Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Brody
The bus pulls up outside the arena. A swarm of fans gathers around the red carpet. It’s so crowded with media and attendees
that I can’t even see the entrance of the building. I tousle my hair and muster up some signature Parker charm. My smile strains.
I love the fans, but feeding into the Parker legacy illusion is more taxing than a long shift.
I get about midway through the red carpet when out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad standing next to an SNN beat reporter.
I do a double take and almost mess up my autograph on some kid’s Freeze jersey in the process. After a quick selfie with the
fan, my dad is calling me over.
The closer I get, the louder the crowd cheers. My dad keeps looking over at me while he talks into the camera. Always watching,
always making sure I do as I’m told. The walk over feels like it’s taking forever, and yet, I would be so lucky to never make
it to my destination. As I step into the camera frame, side by side with Erik Parker, the flashes from the crowd become blinding.
An SNN-branded microphone is shoved in my face before I can say a word to my dad.
“Brody, your father is an NHL All-Star Game legend, what does it mean to you that he’s here to witness your first All-Star
Game?” the reporter asks me her prepped and approved question.
“I’m surprised,” I say. My dad’s watchful eyes burn a hole in my temple. His face reddens as more flashes snap. “Surprised
he didn’t bring his skates, because he could probably still win the shoot-out challenge.” My dad’s arm is heavy on my shoulder.
Everyone laughs. “But seriously, my dad’s support means everything to me,” I add, just wanting it to be over.
“Did your dad give you any pointers for today?” is her follow-up.
I can’t tell her and the million viewers that the prolific pointers my dad gave to me were to “not fuck this up for him.”
So instead, I say, “My dad always has great advice for me and today he told me to enjoy the moment.”
There’s commotion in the crowd. Some gasps and more cheering. The NHL’s media team pushes through the wall of people. They
approach, escorting someone onto the carpet. Everyone parts for them. In the negative space stands a delicate frame with shiny
long black hair and a two-piece tweed suit.
“Mom?” The word spills out of my mouth. I feel like running into her arms like a reunited schoolchild at pickup, but I know
that isn’t best for the family image.
“It’s a family reunion!” the reporter declares. Dad scoots in close to me so Mom has room to join us. “What an honor to be
in the presence of hockey’s first family.”
My mom greets me with a hug before standing next to my dad. He takes her hand in his and pulls her in closer beside him, but it’s the kiss he plants on her forehead that causes me to do a double take. The crowd “aws” at the tender moment, but I feel like I’m on the ice without a stick.
My dad gives me a nudge and I say, “I’m just happy to be here and can’t wait to get out on the ice in front of all these amazing
fans, everyone watching at home, and of course, my family.”
I can’t get through the rest of the red carpet schmoozing quickly enough. Out of all the questions I’m asked on my walk to
the entrance, the one that’s stuck in my head is the one I’ve been asking myself: When was the last time my mom came to a hockey game? She was at my dad’s jersey retirement, the NHL draft when I was selected, my first NHL game, but it’s been years since then.
Finally, we’re ushered inside the building. My dad walks ahead at a pace that requires no direction. We find a quiet corner
to gather for a family meeting. I’ve always hated these. Patiently, I refuse to be the first to speak.
My dad anchors his hands on his hips. “That went well,” he says decidedly.
I stand still, waiting to be dismissed. He pulls his phone out from his interior sport coat pocket. While my dad scrolls,
my mom smiles at me shyly. One that’s nothing like the fake wide grins she was showing the cameras.
“We’re already trending online,” he says. Her smile drops and she presses her wary eyes shut.
I clear my throat. “How did you get tickets for today?”
“No thanks to you,” he says, peering up from his screen. “Bobby got me a seat in the team’s suite. You know he’s on the committee,
right?”
Dave Robertson, LA Stars’ general manager and Hockey Hall of Fame board member. Everything is about the committee right now. I should have known my All-Star weekend was his opportunity.
“Is that what this is all about?” Maybe if I can get him to admit it, he will realize how invasive it is.
He glares over at my mom. “Of course not. We’re here because your mother and I are getting a divorce.”
The news hits me hard, and I visibly stagger back. I look for a seat, but there’s nowhere to sit. “Are you serious?”
“See, I knew you’d be emotional. I wanted this to wait until after the season ends, but I had no choice.”
