” Tori says, huffing on the bench next to me.
I shrug. Like I said, I take after my dad. It’s a blessing and a curse.
“You would score too if you tried lifting your head before you shot the puck. I’m not sure what you expect when you don’t
look for an opening. And maybe try choking up on your stick a bit.” I could go on like this for a while, but commotion along
the boards pulls my attention back to the game.
“Why’d you quit again?” She gives me a playful whack with the knob of her stick.
I quit playing competitive hockey after the knee injury, but I gave up on the sport long before that. After my dad died, I
failed to find a purpose to get my ass to the rink every day when I had no one to come home to and talk about my games with.
It didn’t matter how supportive my teammates were, without him, I always felt alone on the ice.
“My knee, remember.” I give it a tap.
“Sure, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re up every night past midnight analyzing numbers. You belong in the game, one
way or another.”
We lean over the boards, watching our winger battle in the corner with a much larger defense for possession of the puck. The
opposition’s D slashes their stick across the top of our winger’s hands causing her to drop her stick. The ref doesn’t make
the call.
“If you had one more eye, you’d be a cyclops!
” I shout down the ice toward the ref. He turns and gives me a stern look with his lips drawn in a tight line as straight as the black-and-white stripes on his shirt.
That’s my warning. I’ve got about one more before he throws me in the box.
A two-minute rest doesn’t sound like the worst thing ever, but it’s not the ref’s punishment I’m worried about.
Tori shoots me a much more intimidating look than stripes ever could.
I retreat on the bench. “You’re just being nice to me because you want me to play next week too,” I say to Tori.
“And . . .”
“And I can’t. On top of data analysis, I’ve got a Freeze game every other day.” I squirt water into my mouth and hand her
the bottle. I finally landed a new client: a health tech start-up. The contract expires in a month, but paired with my current
Chilly workload, I’m suddenly busier than ever.
“How’s that going?” she says, removing her glove to take a drink.
“Better since Hammer decided to mix in a save or two every now and then. Team’s getting closer to five hundred.” Play moves
into the neutral zone and I’m on my feet watching them break out into our end.
“I meant how has it been being back there without Dad?” Tori’s all eyes on me, but our goalie just made a save I can’t ignore.
I lean over the boards and bang my stick in support.
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. It’s fine,” I say, wishing she would drop it like the ref is about to do
to the puck at the face-off circle.
It was weird being there at first, but my in-game schedule is so jam-packed that I don’t really have time to cry in my mask
as much as I would like. Quinn would never allow it either. According to the official mascot handbook, grief and sadness are
not allowed. Anger in the form of comedic entertainment or crowd riling is, however, encouraged.
We win the face-off. Our defense clears the puck out of our zone and the center skates over, looking to me for a line change.
“Oh, come on! I just got off!” I say as I jump the boards and rush into play.
Ivy saved us a table at the rink’s sports bar for postgame drinks. She has a pitcher of Diet Pepsi and a large basket of cheese
curds waiting for us at the high-top. With my nose in my phone, I bump into the table and spill a bit of her drink. I’ve been
scrolling social media for days, searching the Parker name in every search engine I can find.
My efforts to ruin Erik’s charitable public image resulted in a very successful Brody Parker rebrand. I finish watching the
one hundredth fancam of him from the library and I put my phone—screen down—on the table.
Everyone online is saying he’s in his Good Will Hunting era. Someone said he reminds them of Spencer Reid and another commented that they wouldn’t mind giving him some criminal
head.
An athlete picks up one children’s book and talks in a few complete sentences and the sports world collectively orgasms. The
Parkers are being hailed as the smartest family in all of hockey with Erik being the ultimate dad for raising such a well-balanced
son. The worst part is that they’re right. Brody did that on the fly with no preparation. Everything he said was from the
heart. And those fancams are so hot I’ve got about ten saved on my phone. I hate that my plan was another total failure, even
if my consolation prize is as cute as him.
“I’m not normally one to tell a woman to smile, but damn, Liv, I thought the Barn Muckers won?” Ivy’s question pulls me out
of my thousand-yard stare but isn’t enough to save me from my misery.
“We did!” Tori chimes in.
“And you played so good, babe,” Ivy coos, and Tori leans in as the two nuzzle their noses together.
“I had my lucky cheerleader in the stands rooting me on,” Tori says, cupping Ivy’s cheek.
“I can’t fucking believe it,” I interrupt.
They both slowly turn their heads to me, annoyed, as I ruin another precious moment.
With an audience, I pick up speed. “This family is impenetrable. Erik’s untouchable and Brody’s indestructible. Everything
I try makes them stronger.” I dig my elbows into the table and sink my chin into my hands. Defeated like our opponents tonight,
I sulk in my loss.
“Oh, good, we’re talking about them—again.” Tori brings the plastic cup to her lips and settles into her chair.
“I go after their good looks—Brody somehow gets hotter. I try to sabotage their game—Brody plays better. I try to destroy
their public image—suddenly Brody’s a genius,” I say.
“For reading?” Ivy asks, trying to keep up.
“It’s actually a shocking feat, considering his profession,” Tori adds softly.
“All I’ve done is strengthen the Parker legacy,” I complain.
“If I’m being honest, it sounds like Brody is a decent guy,” Tori interjects.
I groan. “And Erik? Let me guess, he was harmlessly trying to get the puck away from Dad? Do I need to remind you what happened
to our lives after that dirty hit from behind? The Parkers ruined hockey for our entire family—they ruined me.”
“If your life is so horrible, why are you the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time?
” Tori’s question feels awfully accusatory.
My face strains in a scowl and she attempts a hard pivot.
“Come on. You’re focused and determined at work.
You finally came out and played in one of my beer league games.
A month ago, you would have never gotten on the ice.
I think you’re confused because things are finally going well for you. ”
I hate being wrong but hate when she’s right even more. As a kid, adults used to tell Tori she had an old soul. It sounds
like a cute thing to say, but it really means that even at a young age, she gave off the vibes of someone living with a deep
crippling perfectionism.
Me on the other hand, I’m Nimkiikwe. Thunder Woman. A disruption. Loud and unruly. I wailed through the entirety of my naming
ceremony. White people just call me a free spirit. It’s what people call girls they think will end up impregnated in their
teens or caught in an elaborate embezzlement scheme before they can legally rent a car. I dodged teen pregnancy and Tori’s
soul continues to prematurely age.
“Maybe my feelings for Brody have evolved,” I say through a locked jaw. Getting the words out is like chewing on glass. I
avoid Tori’s visible reaction. “But his dad is still a monster who has never answered for his irresponsible actions that night.”
I link my arms across my chest and lean back in my chair while I let my point sink in.
In the last NHL game my dad played, he left the ice on a stretcher. There was no penalty called against Erik Parker. There
was no suspension made after the game. No time served. No justice rendered. Despite the lack of reaction from the officials
and the league, my dad thought surely Erik would come forward with a spoken or written apology. My dad died waiting for one.
I guess you could say my hatred for refs is a trauma response.
“That guy’s a monster?” Ivy points across the bar to a TV broadcasting SNN Recap.
Erik Parker is live on location at the grand opening of a new outdoor roller hockey rink in Tampa, Florida.
How much money did he have to pay to get them to name it the Parker Park?
After he cuts the ribbon, a swarm of small children coast over, huddling around him, adorned with their new Rollerblades and sticks.
He throws his arms around them as they cheer for joy.