Chapter 4
NICKY
“Idon’t want to talk about Natalia’s mom,” I finally manage after a moment.
Bea writes the note on her tablet. Her handwriting reminds me of an elementary school teacher’s.
It’s loopy in all the right places and flows gently across the screen.
I’m not sure why I’m focused on it, except I can’t help but notice every little thing about Bea each time I’m with her.
When she finishes writing, she folds her hands, one over the other, and waits.
Her brown eyes reflect the question she doesn’t push to ask, and I keep talking.
“We were both kids ourselves. It was one night, and I didn’t even know she was pregnant until after Nat was born.
She didn’t want to be a mom, and my daughter doesn’t deserve it being discussed publicly. ”
“What does Natalia know about her mom?” Bea asks, then reels back as if she wants to get away from the words floating between us. “I’m sorry. You literally just said you didn’t want to talk about her mom. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I shift in my chair, angling myself closer to her. Our knees bump, and Bea’s eyes flare. Or maybe I hope they do, because the contact jolts me, too. Even if I hate talking about myself—an irony I am not forgetting given the reason I’m in this meeting—I want to open up to Bea.
“We talk about families in general,” I start, because it’s a difficult thing to explain to a small child, and I don’t want to feel like I’m justifying my parenting choices.
“The structure is different for everyone, but a family that loves and supports one another is the most important thing, no matter the size or make-up. We’ve talked about how moms and dads love their children, but it doesn’t mean they can always take care of their children.
I hope I’ve instilled in her that the woman who brought her into this world trusted me to do everything she couldn’t.
Natalia knows her family is me. The team.
Now, to an extent, Ms. Margaret. I’m sure I’ll have to give her a more thorough explanation when she’s older, but for now, she’s accepted that. ”
“That’s a really honest way of teaching her to look at the world. She’s lucky to have you as her dad.”
There’s a hint of sadness in the way Bea replies, but she bats it away with a few quick blinks and the raising of her stylus. She’s poised for the next non-negotiable, and I let my curiosity pass, for now.
“The only other topic I’d like to avoid is my mom.” I shrug, a thought coming to me as I speak. “Wow, I sound like I have a lot of issues with family—”
“Don’t we all,” Bea interjects with a dismissive laugh. I can’t help the tilt of my head at her comment, but she’s writing as I talk, so I don’t think she catches it.
“Well, this has more to do with my mom being in Europe than anything else. I don’t think she’d be too happy to get calls from the network if they were to reach out.
She’s fantastic, and I love her, but she never really wanted to stay in America.
She moved to Italy not long after I turned eighteen and was living on my own. ”
“Wow.” Bea looks up from her tablet, an unreadable expression on her face.
I’m used to the looks of pity—or even anger—people give me when they hear that, but I’ve never been able to figure out why.
Mom worked hard to raise me; she gave me everything she possibly could.
Taught me how to take care of myself, and encouraged me to go after my dreams. But I was an unexpected result of a semester abroad at the age of twenty.
She put her whole life on pause, and I don’t begrudge her a single day for trying to reclaim some of that.
I hold Bea’s gaze, waiting to see what else she says and offering nothing more.
There’s not much else to say because this is just how my life has been.
Sure, there were moments of loneliness—and yeah, after Nat was born, I wished like hell my mom had been around for longer than the two weeks she stayed to help me learn the basics.
But there wasn’t any point in focusing on what I didn’t have.
I wasn’t raised that way. So, I kept my head down and worked hard. And Mom always answers when I call.
“You are a fascinating person, Nikita Baladin.” Bea finally breaks the silence. Unexpected pride fills me at her announcement, and I hope that she might want to know me as much as I want to know her.
“Engage your core, Nicky! Hold! Hold!”
There’s sweat rolling down my temples. The beads are hot and salty.
I’m trying to ignore the way they make my eyes burn.
My quads scream from the effort to stay level on the balance board as Robbie Hodge, my goalie coach, tosses rubber balls at me to swat away.