“Until after the induction, you mean,” I say under my breath. The back of my neck is damp with sweat. My tie and high-buttoned
dress shirt are suffocating, but I’m too stunned to move.
“You agree,” Dad says. He finally pulls his nose out of his phone. “Obviously, this should be kept between us. Thanks to my
quick thinking, our wholesome TV moment ensures hockey’s first family remains everyone’s favorite for a little while longer.”
“I’ll see you back home, Erik,” my mom says curtly.
He doesn’t look at her this time. A call comes through his phone, and he answers it on the first ring. “Bobby?” he shouts.
“You saw the interview?” He takes his call a couple steps away.
I turn to my mom. “You’re leaving? But you just got here.” I keep my voice hushed.
She locks her hands together, holding them close to her chest. “I know how important this weekend is to you. I want you to
be able to focus.” In the distance, my dad wraps up his call. “I didn’t want to have this conversation today. Let’s talk—just
you and me—when you’re back in Minnesota,” she adds. She reaches for my arm but stops short when my dad hangs up.
“Okay,” I whisper. There’s so much more I want to say, but I hold myself back. I’ve got a skills competition to attend.
My name is announced through the arena’s PA system. I can hardly hear the voice mentioning which NHL team I play for over
the crowd’s reaction. The headshot I took earlier today lights up the jumbotron at center ice. I’m up next in the shoot-out
competition.
Out of all the events tonight, this is the one I’m most nervous for. As long as there’s a 250-pound defenseman tall enough
to play basketball, I’m not winning the hardest shot challenge. And for three years in a row, the fastest skater has gone
to the same centerman who once qualified for the hundred-meter dash at the Olympics. Instead, the expectation for me tonight
is to win at my dad’s event. To score the dirtiest, greasiest, cockiest shoot-out goal.
Known for his shoot-out skills, all eyes are on me and my attempt. If I can win this, maybe it will alleviate some of the
pressure on me to deliver an MVP performance at tomorrow’s game. Maybe the dopamine hit will be a big enough distraction to
let me repress the bomb my dad dropped on me hours before tonight’s event.
I can’t think about that. Not now. I’m up.
As I slowly skate across ice to take my place at the center face-off dot, I look up toward the team’s suite.
I scan the box for my dad’s face, but he’s missing.
My gaze drops from the suite level to the family section in the lower bowl and lands on her.
The always cool Olivia is chewing on the inside of her cheek.
While others in the section casually chat amongst themselves, her knee bounces vigorously.
Our eyes meet briefly. Her posture straightens and she gives me a confident nod.
I shrug my shoulders. On the bus ride over here, I was confident I could pull off this move.
But after running into my dad, I’m second-guessing myself.
Olivia smiles softly and mouths the words, “Do it.”
A puck at center ice awaits. The ref blows his whistle, and everyone is on their feet. Three hard strides get me to the puck.
The moment I touch rubber, the goalie is out of his crease, challenging.
I hear Olivia’s advice replay in my mind.
Pause long enough on the backhand to make it believable, but not so long that you lose the momentum of the fake-out.
From that point on, I let my body take over.
I trust I’ve practiced the move enough. Muscle memory has me dragging the puck
for a backhand fake-out. The goalie bites and the puck trickles through his five-hole.
The crowd collectively holds their breath until the goal lamp lights red. It takes everyone a second, goalie included, to
realize what I’ve done. But once they clue in, it’s pandemonium.
This feeling is unmatched.
Often people think the physicality of hockey is what makes it such a challenging sport to play. They’re not wrong, but I’d
take the bruises and breaks over the emotional warfare brought on by the highs and lows of a performance-based sport.
When I’m off my game, I can feel it throughout my entire body. It plagues me and my team. The pressure to never have a shift
that’s anything less than perfect is crippling. But when I’m on, when the bounces are going my way and I’m buzzing on the
ice, the joy I have for hockey exudes out of me.
As I skate back to the bench, thousands of cheers fall on me like flowers on a stage. I pause momentarily to take a bow. A
far more subdued goal celebration for my taste, but it is just for fun, after all. My go-to cocky goal celebration can wait
for the All-Star Game. I’m so ready to kick ass tomorrow night. I look up to the team’s suite again, but my dad is still missing.