Chapter 2
Two
Brody
My name always precedes me. Before I ever stepped on a sheet of ice, a legacy of expectation was dropped on my shoulders and
stitched across the back of them: Parker.
I’ll do anything to get away from it, including moving to the middle of America where the snowbanks are as high as the waves
I grew up riding. I baked under the Florida sun for as long as I could stand the heat, but eventually I got the hell out of
there and away from him. The pressure that comes with following in my dad’s footsteps was never as heavy as the dread I felt being his son.
Everyone thought I was holding out in free agency for the Tampa Storm to offer me the right contract and bring me back home.
The price was right, but I’ve been running from that place ever since I was good enough at hockey to get away.
I can’t even stand playing in that arena on the road, his retired jersey number looming over me in the rafters, casting a cold shadow too big to outskate.
In fact, I turned down a handful of lucrative offers from more skilled teams to be here.
Minnesota was the only one with a winter cold enough to shock the Florida tan right off your skin.
Cold-blooded animals need heat and I’m trying to freeze my dad out.
I receive a text from my dad as I walk into the rink for my first ever Minnesota Freeze practice.
Dad:
Did you get an apartment yet? Make sure it’s got a guest room. I’m flying in for the season opener. Everyone thinks you’ve
made a big mistake signing with Minnesota, myself included. Your game better not suffer. It’s my reputation too.
It appears he’s still pissed that I turned down the opportunity to play for his former team, a deal that would have given
him unlimited access to me and would have guaranteed I’d have to see his disapproving scowl in the stands every night.
The pit in my stomach intensifies. Since the deal with the Freeze took so long to work out, I’ve missed the entirety of training
camp. These guys have spent the last month practicing, completing on- and off-ice testing, and even attending team bonding
events. With only a few preseason games left, I have to hit the ground running today. A contract as big as mine comes with
a lot of responsibility.
I bury my phone in my back pocket for later. Maybe an excuse as to why Dad can’t visit will come to me while I’m out on the
ice.
“Parker!” A voice echoes down the hall.
I flinch hearing the name. Like a reflex, I yell back, “Parker’s my dad. Call me Brody.” My tone is ruder than necessary. These guys think they know my dad, but they’ve only seen the highlight reel. They don’t know the real him—and for the sake of my reputation, I hope they never do.
Behind me is the Freeze’s starting goalie, Devin Hamilton. He goes by Hammer and depending who you ask, you’ll get a different
story on the origin of his nickname. I choose to believe it’s because he’s known to whack you across the back of your ankles
if you get too close to his crease, but I guess I’ll know for sure after today’s shower. I’m not trying to get on this guy’s
bad side already because he’s a Canadian farm boy and strong as hell. He left a bruise on my ankle three seasons ago that
spread up my entire calf. Must be something in the bagged milk up there. I force a smile. He matches my energy with a goofy
childish grin that makes me wonder if he’s mocking me.
Aaron Jordan, the backup goalie, seemingly spawns out of nowhere. They stand side by side like The Shining twins. “But that’s your name,” Jordy says.
I’ve been told these two are like SpongeBob and Patrick: always together. Last year for Halloween they went as Cher and Dionne
from Clueless—it was all over social media.
“Exactly.” My hockey bag drops to my feet with a thud. It’s still branded with my old team’s logo, the Washington Federals.
I’m hoping a locker full of green-and-gold swag awaits me today.
“I don’t think I’ve ever called someone by their government name before.” Hammer scratches his head. He bends down and grabs
my hockey bag by the handles. Before I can object, he swings it up on his shoulder with ease. Okay, now he’s definitely mocking me.
“We’ll think of something better to call you,” Jordy says, wrapping his arm around me.
“Please don’t,” I say, already feeling uneasy by the intense comradery.
My last team was a bunch of old veteran players who wanted nothing to do with the few young guys on the team.
It was all stretching, long steak house dinners, and bed by nine.
I had to smuggle my gaming console on the road like contraband.
This team is currently the youngest in the league and with that comes stamina and pregame music from this decade.
The boys all welcome me into the dressing room with rowdy applause warm enough to have me believing I made the right choice
signing here. Team captain, Leo Andersson, gets up to shake my hand. Although “Andy” looks more like a Swedish DJ than he
does a hockey player, the only remixes he’ll be serving up are game-day time checks over the pregame music. He’ll be on my
right side feeding me beauty passes all season long.
As I stand there in the middle of the dressing room, illuminated by the glowing Freeze crest hanging from the ceiling, I know
what they want from me: confirmation that they have a Parker on their team. They want to know that I’m going to be the guy
who leads them to the playoffs this year, just as my dad did back in his playing days. I need to give them the Parker performance.
It’s showtime and the puck hasn’t even dropped.
I clear my throat and the room quiets. “I had a lot of offers this summer, but I told them all to fuck off because I’m winning
the Stanley Cup this season with the Freeze.” I grab my jersey from the stall. Number ninety-one, an inversion of my father’s
famous nineteen—my own secret way of telling the world we are total opposites. I lift the Freeze jersey into the air as the
cheers intensify. Nothing like getting all fired up before my first practice of the season with my new team. The boys all
holler, accepting me as their own.
