Chapter 15
Fifteen
Brody
I’m right on track with my game-day routine. Binggrae banana milk in hand, I’m on my way into the rink with perfect timing.
It’s been a game-day tradition since I was a kid. My mom would always toss me one on my way out the door to the rink. “You
need the potassium,” she would say. My dad hates the flavor, but to me it tastes like childhood.
My fingers are slick from the drink’s condensation, and I struggle to pull the metal tab opening on my delicious pregame treat.
I should switch to the juice box milks, but these jars are nostalgic to me—they’re the ones my mom bought. As I finally peel
the green lid off, I round the corner and come crashing into the team’s mascot. The creamy liquid spills down the front of
my suit, soaking into my tie, my dress shirt, and the lapels of my suit jacket.
“My banana milk,” I whine. Craning my head back, I tip the jar over my open mouth, trying to get a drop of my pregame routine
on my tongue with no luck. I toss the empty into the trash can nearby.
Chilly’s costume is spared. He can’t speak—of course—and instead is flailing his arms around.
With his paws pressed together, he pleads to me for what I’m assuming is forgiveness.
I’m not going to hold it against him. Being a mascot can’t be an easy job.
I saw that thing get fired out of a cannon a few seasons ago.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to get past him before the social media admin pops out and snaps a picture of the whole ordeal.
Our locker room is down the hall; I can see it through his comically large whiskers.
Someone with two pigtails spinning like propellers barrels down the hallway toward us. “Chilly!” she says, coming up behind
the lynx. She’s quick to grab his hand and drag him out of my way. “On behalf of Chilly, I am very sorry about your suit.
Um, good luck tonight. Bye!” Her voice is as shrill as it is winded. She drags him closely behind her and the two disappear
around the corner.
I would never admit this out loud, but mascots kind of freak me out. It doesn’t help that they don’t let us know who’s behind
the costume. Some of the guys on the team like to try to figure it out, but I’m more focused on keeping as much distance between
myself and the team’s mascot as possible. For obvious reasons. The phobia likely started as a child when I caught the Tampa
Storm’s Gator, half dressed and headless, smoking a cigarette in the parking lot after a game when I was five. The magic’s
been dead since.
By the time I get to the locker room, it’s more than half full. Andy and Chef are shooting the shit while they take their
time retaping their sticks. Of course, Hammer and Jordy are stretching each other on the floor in the middle of the locker
room. I divert my eyes to not provoke them, but I’m not quick enough. Hammer is on top of Jordy helping him stretch his hamstrings
when he looks over at me.
“Master Bro-da, you’ve got something all over your suit,” Hammer says, pulling up on the stretch. They switch legs and Jordy throws his other foot over Hammer’s shoulder.
“Thanks, I didn’t notice.” I force a strained smile.
“Really? It’s all over you.” Jordy points. The two share a laugh at my expense.
My phone vibrates in my pocket before I get a chance to explain sarcasm to the goalies. It’s a text from my dad.
Dad:
If we’re going to capitalize on all this good press, then we need to be seen together at a game. I’m coming to watch you play
and staying through the holidays. SNN already agreed to give me the time off.
Brody:
Not sure now is the best time. The team is starting to click. Wouldn’t want you showing up to watch and making everyone nervous.
I throw in that last part to soften the blow. I’m sure all the guys would love to have Erik Parker in the stands watching
them play. Me on the other hand, I know how passionate he gets, and anything less than perfect is an embarrassment.
Dad:
You can’t keep me away from your games forever. We’re a family and there’s an expectation that comes with all the privilege my name has provided you. You’re nothing without it.
You’re nothing without it. I press my eyes shut and can hear him shouting the words at me. I’m fourteen and he’s storming into the locker room during
Coach’s postgame talk. My throat closes remembering the tug around my neck as he yanked me out into the hallway. He dragged
me by the collar of my jersey as people quietly dispersed, his pockets too deep and persona too large to ever question. My
bottom lip quivers thinking about him tossing me against the wall, spitting at my feet, and shouting, “You’re nothing without
the Parker name.”
I wanted to die. Even now with years and miles between the feeling, it’s still so raw. That was the moment I knew I needed
to get away from him if I wanted to make it. At the time, I didn’t know if I meant in hockey or life, but that night it felt
like both.
