Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Brody
Grocery bags decorate my arms like that one picture of Michael Phelps with all his Olympic medals. Fourteen bags in one trip;
it’s a new personal best. Even after I drop them off on my mom’s countertops, red lines and tiny indentations remain marked
on my arms.
I spent the weekend moving my mom into an apartment near me in St. Paul. A one-bedroom, one-bath, no-Dad unit. I called her
after my All-Star weekend was cut short, ready to swoop in and rescue her. She didn’t need saving, just someone to help carry
all her groceries.
My mom’s been quietly making her own money by working weekend bingos at a community center, eventually saving up enough to
leave her old life in Florida behind. The press stint at the NHL All-Star Game was her legal way out. She agreed to take family
photos and keep quiet if Dad agreed to sign the divorce papers.
When Mom picked up my call, she told me she had secured housing. Of course, I offered the spare room in my apartment, but she declined. She doesn’t want to have to rely on anyone and I’m doing my best to respect that while we gently repair our own relationship.
I try to focus on the fact that she’s getting out of that toxic marriage and less on the guilt I feel for not being the one
to help her leave. I was too wrapped up in my own drama with Dad to notice I wasn’t the only one trying to run away from him.
I thought Mom hated me, possibly more than Dad hated me. At least Dad talked to me—albeit cruelly.
Together—in the same kitchen for the first time in years—we put away groceries, the mundane task as comforting as a familiar
routine. We move around each other like it’s choreographed, unloading her choices from the Korean supermarket. Her choices, not Dad’s. I never knew she preferred tea over coffee, but after helping her unpack a pickleball set from a box
of her things, I realized there’s a lot about my mom I don’t know. The unfamiliarity of my own mother makes it painstakingly
obvious how little I know about myself.
I’m just Korean enough to guarantee that at any point in time I can search my name online and find some hurtful social media
comment about my heritage. But deep down, I feel like a fraud. I don’t speak the language. I don’t celebrate the holidays.
I mean, my favorite food is pasta. The further my relationship with my mom strained, the further I felt from myself. Clinging
to my pregame banana milk like I clung to her hand crossing a busy intersection as a small child.
When I was little, people said I favored my mom, but I quickly became Erik’s mini. His protégé. The better I got at hockey,
the further my mom and I drifted until there was nothing left but Dad and me and the game. Eventually, hockey was my entire
identity. Any shred of individuality was suffocated by the Parker legacy.
My mom’s phone rings. As if it were a siren, we both freeze in place staring down at the countertop, waiting for something bad to happen.
It seems my mom has the same reaction to notifications—what does he want now?
She creeps toward the phone and peeks at the screen.
Her eyes go wide, and she scrambles to answer it.
“Hannah!” says the voice greeting my mom. Overhearing their conversation, I recognize who it is and abandon my delicate unloading
technique. I shove the rest of the fresh produce into the tiny fridge drawer so I can properly eavesdrop.
“Hi, Carter. How are you?” Mom’s voice is cheery and warm. Her freckled nose scrunches as she smiles.
Olivia helped facilitate an interview for my mom with Carter at the public library for an open technician position.
“Did you get it?” I say in an overenunciated whisper.
She shoos me with her hand and turns her back to me. “That’s great . . . Of course . . . Yes, I’m getting settled in the new
place.”
Olivia’s been incredibly understanding of everything going on lately, giving me the right amount of space for my mom and I
to begin reconnecting while also being on standby when I need to get my mind off everything and play some video games on my
new flame-retardant couch. It’s been a lot to face, but with my dad too preoccupied with the upcoming Hall of Fame announcement
to pay us any mind, hockey is once again my safe retreat.
“I can’t wait! See you then.” With her phone clutched in her hands like a bouquet of flowers, she turns to me. “I got it.”
Relief washes over her face and a smile blooms.
“Wooo!” My arms shoot up in the air like I’m celebrating a goal. “Knew you would.”
“Sit, sit,” she says, making her way around the kitchen. “I’m making you your favorite, bibimbap.”
My mom grabs a dish towel and tosses it over her shoulder. With excitement radiating through her body, she dances around the kitchen and begins to gather fresh ingredients.
