Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Brody
We lost. And I lost it for them. After seeing my dad, I couldn’t get my head back in the game. I spiraled further and was
responsible for another goal on Jordy in the third, one that solidified blowing the lead. As soon as Coach wraps up his postgame
scorn, I’m texting my mom, telling her to take a rideshare home. The last thing I need after a game this brutal is a showdown
between my divorcing parents in the parking lot.
All I want to do is leave this loss on the ice, but I know my dad is waiting for me after my shower. He’s charming his way
past security, down to ice level, into the family room, into the ears and hearts of anyone who will listen. He’s charismatic
until he isn’t. There’s a pit in my stomach swallowing me whole. No bibimbap, no matter how good, will fill the hollowness
I feel when I’m around him.
I round the corner, approaching the open door to the family room, and hear his cackle seep into the hall.
Before going in, I put on my best face. The game is over, but the happy family charade is about to begin.
My dad’s slouched over a chair chatting loudly about the glory days to Andy’s parents.
The remaining wives are gathered on the couch sipping wine, while the last of the players pop in and out to pick them up on their way out to the parking lot.
Some guys linger around the food, loading up a plate to take home with them.
Even though people are leaving, the walls are getting tighter.
When my dad sees me, he rises from his chair. His body tremors as if the anger is pulsing through him so powerfully it causes
vibrations.
“Brody!” he calls out cheerfully—a ruse for those in earshot. His face, only visible to me, hardly matches his welcoming tone
of voice. “I’m surprised you’re not the last one out of the locker room. You sure you don’t want to get a postgame workout
in?” He stabilizes himself on the back of his empty chair. The drink in his hand spills over the lip of the cup and onto the
toe box of his shoe.
“I think it’s time to head out.” I keep my eyes fixed on him, not wanting to face the reactions of everyone else in the room.
“I just got here. Playoffs start in a month, and this is the first game I’ve been to all season. I’m going to enjoy it.” He
empties his cocktail into his mouth. “No matter how badly you played,” he adds under his breath.
“Why don’t we chat in the hall?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says firmly.
Reading the room, the remaining people quickly scatter and leave. I dip my head and wish them a good night. It’s humiliating
to be seen like this. Bearing the weight of his shame is too much for me to carry any longer.
He’s followed me to road hotels, intercepting me in the lobby for pregame prep talks, which consist of telling me I’m never going to be a lasting name in hockey if I keep playing soft.
My teammates always thought he was supportive.
They envied the fact that I had access to someone so knowledgeable and successful in the national league, wishing they too had fathers who took such passionate interest in their success and well-being. Things aren’t always as they appear.
Once, after a home-game loss, a teammate overheard my dad telling me he was ashamed I was his son. I tried to convince my
teammate that my dad was joking, but he looked at me with such pity that I knew he didn’t buy it. I’m not sure I can keep
convincing people everything’s okay. To be honest, I don’t want to pretend anymore. I’m so sick of trying to protect him.
It’s gotten to the point where I don’t care if I go down with him and the Parker name. The only thing left of our “family
legacy” is hockey, and I’d much rather have my mom and my dignity.
“I wasn’t asking. You need to leave,” I say firmly. I don’t have the energy to anxiously await his reply. I stand my ground
because I’m tired of seeing his face every time I look into the crowd.
He slams his empty cup down on the table next to us and steps up to me. He’s doing his best to give me an intimidating glare,
but it’s the void stare of a broken man. Looking into his eyes is like staring into oil. It’s lifeless and cold.
“You score one nice shoot-out goal and think it gives you the right to talk to me like this?” He scoffs. Not waiting for my
reply, he adds, “Back in my day, I was the highest paid player in the NHL. I didn’t earn it by scoring showy goals in a meaningless
competition. I played hard and put hockey above everything.” He puffs out his chest, but I know it’s hollow.
“And look how that turned out.” I shake my head in disgust.
“What did you say to me?” He steps closer, finger pointed at my chest.
A knock at the open door interrupts our heated dispute and we both turn to look.