Shortly after that incident, I was approved for exceptional-player status through Hockey Canada and was shipped up north to
Ontario, Canada, to play hockey. I haven’t lived at home since.
I hate reliving that game, but reading those words stunts me right back into a scared teenager. I text back, wanting the shame
to end.
Brody:
I’m grateful, Dad.
Dad:
Then act like it.
The LA Stars are waiting for us out on the ice, and they’re known to play great hockey on the road. I stash my phone in my overhead cubby before I’m late for warm-ups. Away and out of sight.
Our game-winning play has been absent since puck drop. This game has progressively slipped away from us with each soft goal
and weak turnover. I’m supposed to be playing by example, but instead I can’t get my brain to coordinate with my hands. Despite
my best efforts to keep my head in the game, I haven’t been able to recover since the unfortunate spill on my way into the
rink.
I’m minus two with nine hits and counting in the third. If I can’t hit the net, I’m going to hit a body. I lay my tenth hit
on a Stars skater. As the guy drops to his knees, my hips start to ache. I’m not sure how the fourth-line players keep this
pace all season.
Although my phone is far from reach, my dad’s words might as well be etched onto the ice. You’re nothing without it. Despite my hustle all game, I can’t outskate his voice. Not wanting to be his prey, I catch my breath on the bench.
I’ve been tying and retying my skates all game, attempting to get them right. I’m two shifts into the third period and can
tell that they still aren’t how I like them, an issue that can’t wait until a TV time-out.
The lace digs into my fingers, leaving lasting indentations.
I heave up with all my might trying to get them tight enough.
Through my visor, I glance up at the time left on the clock, and as my eyes travel across the rink and up into the stands, I see my dad sitting directly across from me behind the glass.
A chill colder than ice shoots up my spine.
I rub my eyes, trying to refocus my vision.
He’s gone and in his place is a man similar to my dad, but not at all mistakable for him.
“You good, Broski?” Andy says, giving me a nudge. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Did you see the mouse?” Jordy says with as much excitement as if we scored. He’s sitting on his lonely backup goalie chair
adjacent to the bench looking like Steve from Minecraft in all his bulky equipment. He tosses a piece of candy into his mouth from the stash of treats he keeps tucked in his pads.
“I’m fine. It’s all good. I’m great.” I try to convince myself like I’m doing one of those affirmation pep talks in the mirror.
I finish retying my skates, but it’s no use; I have to accept the fact that it’s not the skates. It’s me. I’m off tonight.
I’m playing like that scared fourteen-year-old boy.
I scan the rink again, like a child checking under their bed before crawling in to sleep. My dad’s a few rows up behind the
goalie, drinking a beer. I keep looking. I find him up in the upper level, standing over me, giving me a look so dirty it’s
as if he’s shooting daggers from his eyes. I turn around and he’s sitting right behind the glass eating popcorn. Then an entire
row morphs into Erik Parkers like Animorphs, angered and yelling, but I can’t hear what they’re saying because it’s all white noise.
Faster than my brain can process, every fan in attendance turns into him. He’s beside me on the bench glaring over at me.
He’s on the ice reffing, pointing at me to get in the penalty box. He’s even standing on the bench where Coach should be.
They’re all speaking in unison. I steady my breathing enough to listen. You’re nothing without it.
I press my eyes shut and hang my head. My heart thumps in my ears like a marching band. The banana milk spill was unfortunate, but this is devastating. I thought keeping my dad physically away from my games would get him out of my head, but he’s still haunting my conscience.
As the panic closes in on me, I’m incredibly grateful for Olivia. I think of her striking deep brown eyes. Her contagious
laugh. The way she sticks her fat bottom lip out when she’s deep in thought, hovering over a Catan board, plotting her next
move. I steady my pulse and squirt water all over my face. The warm thoughts and cold shower snap me back into reality. My
dad is gone, and I am up for my next shift.
The second my blades touch ice, this plug from the Stars is glued to my side. We’ve been on each other all game. Usually,
I don’t let pigeons like him get under my skin. It’s not worth jacking up my hand over a guy who’s probably getting sent down
to the AHL next week. There’s an expectation that I hit a hundred points this season—at least. This game aside, I’m on pace
for it.
We go hard into the corner together. His shoulder gets me a bit high and it’s my final straw. I snap my head back. “Fuck off!”