It’s easily the most demented version of dodgeball I’ve ever known, but as I send another ball flying back to Robbie, I know it’s worth it.
“Five more!” Robbie launches three at once.
Two at my left and one on my right. The board beneath my feet wobbles, and I grit my teeth.
I miss one, but hit the others. A sharp exhale parts my lips, a grunt tagging on the end as Robbie lobs the final two balls.
With them bouncing against the floor from my dismissal, I relax my stance and step off the board.
I try not to groan when I make it over to the bench, bending to reach my water bottle and a towel.
It’s only the second day of pre-season camp, and while I have worked out all summer, being with the training staff hits a little different. Everything is more intense. More real. And I don’t take that for granted.
Growing up, I dreamed of this. Playing professional hockey didn’t seem like it would be possible for the poor kid raised by a single mom, but I never stopped wanting it.
Secondhand skates, a blocker held together with duct tape, and a jersey two sizes too big in rec league teams didn’t exactly scream “future NHL player.” But it was my happy place and taught me more than just how to play the game.
The discipline I developed was woven into the repetitive exercises and skating until the blades were so dull I could barely stay upright on the ice.
It was the determination to make a life for myself.
I wasn’t going to let the few dollars my mom could spare go to waste.
Even when I didn’t get any offers from colleges, I kept believing hockey was the key to my life.
I took a job at the local AHL arena as the Zamboni driver in exchange for ice time and a steady paycheck, and I never gave up.
I had to believe my time would come, and it finally did.
The AHL coach watched me practice and invited me to join in some morning skates.
When the team was out of goalies during a home game some six months later, I was activated as the emergency backup.
One minute I was parking the Zamboni after resurfacing the ice during the intermission between periods, and the next, I was putting on gear and watching the equipment manager press my last name onto the back of jersey number twenty-eight.
“Looking sharp.” Robbie drops a hand to my shoulder, teeth flashing bright against his mahogany skin, pulling me from my memories.
He’s in his late fifties, a retired player turned specialties coach, and one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.
I respect the hell out of him, feeling something akin to intangible familiarity from the way our childhoods share similarities.
While many of the other kids on his block were honing their jump shots or tackling form, Robbie chose hockey.
He earned scholarships and sponsorships, and retired at thirty-two after helping the Houston Galaxy win their Stanley Cup.
As much as we have in common, I never forget that my experience with poverty wasn’t ever as challenging as his, and how I’m treated in this league because of it is different, too.
“What’s next?” I ask, trying to ignore the flash of the camera that hovers near the incline press, and the way I am suddenly intensely aware of the microphone wire that’s come loose under my damp shirt.
Not for the first time in the last ten days, I question my decision to participate in this ridiculous documentary.
But I did agree, for reasons I remind myself of as Robbie leads me over to the smooth wall next to a bank of mirrors.
I agreed not because the team asked, but because I want Natalia to see, when she’s older, what I was doing all the time I was away.
I was never gone because I wanted to miss the big and small moments of her childhood.
The opportunity felt like a good chance to do that.
My mom worked all the time when I was little, but I didn’t really understand it, and I was never included in it.
Ms. Jenkins, who lived across the hall, would just pat me on the head and tell me to finish my homework.
A bright beam of emerald light reflecting off the wall pushes away the rest of my thoughts, and I can’t help but groan.
I give Robbie a look that hopefully conveys my annoyance.
He just grins back at me and moves the laser pointer to a different spot on the wall before blinking it on and off a few times.
“I’m not a fucking cat, Rob. I’m not going to shake my ass with excitement before—” I cut myself off as my hand shoots out to cover the green dot just above my left shoulder, reflexes on point.
“You were saying?” Robbie taunts, then moves the light. And I follow. Exactly like a damn cat.
My irritation doesn’t last long when I hear her laugh. I’d recognize it anywhere; uniquely raspy and low, it rumbles across the gym, and I can’t stop myself from stealing a glance to where she leans against another wall, out of the shot.