Evening the Score

Chapter 1

One

Olivia

I’ll hold on to a grudge until it burns my palms. I am my father’s daughter, after all. At least I’m gripping a grudge and

not a hockey stick like he did; holding on to something until it kills you is hardly healthy, but it’s the Hinckley way.

It only took two trips from the car to the eleventh floor to move my entire life into my sister Tori’s spare bedroom. A temporary

stay while I figure out a more permanent living situation. My mom didn’t give me much notice when she decided to sell our

childhood home and buy a condo in Arizona. She said she couldn’t take one more Minnesota winter.

When my mom turned over the keys, I didn’t know where to go. The housing market is more brutal than any harsh snowstorm and

I’m still paying off student loans. Imposing on Tori isn’t ideal, but it’s my best option. I can’t show my face at Nookomis’s—my grandmother’s—house. Too many memories haunt that place, and I’d rather not disturb the dead.

“Let’s get you settled and then we can watch the Freeze preseason game.” Tori picks up my second stack of boxes with ease.

She’s always trying to get me to watch the Minnesota Freeze game or play pickup hockey with her beer-league team, but my passion for the game died along with our dad. “I’m really tired from the move. I think I’ll get some sleep.”

As Tori opens the door, it dawns on me that I’ve never actually seen her spare bedroom. The space formerly belonged to Ivy,

Tori’s roommate-turned-girlfriend. My mom mentioned Ivy had some online craft hobby, but I’ve been so focused on my own freelance

business that I haven’t been the most engaged sister. It’s a small room and every inch of space is decorated with some creepy

craft. Dozens of beady eyes stare back at me. The room is filled from ceiling to floor with varying taxidermized animals.

From four legs to two wings and even just heads, it’s like walking into Noah’s ark if things had taken a dark turn on the

boat.

“On second thought, I think I’ll watch the game.” I drop my stuff at my feet.

“I’d say you’ll get used to it, but you don’t. I’m two walls away and don’t dare sleep with a foot untucked.” Tori dips out

as quickly as she entered.

On my bedside sits a trio of mice figure-skating. The formaldehyde and wet-dog stench are already giving me a headache, but

at least the room comes with a desk. Not only is this my temporary bedroom, but it’s also my office.

I love my job, but freelancing is a grind. It was supposed to be a temporary fix while I tried to break into the competitive

data science market. The increased use of AI means fewer jobs, and almost a year later, it’s still my main source of income.

I get by, but I couldn’t get out of my mom’s house.

“Food’s here!” Ivy shouts from the kitchen.

Whatever regret I’m feeling over my choice to move into Ivy’s room dissipates when I see they’ve ordered my favorite pepperoni and olive pizza. I take a plate to the kitchen table and dig in. I’m about two slices deep when I overhear the Freeze game go into its first intermission report.

Camille Duval, decorated women’s hockey legend, sits on the panel teasing viewers with breaking Brody Parker news. His name

gets my attention but isn’t enough to pull me away from another slice of pizza and my Nintendo Switch combo meal. Tori, who

watches attentively from the living room couch, turns the volume up. Even from the corner of my eye, Brody’s highlight reel

looks more like a shampoo commercial. His black silky flow peeks out under the back of his helmet, flapping in the wind like

a dog with its head out the car window. His flashy smile is brighter than fresh ice and so wide I swear he’s had a few extra

teeth put in. Everything about Brody is arrogant and showy, but that’s what happens when you’re raised by Erik Parker.

Brody is the NHL’s hottest free agent, and all anyone could talk about all summer long. When free agency frenzy came and went,

Brody remained unsigned. Everyone thought he was being selective, waiting for a winning team to make some moves and free up

cap space for him on their roster. Fans theorized that his dad’s alma mater, the Tampa Storm, was a shoo-in to land the centerman.

As weeks passed without a deal, it became clear to everyone that Brody was trying to secure himself the biggest NHL contract

in history. He loves the attention—just like his dad.

As the Brody fancam wraps up, Camille announces that Mr. Indecisive has made his choice—the ink is dry and the deal is done.

Tori gasps; how anyone can still care after months and months of Brody’s edge play is beyond me.

The Minnesota Freeze logo flashes on the screen, floating beside Camille’s shoulder, then an action shot of Brody photoshopped into the team colors of forest green and gold pops up.

I choke my bite of pizza down in one hard gulp and drop my handheld game.

