Chapter Three
Owen
Shutout pants at my feet, tongue lolling. He knows I’m a sucker for that goofy grin. I never used to let him beg, but now that he’s older, I enjoy sneaking him bits of dog-safe food while I cook.
“Hoping for some of these broccoli stems?” I ask.
Shutout mouth-breathes on my ankles. He’s too lazy to stand for long, so mostly he flops around on the cool tile of my condo’s kitchen floor. His old bones appreciate the relief from the heat.
“You don’t even pay rent, but you expect handouts?
Such a mooch.” I flick a broccoli floret off the cutting board.
It lands between Shutout’s paws, prompting him to go full piranha mode.
He might look old and harmless, but woe betide the fool who gets between him and his food.
I’m told that’s because he’s got a little black lab in him, but Shutout’s the kind of Heinz 57 mix that makes it hard to attribute any of his behaviors to his breed.
I did a DNA test on him a few years ago, and the list of breed traits came back a mile long.
Allegedly, he’s fifteen percent chihuahua. Go figure.
Unlike my mutt’s over-functioning DNA profile, cooking is simple.
Heat, timing, a little attention, and things turn out the way they’re supposed to.
I know what the end result will be before I even start, and if something goes wrong, I can fix it.
Out there, it doesn’t work like that. People don’t follow instructions.
Situations don’t stay contained. Lately, it feels like everything I touch outside this kitchen has a way of slipping just far enough out of my control that I can’t get it back.
I’ve got everything prepped and ready to cook when my phone rings.
Mom’s photo pops up on the screen. It’s an old photo, one that a friend snapped of us at my high school graduation.
I look like a total dork, but she looks perfect.
Carefree. I didn’t get to see her smile like that when I was growing up.
I’m never going to take her joy for granted.
“Hey, Ma.” I pinch the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “How’s your roof holding up?”
“My roof is fine. It’s my son that has me worried.”
I lower my tuna steaks into the sizzling cast-iron. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Mm. That’s not what the talking heads on ESPN are saying.”
They’re calling it a pattern, which is news to me.
Slow-motion breakdowns, arrows drawn across the screen like they can diagram intent from a single frame.
Words like “undisciplined” and “volatile” get tossed around as facts instead of guesses.
There’s already talk of the League reviewing it, of whether supplemental discipline is warranted, like I’m one more clip away from turning into a headline instead of a player.
There are few things I hate more than disappointing my mother. The poor woman has already had a lifetime of that. “It’s fine, Ma. You know how hockey is.”
“I do,” she says, “but that’s not how I raised you, baby.”
She might as well have cursed a blue streak. The metal spatula slips from my hands and lands on the floor with a clatter loud enough to startle Shutout into leaping to his feet. His nails skitter on the tile as he tries to escape the danger-spatula, Three Stooges style.
“What was that?” Mom asks.
“Nothing.” I kneel to retrieve the spatula with shaking hands. She would never say it outright—she’s probably not even thinking it—but the unspoken implication is there anyway.
Mom wasn’t the parent who taught me to lead with my fists. That honor fell to my father.
I can still see it if I let myself think about it too long—him standing over me, telling me that if I didn’t hit first, I’d spend my life on my back.
That hesitation was weakness. That control was something other people got to have.
I swallow hard, trying to push the memory down where it belongs.
I’m not him. I’ve never been him. I’ve spent my entire life proving that.
But the look on my mom’s face isn’t about the difference between us.
It’s about the parts of me that look the same, whether I like it or not.
The month I turned twelve, he died. No accountability. No apology.
No closure.
I’m not my father, I’m not, I’m not…
“Pretty loud for ‘nothing,’ Owe.”
“Kitchen mishap.” I wipe down the spatula with a soapy sponge. “Anyway, Ma, you don’t need to worry about me. What’s the deal with your roof?”
She sighs. I don’t know if this is commentary about me or about the state of her rafters. Most likely, a little bit of column A, a little of column B. “Oh, don’t worry about me. You know how I get when an unexpected bill hits. I’ve had a chance to sleep on it.”
“Did you call another contractor?”
“I’m on it, Owe.”
“Ma—”
“I can handle myself just fine, young man.”
Thus, we commence another round of New England Parenting: Fuck With Your Son’s Head.