I take my time after practice, lingering around the facility. It will take me a while to get familiar with the layout. After meeting more people today than I can remember, my social battery has less juice than my legs. That’s saying a lot, considering the intensity of this afternoon’s practice.
I don’t mind hanging around when it means avoiding the missed call from my dad and my tiny hotel room. Eventually it’s only
Hammer, Jordy, and me left in the locker room—goalies always take forever and these two are particularly slow.
“So, Brody, got a date for the big season kickoff party after the first home game?” Jordy asks. “Andy said you can bring whoever
you want.”
“Seriously, we’re very open to anyone coming.” Hammer gives me a loaded look.
I don’t know if they’re digging to find out if my dad will be tagging along or if they’re trying to get to the bottom of the
regular rumors about my sexuality—which have never bothered me enough to speak on anyway.
“What we’re trying to say is we’re very supportive,” Hammer continues.
Ah, I see. I interrupt them before they confess to accidentally attending a pride parade after-party. “I get it, guys, you’re very accepting.
That’s great, but I’m not gay.”
This rumor’s been around as long as I’ve been in the league; I think it’s because I’m the only guy in the NHL with a proper
fitting suit, and I’ve never had a serious relationship. I’ve had my hands full with hockey and family drama my entire life.
I’ve never been brave enough to throw a public relationship into the mix.
“Oh, no it’s not like that. I mean, my brother is gay, so we’re all cool,” Jordy blurts, shaking his head and starting over.
“My point was, if you don’t have a date, you should bring your dad.”
“I’d love to get his autograph,” Hammer agrees.
Jordy digs his elbow into Hammer’s ribs. “Be cool,” he says through his teeth.
“Right. Of course. I’ll bring someone—not my dad—but I can find someone,” I say.
“Sounds good, Bro-nado.” Jordy pulls his long dreads back into a bun at the crown of his head.
“Who?” I ask.
Hammer and Jordy’s motions are in sync as they slip into their jackets’ sleeves. “I’m trying out new nicknames,” Jordy says.
“We’ll keep trying. The right one is out there,” Hammer adds.
Once the goalies finally leave, I pull my phone out and text my dad.
Brody:
Still searching for an apartment. Team’s hosting a party after the game, and I should bond with them. Let’s hold off on the
visit for now.
Dad:
I like to party . . .
I know he likes to party. It’s one of his many hobbies tearing our family apart.
Brody:
I’m bringing a date.
My dad has been on me for years about settling down and starting a family.
“The Parker legacy doesn’t include gay rumors,” I’ve been told.
Producing superstar hockey-playing grandchildren to carry on our legacy into a third generation is an uncomfortable discussion he loves to bring up. He says that’s what men do.
Dad:
Well done, son. About time. Can’t wait to meet the lucky lady. I’m coming before Thanksgiving, so get house hunting!
I hate that getting a “well done” text from him makes me feel good. The challenge to meet his expectations for perfection
feeds into my competitive nature. It doesn’t matter how old I get or how much success I achieve on my own, there will always
be a part of me that craves his validation.
Quickly my guilt is replaced with panic. Where am I going to find someone on such short notice? They don’t need to be good
enough to bring home to Dad, but I do need them to be available the night of our first home game. If I show up to this party
alone, these guys might think I can’t seal the deal—and Parkers always close. A good teammate is a man of their word, but
I don’t know anyone in this city.
As I round the corner, standing under the glare of a single pot light is a blur of disheveled chestnut-brown hair. I’ve met
a lot of people today, but from behind she looks unfamiliar.
“Hey,” I call out down the hall. Looks like I have to tap into my social battery reserve and make nice with one last team
employee.
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she unsuccessfully hides behind a handful of sticks. I call out again. “I can see you. Do you
need some help?”
She fumbles with the sticks, and then they collapse like a pile of Jenga blocks for a full body reveal.
She’s got the type of face you spend all day thinking about.
Sharp features and eyes so dark I’m sucked in like a daydream.
I search for a name, but there’s no employee badge around her neck or clipped to her hip.
“Are you trying to steal our sticks?” I point to the floor, attempting to break the ice with a joke. About fifteen twigs lie
scattered on the ground like the beginning of a game of pickup hockey.
“No.” Her voice is shrill. She folds over and starts to frantically collect them.
“Let me help,” I say, approaching. Her body is turned away from me, her face covered by a sheet of long thick hair. This is
starting to feel like The Phantom of the Rink. “Do you work for the team?” I ask, prying for any information. I don’t care about the sticks; we can get new ones. I want
to see her face again. I inch closer.
“No.” She keeps her head hung.
“Do you know any other words?”
“No.” She continues to gather the sticks, pulling them into a pile across her lap.
We reach for the same stick and our hands momentarily collide. As our fingers intertwine, I realize mine are trembling. She
looks up at me and our eyes lock into a stare. Like déjà vu, there is something about her passionate glare that makes me feel
like this isn’t the first time we’ve gotten this close to each other.
She pulls away, and in one swift motion she’s on her feet, aggressively shoving the sticks back up against the wall before
sprinting down the hall. I stare as she scrambles out the double doors back into the lower concourse of the rink, hoping she
glances back at me before the doors swing shut, but she doesn’t.
So much for Minnesota nice.