There are seven Anishinaabe Grandfather Teachings, but none of them could have prepared me for this.

There is no breath deep enough, no drink strong enough, and no thought happy enough to regulate the rush of rage pulsating through my body.

Tori lunges off the couch and jumps in front of the TV. Despite her best attempt at a screen, I can still see his headshot

as Sports News Network says they will be joined by Brody and his family live via video call momentarily.

“Move!” I barrel through the apartment toward the TV.

Tori bends her knees and stands like a defenseman ready to protect her new flat-screen. “I’ll move, but promise me you won’t

freak out.”

“Move or I will freak out.”

Tori sidesteps out of the way, but the image of each Parker family member holding up a Minnesota Freeze jersey is my final

straw. I let out a guttural scream, one so primal all the hairs on my body stand up.

Ivy is back from the bathroom, probably to taxidermize me. “Did the Freeze score?” she asks in earnest.

My sister pulls her fingers out of her ears. She shakes her head and cringes, but any attempt to divert Ivy goes over her

thick head of coppery hair. My chest heaves as I catch my breath.

“Must have been an impressive goal. Olivia looks like she can’t believe her eyes,” Ivy says in her singsong voice. “But please

try to remember that we have to use our inside voices in this complex. Our neighbor with all the cats knows about my taxidermy

business and is looking for any excuse to have us evicted.” Ivy takes her spot on the couch and continues stringing teeth

on an embroidery hoop.

Camille introduces her fellow SNN contributor Erik Parker as a pillar in the hockey community and Tori has to hold me back.

As much as Brody annoys me, he’s got nothing on Erik Parker.

Erik grins cockily into the camera like he’s the one signing the handsome six-year deal.

Then the entire picture-perfect Parker family fills the frame.

The NHL’s First Family, as they’re often referred to by ass-kissers and fans who don’t value back-checking.

Decorated legendary NHL forward Erik Parker, his perfect petite wife, Hannah Parker, and the prodigal son, Brody Parker.

Their smiles are as lifeless as the animals in my new room.

The hockey world might not be able to clock their act, but I know the tells.

Brody gushes to Camille that he’s excited to get to Minnesota and win hockey games, but it’s Erik who hogs the camera. “I

always enjoyed visiting the Twin Cities and taking on the Freeze. I know the great state of hockey will be just as accepting

of Brody as he heads north to carry on the Parker legacy. It’s been years since the team was decent enough to crack the playoffs

and a Parker is just the player to resurrect some life into that franchise,” Erik says.

SNN shows an image of the 2000–2001 Minnesota Freeze Stanley Cup winning roster. It was the beginning of their dynasty run—and

the year after an injury ended my dad Kevin Hinckley’s professional hockey career.

Camille cuts back to the Minnesota Freeze preseason game coverage, but the only thing I’m watching is the lack of reaction

from my sister. Sometimes grief hits you like an open-ice body check, and sometimes it’s as subtle as a tip. The news of the

Parker legacy spreading to Minnesota is a hit from behind.

“Don’t tell me you’re happy about this.” I knot my arms over my chest and pace the room.

Tori shrugs. “Team’s got a shot at being decent now.”

“I can’t believe a Parker is going to wear Dad’s jersey,” I say, my jaw straining under the tension of disdain.

“It’s not Dad’s jersey anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.” Tori takes a seat next to Ivy on the couch. She pulls a long

slurp from her can of Diet Pepsi.

Smashing the TV briefly crosses my mind, but instead I stare my sister down. She’s the spitting image of our mom—forgiving

hazel eyes, soft mousy-brown hair just long enough to gather into a ponytail, and a sweet face that always got a second helping

of dessert from our grandparents. She even identifies as two-spirit. How am I ever supposed to compete with that? I hardly

have one.

Everything about me is my dad. It’s all a bit darker—my hair, my eyes, my complexion, my moods, my jokes. I’d say I’m the

black sheep of my family, but ever since my dad died, I feel like a completely different species compared to my mom and sister.

“Don’t tell me to let it go,” I snap.

Tori huffs. “I didn’t tell you to do anything.” I sulk back into the kitchen and clean my mess.

The Parkers get called a lot of things: hockey royalty; an athletic dynasty; the father, the son, and the hockey spirit. Call

it what you want, because I’m calling bullshit. It doesn’t matter if you dress it up in a nice jersey; it will always be bullshit.