Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next day, I wake up on the couch, my eyes caked and crusty. I spent the night here, dressed in my suit. There’s an ache in my back from sleeping awkwardly. Why didn’t I have the sense to drag myself to bed and crash there instead?
Oh, that’s right. Because I’m the worst son in the world.
I rub the gunk out of my eyes and find my phone where I left it, abandoned on the floor.
I check my messages, naively hoping to find something from my dad, but there’s nothing but silence.
Glancing at the time, my dad’s already gone.
He had an early flight back to Massachusetts.
Was he glad to leave Chicago and get away from me?
Probably. I did this to myself. I ruined my relationship with my dad, my only remaining family, all on my own.
Why should I expect forgiveness when I said something so cruel and unprovoked?
My eyes wander to our message history, and I scroll up to reread our last few conversations.
In the majority of his texts from the past year, he’s been nothing but eager to catch my games.
He complimented my saves, and even though he doesn’t understand the nuances of goaltending, he was genuine and earnest. He was trying his best, and I showed my appreciation by being a total asshole.
I need to fix this. I need to make this right, but finding the right words is difficult. What do you say to the person you love so much but hurt so profoundly?
He’s already gone. Why bother? He won’t even see your text, one voice inside my head taunts.
Just say something. Anything is better than nothing, another urges.
I start typing, my fingers flying across the keys.
Me
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I love you. I hope you made it home alright.
One text won’t be enough to heal the serious pain I’ve caused, but I had to try.
I stare at my phone, hoping he’ll respond immediately, that the “Delivered” notification will turn to “Read” but it doesn’t—and it remains unread for the next several minutes.
He’s probably still in the air. Maybe he’ll see it when he lands.
I push off the couch, change out of my suit and head to the rink for practice.
I’m not exactly at my best inside the net, but I make it work because my team’s counting on me.
During my post-practice workout, I hop on a bike and let the repetitive, monotonous motion drown out my thoughts.
If I pedal fast enough, maybe I can outrun the words I can’t take back.
When a trainer taps my shoulder sometime later, I almost fall off the bike.
He steadies me, apologizing with a smile for the scare.
He suggests I start winding down. As I wipe the sweat off my face with a towel, I glance at the clock, surprised to discover how much time has passed in a mindless blur.
After my cooldown, I step off the bike, my legs burning from the vigorous exercise.
I grab my bottle of water and head to the locker room for a shower as frigid as my cold heart.
After I get dressed, I check my phone again, only to find no new messages.
My dad should have landed by now, but maybe there were delays with his flight.
On a normal day, he always writes back within an hour of receiving one of my texts, even if it’s just to acknowledge he saw it. My dad may not be great with every form of modern technology, but he loves texting to keep in touch. But maybe… maybe my apology wasn’t enough.
I return to my apartment feeling weighed down.
My stomach growls, so I grab some leftovers from the fridge, too despondent to put in the effort to make something from scratch.
At the dinner table, I open up my laptop and pull up a video from the game against Miami.
I’ve been meaning to rewatch some of the VODs from our last few games to prep for the playoffs.
Maybe doing something productive will help take my mind off my crumbling relationship with my dad.
As I watch, however, the images on the screen blur together, a mash of colors and lights without form.
I start and stop the video every few minutes to check my phone, even though it hasn’t pinged, even though only a few minutes have passed, desperate to discover a response from my dad.
Even if it was a flurry of angry, scolding messages, I’d take that over silence, over wondering.
Instead, I slog through only a single video, managing to achieve neither of my goals as the afternoon passes.
I’m as concerned for the fate of the playoffs as I am for the future of my relationship with my dad.
As the sun sets outside, I still haven’t heard from him, so my mind jumps to other conclusions, each more and more dramatic. My dad’s cutting me out of his life; something happened to him and he’s not able to respond, and oh God, what if those were the last words I ever said to him in person?
I check my dad’s flight and sure enough, it landed safely in Boston.
So what’s going on? Why hasn’t he messaged me?
Should I message him again? I pull up my last text, and it’s still unread.
I start typing another message, but stop short.
What if pestering him only manages to make him angrier? What am I supposed to do?
I back out of my conversation with my dad and see the unread message from Eric underneath. The last thing he sent me was a question asking if I was having a good time with my dad.
In my desperation, I reach out to him.
Me
I need some advice. It’s not hockey related. If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay. I just need someone.
And just like my dad, I’m not sure if Eric will respond, but I wait, hovering over my phone, trying not to panic.
A short while later, my phone chimes, and I clamor to read the text.
Eric
What’s up?
Despite being the one to reach out to Eric, despite claiming I needed his help, my fingers hover the keyboard, unsure of how to respond.
Eric
Did something happen at your dad’s lecture?
Me
Yeah
I made a huge mistake
Eric skips texting and goes straight to calling me. I answer, even though I’m not sure it’s wise. If we kept our conversation to texting, I wouldn’t have to worry about Eric hearing my voice crack or the way it grows high pitched when I’m upset.
“I thought this would be easier than texting, is that alright?”
“It’s fine,” I mumble, already feeling the pressure in the back of my throat.
“You don’t sound fine, James.”
Yeah, I’m not exactly putting on my best acting job. My throat’s a little hoarse, and I have a pretty terrible pulsing headache at my brow. I’ve been hunched over my computer staring at a screen for hours, and I didn’t sleep well last night.
“What’s going on?”
