CHAPTER 52
Troy
I SHOULDN’T BE here.
Here, as in, Wisteria Rink. This is the last place I should’ve traveled to, but before Dimitri’s eldest brother wisdom could convince me otherwise, I decided to take the plunge and resume the original goal.
This particular decision has been in the works for years, ever since I decided I wanted to become a figure skating coach post-retirement.
I realized this back in high school, but it wasn’t until college that I began some coaching duties to get a feel for it, loved it, and now, a year ago the first communications with a rink began for a more permanent role, when the ice rink’s owner in Wisteria, Shane Coolidge, reached out to me inquiring about a coaching gig.
I was already familiar with the place. The elementary school that Dimitri and I attended—the same one Ana also did—was just a few blocks away from the small rink.
Their hours fluctuated like crazy with the lack of funding, but everyone there led with passion.
It didn’t matter that competitions seldomly took place on their ice, the few that worked there did everything in their power to give more skaters opportunities at a sport that continues to feel more and more elitist by the year.
Mom hated that about the sport, and following her death, my own ruthless competing took priority over memories made long before at Wisteria Rink, though, they never left.
As of last year, Wisteria still couldn’t afford professional figure skating programs, and they definitely couldn’t afford a hockey team, even at the club level.
A skating program designed for preliminary skaters is the first chance at a hopefully steady course that can have the rink running more consistently throughout the year.
My goal is to have a skating academy running with juniors and seniors levels in the next decade, ambitious—but with the right team and mindset—possible.
Dad would already have essays to conduct his shitting on this decision, but ties to any rink other than his own, could end in my own death. And everyone would’ve warned me not to do it.
But I have to do this.
There’s so much talent that never reaches that ice, these skaters need more programs, better facilities, more accessible coaching—the bare minimum funding.
The shallow, some even borderline stupid, sponsorships I’ve taken over the past decade have surprisingly paid off years later, beyond the financial freedom I longed away from my father, there’s enough saved now to invest into this rink, helping boost their initial round of funding.
The first session already ended, and it reminded me just how small this space is, half the perimeter of a standard ice rink, its resemblance more in line with those temporary ice rinks filling the slew of East Coast towns this time of year.
Orange and mint crooked streaks stamp over the cold floor, the place equally as desperate in need of a paint job.
“I know Tina told you we’re tight with the finances, but we can afford to pay you, Troy. We should be paying you,” Shane reassures, peering over his shoulder at their rink’s accountant.
To help with that funding, I’ve decided to forego any salary for the meantime.
“I told you, it’s fine. Save it for the athletes.”
_________
“You got the files I sent you?”
Not even two feet into his living room, and my father’s business ventures have already consumed the cold house.
“Yeah, I got them.”
“I assume that means you’ll be at our first meeting at the end of October.”
“I’m busy with practice, school, and the list of assignments you already gave me without my permission.”
“Our partners are flying all the way from Stockholm, so I expect you to be there, Troy. Preferably with a better attitude. Put your other assignments on hold. You’re already behind schedule for executive training.”
The role that my father’s practically shoved down my throat, despite my many protests, which have all ended in failure.
When Dimitri and Karl took on the family sport, Dad made a decision to burden his remaining son with running his hockey business ventures, regardless of how little interest that son had at the prospect.
So far, I’ve obliged to all his numerous requests: accounting, tech support, social media, PR, admin.
work, you name it, even the master’s business program he recommended to take.
But what he’s never blatantly spelled out is the purpose of this training: to inherit his current role of chief executive officer of Larsson Rinks LLC onto me once he retires.
“Even though I don’t want the role, right?” I remind him for what feels like the thousandth time.
“Don’t be so shortsighted,” he answers roughly. “You will grow tired of dancing around in skates one day, not to mention you’re not making a dime from it, and you’ll thank me for having your best interest at heart.”
The only best interest my father has ever had in his heart is keeping and expanding his international hockey empire, and without it he sees nothing beyond it.
“I have my own partnerships that took me years to build,” I respond, “I still help with your work, and I have other plans for what I want to pursue after retirement.”
“Like what? What could you possibly do other than coach?”
In the silence, he finds his answer.
“Oh, God help us. Have you lost your fucking mind?!” First, he grunts with disgust, then, he gives a snarky laugh, though it’s obvious he hasn’t formulated his full reaction quite yet, more disapproval on the way.
“It’s one thing to chase after a sport that doesn’t give you a salary, but to then coach that very same sport? That’s madness.”
“Coaching has a salary,” I say, feeling my voice start to deflate.
“A salary that will be pennies compared to what you’d make on our board. You have enough hobbies, hell, your whole life has been you chasing after a hobby. The least you can do for your family is lead with the future management.”
“I’m sure you can find someone more than willing to run your hockey empire one day, Dad. But it won’t be me.”
Maybe if I knew that my father hadn’t been counting down the days until I’d announce my retirement from skating, I wouldn’t react this harshly.
I probably wouldn’t even mind continuing his assigned responsibilities, if I knew there was at least an ounce of moral compass in Dad’s bones, that he didn’t throw away so much of what he’d been given in life, neglected the ones who needed him the most, when they needed him the most.
What gets me the most is knowing that he believes he’ll get what he wants in the end because no one dares to disobey the man running the successful half of Europe’s hockey roster, leading the pack with Sweden. Just this once, I refuse to add to his wins.