Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Brody
Tom Armstrong, the team’s general manager, pops his head in the locker room after practice. His entrance is as subtle as Darth
Vader’s. Conversation instantly dries up and the room falls silent. Well, everyone but Hammer and Jordy, who both continue
to loudly share an inappropriate story that involves a couple bartenders from Hattricks and a shared jockstrap.
Armstrong clears his throat and points to me. It feels as if I dropped a barbell on my chest. “Brody, I’ll see you in my office
before you head out,” he says.
When the general manager wants to talk to you, it can mean one of two things, the first being your official goodbye. Trading
me now is unlikely and wasn’t an SNN trade deadline prediction, which means I’m being called into his office for the second
thing. Across the room, Chef is smiling as he unlaces his skates. He tips his head to me, and it becomes clear what is waiting
for me in the GM’s office. This is a huge moment for my career and more importantly, the Parker legacy.
Armstrong’s office is lined with hockey relics. Reminders of the long hockey history that binds this city to our team. He welcomes me in and motions me to take a seat across from his desk. “How are you liking the Twin Cities so far?” he says, sitting down in his plush leather chair.
“Winter is harsh, but last weekend they had a waterskiing squirrel at the giant mall, so that was cool.” Unlike Twiggy the
Waterskiing Squirrel, I’m not playing this very cool.
“You know what they say? You’re not a local until you know your way around the Mall of America.”
“It took me two hours to find where I parked my car the first time I went. Only took me thirty minutes last weekend.”
“Impressive. Just like you’ve been for this team,” he says, and I begin to relax. “You’ve been instrumental in the turnaround
season we’re having, and I want you to know that we’ve all noticed not only how great you are out on the ice, but how much
better you make everyone else around you with your strong leadership and positive attitude. I think you know where I’m going
with this.” Armstrong is one of those hockey guys who makes everything sound like play-by-play. He’s been in this industry
for so long it’s the only way he knows how to talk.
I clench my fists tightly, squeezing an invisible stress ball to keep from showing the internal excitement I feel so strongly.
“It’s starting to sound like I’ll be heading to California next weekend.”
He nods. “I wanted you to be the first to know,” he says. “Congratulations, you’re the Minnesota Freeze’s NHL All-Star selectee.”
For the past five seasons, Chef has been Minnesota’s selection.
I now understand why he was so excited to contribute ideas in the team’s group chat about where we should all go for vacation during the break.
That’s the thing with All-Star Games for a lot of these guys.
The first is an honor, the second is a favor to the league.
His smile today gave it away; no hard feelings because that guy is excited to be on a yacht.
Me on the other hand, I needed this. Brody Parker, NHL All-Star selectee, has a nice ring to it.
I’ve been trying to crack the NHL All-Star roster for years, but I was always stacked against my former teammate, aka the best defenseman in the league.
Erik Parker—the record-holding four-time NHL All-Star MVP—never lets me forget it either.
I can bring a guest with me to California, and I know as soon as this news goes public, my dad is going to pack his bags.
I’d rather pull out and take the suspension from the league than have my dad with me. He will cast a shadow over the whole
thing. He will be the story of the weekend. And if I don’t live up to his storied All-Star reputation, will Freeze fans doubt
my ability to get this team to the playoffs? Our names side by side in print is not on my All-Star Weekend bucket list.
As soon as I’m out of Armstrong’s office, I’m texting Olivia to meet me for lunch. I have to get to her before the NHL announces
this on social media and the news breaks to the public.
At the back of my favorite fast-casual Italian restaurant, Olivia is waiting for me at a table. Hung in the corner within
her sight line is a TV playing SNN Recap, where my dad discusses the Tampa Storm’s recent ten-game win streak. Across from Olivia, my soft drink of choice is sitting
in front of an empty chair. She looks away from the TV and spots me. This time, I let the excitement spread across my face.
It’s nice having someone to share this stuff with again, someone who won’t instantly sour the mood with confidence-crushing
commentary. To my dad, achievements are never celebrations, but rather obligations I should have already reached.
When I was younger, my mom was my safe person.
She was the one I trusted to tell everything to first. Like when I was named team captain, or when I learned how to toe drag, or even when kids on the other team said something racist about the way I look.
She would listen to the good and bad, and no matter what, she was there for me.
She would tell me I was an excellent leader because I led by example.
She’d say she wasn’t surprised I learned how to toe drag because when I set my mind to something, I was a force to be reckoned with.
She’d wrap her arms around me and assure me that my face is perfect, but hateful people would always find something ugly to say.
And for a moment, before my dad eventually found out whatever the news was, I felt safe to feel the feelings with my mom.
I’m starting to feel the same type of safety in Olivia.
Before I can sit down, Olivia is on her feet to greet me. There’s a moment of contemplation where she jerks forward to make
physical contact, but she second-guesses herself and sits back down in her chair instead. “I’m so glad you called,” she says,
but her pinched brows and creased forehead say otherwise.
I shed my winter layers before I break a sweat. “Is everything okay?” I ask, taking a seat.
Olivia opens her mouth, but we’re interrupted by our server. With the lunchtime rush fed and gone, he’s quick to take our
order. I request my usual for us to share. Something I coined “the pastas trio”—their three most popular pasta dishes—and
an extra order of garlic bread.