“I… I said something pretty awful to my dad after his lecture.” I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm.
“He was talking with some of his colleagues. Bragging to one of his old friends about how I’d made the playoffs.
” I curl my fingers tighter around my phone.
“So I pulled him aside and asked him what he was doing. He said he was doing exactly that. Trying to show interest. Trying to be supportive, but him and I both know if… if my mom was…”
I bite my lip, unable to finish my sentence. My face twists, my nose wrinkling as I hesitate before speaking further. Am I really about to admit to the man I admire and respect that I’m a horrible human being?
“I told him he can’t replace her.” I screw my eyes shut and feel a stray tear slide down my face. “No one will ever be able to do that.”
I wipe my cheek and lean my head into my hand. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want my dad to be interested, it’s just…”
“Your dad was doing what your mom always did in the past.”
“Yeah,” I choke, unable to hold myself back. “One of his colleagues brought her up, and my dad just talked about her so casually, as if it didn’t hurt, as if he’s already over the loss. It just made me so angry. I wasn’t thinking. I completely ruined his night. I’m a horrible son.”
“No, you’re not. We’ve all said things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment to the people we love.”
“I texted him an apology hours ago, but he still hasn’t responded.” I sniffle hard. “I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
“He doesn’t, James. He’s probably just busy and hasn’t seen it yet.”
But what if Eric’s wrong? What if he has seen it, and he’s chosen to ignore me?
He has plenty of grad students to look after, books to write, articles to publish.
He doesn’t need this much stress after everything he’s already endured.
He doesn’t need his asshole son the way his asshole son needs him.
Eric’s voice cuts through the negativity.
“Think back on all the moments from your childhood, James, all the moments your dad supported you and your love for hockey in his own way. He probably picked you up from practices, took you to games, drove you home, right? He probably even helped you pick new equipment as you outgrew your gear.”
One of my most distinct childhood memories is of my dad taking me to the sporting goods store to help me pick out new skates after my old ones were starting to get too worn and frayed.
As a boy, I was upset over having to replace them, afraid new skates wouldn’t fit the same way, that it would take too long to break them in.
I must’ve freaked out the poor teenager managing the store that day, because I burst into tears after trying on the third pair and felt hopeless.
My dad knelt beside me and told me everything would be alright, that we’d stay and try on all the skates if it meant I eventually found the right pair.
When it was time to try on the fourth set, he told me he had a good feeling about them, and even though I was skeptical, he ended up being right.
I’ve worn the same brand of skates ever since.
Eric’s right. There are countless other memories with my dad in center focus.
It wasn’t just my mom cheering me on from the stands.
Dad was always there with her, a little winded from following the back and forth activity, sure, a little horrified whenever one of the other parents became heated with the junior referees, but he was there.
And when he would drive me home after practice, I’d fall asleep in the car and wake up sometime later in my bed, tucked in by not just one, but two parents who loved me.
“Maybe your dad doesn’t know everything about hockey,” Eric continues, his voice soothing and comforting, as warm as a blanket draped around my shoulders.
“Maybe he’ll never be able to fully understand what we goalies go through, but maybe he didn’t have to learn because your mom was always there to explain it for him.
And now he’s lost that, too. He’s having to catch up now because he wants to support you and be a part of your life while also grieving his spouse.
You aren’t living at home with him, so you probably haven’t seen the effect it’s had on him.
You should read his latest book. I think his poems will shed some light on what he’s feeling. ”
I was planning on reading them, I’ve just been putting it off because I was afraid of what I would find between those pages.
“Your dad loves you, James. I know you’re scared, but I promise you he does. He’ll forgive you. Just give it time.”
And just as I’m about to entertain my doubts, just as I’m about to fall prey to my cynicism, my phone vibrates with a new message from my dad.
Dad
Sorry. I forgot to charge my phone last night, so I just saw your message. Thank you for apologizing. This past year has been difficult for the both of us, but I’ll always love you. After the playoffs are over, we should talk.
“James? Are you still there?”
I blink, causing another fat tear to splash onto my screen.
“He just…” I rub my nose with the back of my hand. “He just messaged me back.”
“That’s great, I knew he would.”
“He wants to talk after the playoffs.”
My dad’s right. We need to talk about this, about mom. For right now, I need to focus on the rest of the season.
I should start keeping a tally of how many times Eric has swooped in and saved the day. My knight in shining armor. How can I ever make it up to him?
“Eric… Thanks. Seriously. You have no idea how much this means to me. I know you’re busy getting ready for the playoffs yourself, I know you probably didn’t expect this when you gave me your number—”
“You’re my friend, James. I’ll always be here for you. Whatever you need. It’s not just about goalie facts and comparing saves. I may not always have the answers, but you can talk to me.”
I smile and let out a sigh. I haven’t ruined my relationship with the most important person in my life, my dad, and I haven’t scared Eric away.
“Take care of yourself, James,” he suggests. “Grab yourself something sweet to eat. Take a hot shower. A bath. Go curl up in bed with your favorite book.”
“You always know exactly what to say.”
“I’ve been in your shoes. We all make mistakes. Just because you make them doesn’t mean you can’t fix them.”
I can picture his smile, the dimples in his cheeks, the light in those perfect green eyes.
“Good night, James. Feel better soon.”
We end the call, but for a few moments, I sit there, overwhelmed by Eric’s kindness, wondering how I could have ever made a friend like him.