Is my mom actually okay? Was she just complaining yesterday, or is she only pretending to be okay now?
Does she need help, or does she need to vent sometimes?
Literally, who the fuck knows. My mom isn’t passive-aggressive by nature, but New Englanders have a habit of combining the motto of “Keep Calm And Carry On” with the regional twist of “But Be A Little Bit Salty About It.” If my mom’s house collapsed in on itself while she was out at the grocery store, she’d probably say something like, Dammit, where am I supposed to store the yogurt now?
Point in case: “I don’t want to bother you, not when you have so much on your plate right now…”
“You’re not bothering me. I can afford an electrician.”
“So can I, and I don’t need you to fuss over me.”
If I were from any other part of the country, this is probably where I’d scream something akin to, Just let me love you! But alas, I too am a New Englander, so I say, “Let me know if you need help.”
“I will,” she says.
She won’t.
I wish I could explain what really happened in that stupid viral clip.
I wish I could explain that money isn’t an issue for me anymore and that I’d rather spend my savings on her than let my earnings pile up in an investment account.
That I wish she’d let me make her life easier.
That I wish I could make up for everything my father put her through.
That sometimes, in spite of everything, I still feel helpless and lonely in this desert city three thousand miles from home.
That some ugly part of me has always wondered if she could’ve escaped him sooner if I hadn’t existed.
There’s a chime on her end of the line, followed by the rustle of fabric. “Oh, that’s the doorbell. Gotta go!”
“Is it the electrician?”
“I’m hanging up, Owen. Take care, baby. I love you!”
“Love you, too.”
The line goes dead.
The silence hits harder than the conversation.
It settles into the space around me, thick and heavy, the whole place holding its breath.
Three thousand miles might as well be the other side of the world for all the good I can do from here.
I stare at the dark screen for a second longer than I should, like it might light up again if I wait long enough.
In the ensuing silence, I turn off the burner and slide down with my back to the cabinets.
I can take the yapping of the critics. I can survive a viral video.
I thought I would get through this if I just kept my shit together, but my mom’s words keep running through my head on loop: That’s not how I raised you.
I can take a hit on the ice without blinking.
I can stand in front of a hundred-mile-an-hour shot and trust my body to do what it’s trained to do.
This, though—this quiet, this feeling like I’m dropping balls I’m supposed to keep in the air—it gets under my skin in a way nothing else does.
There’s no system for it. No play to run.
Just me, sitting on the floor of my kitchen, trying to convince myself I haven’t already screwed something up I can’t fix.
“Fuck.” I press my hands to my face, blotting out the sunlight.
A warm, wet nose nudges at my hand. Shutout snuffles, blowing his snot all over me.
“Gross, dude. Don’t lick me—ah, goddamn it, not the balls!”
Shutout persists, trying to fit all sixty-four pounds of his bony ass into my lap, even though his legs are almost as long as my arms. He does not fit, and yet, he sits.
“Get off me, you big noodle.” I wriggle my way out from under Shutout, who has decided to play possum. It’s much more difficult to feel sorry for myself when I’m wrestling with a stubborn mutt whose silver whiskers make him look like a distinguished grandpa.
I finish my meal prep, paying the snack tax to Shutout every step of the way. My phone buzzes on the counter with a barrage of texts, but I don’t let myself look right away. I’m not ready to read through another wall of frantic texts from my mother, only to be told that she doesn’t want my help.
When I finally sit down to eat my lunch and scroll through the messages, though, only one of them—three heart emojis, no text—is from my mom. The rest are from my teammates.
Lenyx: Want me to Venmo your bail?
Viktor: As your team captain, I advise you to avoid speaking to an officer without an attorney present.
Knight: Wait, do you have an atturney?
Knight: Do you need an atturny?
Knight: Owen, blink twice if you need an atornie.
Viktor: Wtf, Knight, I spelled it right on the first try. Are you on drugs?
Knight: Define drugs.
Lenyx: Looks like Knight might need an atty. too
Knight: you cheated!!!!
Tristan: Settle down, guys. The last thing we need is for another player to get in trouble right now.
Tristan: …too soon?
Bowen chimes in with a GIF of some guy losing his mind in a Walmart.