“You don’t have to, Mom. I can grab something at the rink before the game.”
She grabs me by the forearms and forces me to sit down at the kitchen island on a barstool that was delivered this morning.
“I cook when I’m happy, and I haven’t been able to cook in a while.”
I’m glad she’s insisting because my stomach rumbles in hunger—I haven’t eaten anything in like forty-five minutes. It’s been
years since I’ve watched my mom cook. When hockey took over every second of my life, slowly cooked, timely pickled, messy-fingered,
love-labored food was replaced with chalky protein bars in the car ride to the rink.
I do as I’m told and let her cook, except I don’t remain sitting. When she used to cook for me, my nose would be buried deep
in a book—or a handheld video game, depending on how lenient my mom was feeling that day. When I moved out and got to my billet
parents’ house, I realized the only thing I knew how to make for myself was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My billet
parents taught me the basics, but they couldn’t teach me halmeoni’s bibimbap recipe.
With the rice cooking, my mom preps the meat before teaching me to julienne a carrot.
“I missed this—you and I together.” I get sentimental as I chop.
My mom adjusts my grip, changing the angle at which I cut and in turn making it easier and more efficient. “Let’s not cry
on the food.”
I wonder how much of our pain is the same.
How, as our relationship faded, the isolation I felt got worse and along with it my sense of reality weakened.
As her delicate hand rests upon mine, I’m reminded that parental love is a gentle touch, soft guidance.
She steps back and lets me cut. Eventually, I get the hang of it on my own.
“Will you at least tell me why you didn’t ask for help sooner?” I ask.
My mom’s focus never wavers from the large skillet heating up on the burner. The meat sizzles like heavy rain on the ocean
when it touches the hot oil coating the bottom of the pan.
“It’s not your job to worry about me. I didn’t want anything—myself included—getting in between you and your big hockey dreams.”
With the carrot chopped, I move on to the zucchini, practically breaking a sweat to keep up with my mom’s feverish pace.
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve been in the NHL for years now. I thought you hated me.”
She turns to me, her face held in a forced stoic stare, and her eyes sunken with sadness. I’ve missed those intimidating black
eyes that could always suck the truth out of me with one glance. She draws a breath. “Pass the shiitake mushrooms,” she says.
I do as I’m told. As we cook, the only conversation is instruction, and by the end, I’ve learned to make my favorite bibimbap.
We sit and eat together at the table I helped assemble. The true testament to a good meal is the silence that falls once it’s
served, and right now it’s blissfully quiet, save for the occasional tapping of my chopsticks while I get the hang of using
them again. I set them on their rest and lean back, having devoured the best pregame meal I’ve had in years.
Mom glances over at me between small bites. With her lips pursed, she sighs. “Your father had me convinced that giving you
space was best for you and your career.”
“He’s never known what’s best for me or my career.” My words come out much snappier than I intend.
“After you were drafted, you stopped coming around as much. When you did come home, you locked yourself in your room. It became apparent that you wanted to create some distance from us.” She squeezes her eyes shut.
I want to reach out and tell her it’s okay, that everything is going to be okay from now on.
“From him,” I say, hoping my words offer some comfort.
I’ve been running from my dad for so long I didn’t stop to think who else I was leaving behind.
“I wish I knew then what I know now. Everything is so clear to me now that I’m out of that house, but before . . .” She trails
off, shaking her head. “I was stuck and I couldn’t see anything.”
She plays with her food, prodding at my perfectly cut vegetables, as if the answer to repairing our strained relationship
is hiding at the bottom of the rice.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re not supposed to be the one comforting me, Brody.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. She says, “I’m
sorry,” before letting go. She brings another bite to her mouth. “More gochujang next time,” she says, chewing.
I help clear the table and tidy the kitchen, exhausted from the physical work of a move and the emotional labor of beginning
to rebuild a relationship. Yet, I’m excited to get to the rink. Sixty minutes of unrelenting game is exactly what I need.
Before I leave, my mom calls out to me. “Don’t forget your banana milk.” She hands me a cold one and slips me a folded note
written on decorative stationery. Inside she’s written, Good luck, in Korean and English.
Coming hot off my shift, I grab a seat on the bench next to Chef.