Once he leaves, Olivia leans in, pressing her torso so firmly against the table that it skids across the floor an inch or
two. “Brody, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about and I need to get it off my chest.”
“I don’t understand.” My palms itch and instantaneously it feels like everyone in the nearly empty restaurant is watching
us.
“I haven’t been totally honest with you.
” Her eyes glimmer under the overhead pendent light.
Tears threaten to pour out the corners of her eyelids.
There’s a slight puffiness to her undereye that suggests they already have.
I want to lean over and press my lips to her tender skin. I want to soothe her.
Instead, I reach across the table for her hand, and she grips on to me with both of hers, as if she’s holding on for dear
life. In a low voice, choked with panic, I ask, “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know how to say this. I’m going to sound crazy, and I hope you can forgive me once I come clean.” Her breath catches.
I shake my hand free. “You’re starting to freak me out.”
In the background, SNN announces breaking Minnesota Freeze news. We both crane our necks and listen to the TV.
Camille Duval says, “I’m hearing Brody Parker will represent the Minnesota Freeze at the upcoming NHL All-Star Weekend. It
will be Parker’s first NHL All-Star appearance. A well-deserved achievement for the center who recently signed a six-year
contract with the once-struggling team. Not only is he producing career-high stats, but after a rocky start, the Freeze are
experiencing one of their best seasons in recent years. We now go live to four-time NHL All-Star MVP Erik Parker for his thoughts.
Congratulations, Erik. This is exciting news for the family.”
Olivia gasps and I tuck my pink cheeks behind my open palm. “Congratulations! Why didn’t you tell me?” she says.
“I just found out. I rushed over here because I wanted you to be the first person I told.”
The feed cuts back to my dad’s setup at the Tampa studio.
He sits tall and smiles wide from his desk.
“I haven’t stopped smiling since Brody broke the news to me,” my dad lies.
“It’s a huge honor to be selected for All-Star Weekend and with Brody at the height of his game, I know he’ll put on a great showcase for the fans next weekend.
” He loses my interest as he reminisces over his past appearances.
“I’m so proud of you,” Olivia says. “Like your dad said, it’s a huge honor.”
Her excitement makes me flush. I dip my head, not wanting her to see how much her affection affects me. Not since my mom have
I seen someone so genuinely proud of me.
Our server returns with a full tray of food. While he unloads the plates onto our table, my stomach growls in anticipation.
I dig in before he can offer Parmesan. “What did you need to tell me?” I ask, swallowing a big bite that I should have let
cool.
“Umm,” Olivia hums, repeatedly twirling her fork in a plate of noodles. When she lifts her head, her pupils search to the
right.
“It seemed important.” I don’t want to minimize anything she’s going through just because I made the NHL All-Star team. Whatever’s
going on in her life is just as significant.
“It was. It is. I prefer pizza over pasta.” She drops the ring of noodles spiraled onto her fork. They plop into the pool
of spaghetti below.
I release a long breath that trails into an awkward laugh. “Lucky for you that’s not a deal-breaker.” I raise my hand, getting
the server’s attention. “Can we get a pizza?” I turn to Olivia. “Pepperoni?” I ask her.
She nods. “And olives, please.”
“Sure thing,” the server says.
Olivia looks no happier than she did when she thought she had to fake her way through three pasta dishes.
What gives? Upon my arrival, there was no funny remark about my overly ambitious winter-jacket-and-wool-scarf combo she says makes me look like a tourist. She hasn’t mentioned my hat trick last night, which at the very least should have gotten a shout-out within the first ten minutes of seeing each other today.
Whatever it is, she’s definitely got something on her mind.
If it’s something about her dad, I know how that goes.
You don’t want to talk about what’s got you down, but you run out of energy pretending like it’s nothing.
“That was my bad. I shouldn’t have ordered so much pasta for us without asking,” I assure her. Anything to cheer her up. “Was
that really what was bugging you? You had me worried something was seriously wrong.”
She nods. “I’m sorry.” She looks deep into my eyes, searching for reassurance.
“So, you don’t like pasta—noted—but how do you feel about peanuts? You’re not allergic, right? Because I don’t want our next
date to kill you.” I take her plate, and start working my way through it.
“Where’s our next date? A baseball game?” she says in her classic sarcastic tone.
“The hotel next to the rink in LA makes this incredible peanut butter dessert. Whenever the team’s in town, I eat like five
of them.”
“LA?”
In a casual tone, I say, “Have you ever been to California this time of year?”
She folds her arms and, with some attitude, replies, “No. I told you, I’ve never been anywhere.” After a few beats, she gasps
and throws her hands up. “Wait a minute, are you asking me to come to NHL All-Star Weekend with you?”
The smile on her face is sweeter than the peanut butter dessert awaiting us in LA.
“Will you come with me?” I ask.
Olivia’s face contorts into an unrecognizable expression.
Discomfort, but excitement—that feeling when you’re at the top of a roller coaster and you’re about to drop.
“Wow. I mean, what other prior commitments could I possibly have going on in my life that weekend? None. Absolutely nothing that would prevent me from going to the NHL All-Star Weekend with you, that’s for sure.
” She smiles, her big wide contagious smile, and I can’t help but reciprocate.