He hands me a water bottle and I squirt it into my mouth as I scan the crowd.
I haven’t seen any phantom Erik Parkers since that one game back in December but that doesn’t stop me from apprehensively checking the crowd each night.
There are a lot of faces in tonight’s sold-out home crowd, but none of them are my dad’s.
A whistle stops play and the ice crew rush out to shovel the snow off the ice during a TV time-out. Chilly bangs on a drum,
summoning the crowd in a ritualistic chant. The significant others and family members are all sitting together in the lower
bowl, and I strain my neck to find my mom. Seeing her up in the crowd is as calming as meditation.
“Easy, Lover Boy.” Chef elbows me in the arm.
“That’s a new one. What happened to BilBro Baggins?” With such frequent nickname changes, I’ve been answering to anything
that sounds remotely close to “Bro” all season long.
“I haven’t caught you reading The Lord of the Rings in a while. Besides, that was before I caught you making eyes at someone in the crowd.” Chef leans over the bench and squirts
some water in his mouth before spitting it out on the ice in disgust. “Ugh, is this tap water?” he groans. He shoves the bottle
back on the bench’s inner shelf.
I give a sympathetic smile to the ice crew member passing by with a shovel, scraping up Chef’s nasty spit take. “I’m not making
eyes at anyone. Olivia works at Five-Hole Donuts during games.”
Chef cocks his neck and leans over the bench, stretching to get a peek at the family and friends section. “Then what are you
looking at? Is there a hottie I should be aware of? Come on, hit me with another assist this game.” He puffs out his chest.
“I’m making sure my mom’s here.”
“Oh, forget it.” Chef plops his ass back down on the bench. “I don’t get involved with my teammates’ moms anymore.”
“Touch her and die.” I give him a playful smack in the shin with my stick.
He laughs. “What are you going to do? Hold me? Hook me? Hit me from behind?”
Coach taps my shoulder as the TV time-out ends. With one leg straddling each side of the boards, I turn to Chef and say, “You’d
like that wouldn’t you?”
“Not as much as I’d like another goal.” He follows me out on the ice for our shift.
We get a lucky bounce and the opposing team’s d-man turns over the puck in the neutral zone. Chef is there to pick up the
loose rubber. I call out, letting him know I’m open and ready, and he hits me with a tape-to-tape pass inches before the red
line. It’s onside, and good thing, because I’m wheeling toward the net at an unstoppable speed. I cock my stick back with
full focus on my target—until it isn’t. I hear his voice in my head yelling at me to shoot. SHOOT! My mind takes over the rest. You’re running out of space. Out of time. Out of angle. Shoot and score, you fucking idiot. The Parker legacy is at stake.
The puck launches off the wrong part of my stick. Catching too much toe, it whips to the right, hitting the post, spiraling
up out of play and into the mesh above the glass. The referee blows the play dead. I hang my head. I should have had that.
As I line up around the circle for the draw, I see his face in the crowd. Erik Parker is sitting right behind the net, a few
rows off the glass. I close my eyes. I press them tightly shut, trying to squeeze the image of him out of my mind, but when
I open, he’s still there. He’s burned into my retinas. His disapproving scowl is a photographic memory I can’t shred.
I drag my glove down my face before taking my place on the circle. He hasn’t moved.
No, it can’t be.
It’s my imagination.
Deep breath, Brody. Breathe.
I give my head a shake and look up again. He’s still there, glaring at me from his seat. It’s as if my missed shot was a personal
attack on him, as if he suffers from my shortcomings more than I do.
I look down at the ice and ready myself to take the face-off. With a tight grip on my stick, I go over the game plan in my
head: win the draw back to our defense and head to the net. I need to be ready for the tip, which will hopefully result in
a goal. But like an itch I can’t ignore, I’m unable to stop myself from looking up at my dad again.
It’s real this time—which is more terrifying than the mirages I experienced earlier this season. While I’m locking eyes with
my dad, the ref drops the puck, and I miss my cue. I lose the draw and the other team clears the puck. Caught flat-footed
and gobsmacked, I don’t back-check in time and they score on Jordy. I skate off the ice with my head hung, wondering what
horrible things my dad has to say await me after the game.