“Hey, Brody.” Olivia is standing in the doorframe. Her hair is tied back in a frayed bun and her cheeks are flushed.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Caught off guard by my question, her eyes restlessly shift around the room. “I was bringing down some trash after my shift
and I heard your voice,” she says.
“Excuse me, but we’re talking here,” my dad interrupts.
She glares at him and he reciprocates. Her poise is unwavering as she struts over to my side. “Erik Parker? I didn’t recognize
you. You look a lot different in person than you do on TV,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.
Usually, my dad’s tone softens in the presence of others, but even Olivia’s arrival doesn’t slow his verbal hostilities. “Let
me guess, you’re the famous Olivia,” he announces with an unnerved chuckle to himself. “The girl who keeps Brody so busy that
he hardly has time for his family. The reason he missed his first All-Star game.” He eyes her up and down with judgment so
uncalled-for that my fists clench and jaw tightens.
“Enough,” I warn him.
This is all so predictable that it’s tired. He was the one who encouraged me to meet someone and settle down with them so
the Parker legacy could live on for another generation. And yet, here he is poking holes in my life so he can criticize every
aspect of it. Nothing is ever good enough for him. I’m not going to let him do that to her. She doesn’t deserve that.
His lip snarls like an animal’s. “At first, I thought having a girlfriend would knock some sense into you. Show you how important
family is, and you’d come around yours more. But now I see she’s messing with your game.”
“Okay. She is right here,” Olivia interjects.
My dad isn’t some opponent out on the ice who I can silence with a solid check into the boards. I have to use my words, and finding the right ones around him never comes easy to me. Olivia tucks her hand into mine and it’s like someone rips the duct tape off my mouth. I find my voice.
“Being with Olivia this season is exactly what I needed to realize what is truly important in life. It’s not about living
up to the Parker legacy. It’s about living for myself. Something my game and this team has greatly benefited from.”
Dad throws his arms in the air. He looks foolish, far too old to be acting so childish. “This—” he motions around the room
“—is nothing. Your career is fleeting. If you continue to play like you did tonight, you’ll never have your jersey hung from
the rafters, you’ll never get your name etched into the Stanley Cup, and you’ll never be inducted into the Hockey Hall of
Fame.”
“And I’m okay with that.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t let him work me up. Calmly, I continue, “You had your career, you
need to let me have mine.”
“Don’t forget who you have to thank for that little career of yours.”
Erik Parker is relentless on and off the ice. But so am I. “You keep saying that, but you haven’t been helpful for my career
in years.”
“Because you don’t listen to me. That’s why I had a hundredassist season when I was your age.” He keeps going like we’re skating
laps around the rink.
His tactics won’t work on me anymore. I’m not angry. I’m not scared. I’m done playing this game with him and I’m finally getting
off the ice.
Olivia on the other hand still has more to say.
“You were playing with Dimitri Pavlova. I could have had a hundred-assist season playing alongside the Russian Assassin. More than half of your assists were secondary. Congratulations for touching the puck momentarily in the neutral zone.” Her tone is as cold as ice, and judging by my dad’s reddening face, he’s hot as hell.
“What do you know about hockey?” It’s rhetorical, but knowing Olivia, she’s got an answer.
She smiles like a pleasant memory washes over her, like she was hoping he’d ask. “My dad taught me a lot about hockey. I know
that Brody plays with enough intensity to intimidate the other team, motivate his, and have every fan in this building on
their feet night after night. He’s got speed and a great shot. He makes everyone around him better. Unlike you. You were a
selfish player, and apparently an even more selfish father. Brody helped unite this team and together they’ve fought from
the bottom to the top of the standings.”
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so seen in my life. She gets my game. She gets me.
“Dad, I don’t ever want to see you back here,” I tell him with game-time intensity. “I’m telling the owner that you’re not
welcome in this arena or at any of my away games. I don’t care about the Parker legacy anymore. You can have it.” I step aside,
showing him the door.
“Don’t be stupid. You need my help. We will sort this all out after the Hall of Fame induction announcement.” His nostrils
flare.
As a kid, this was the sign that I went too far, that I needed to backtrack with a heartfelt apology or score a hat trick
to make it all better. I swallow the lump in my throat. No longer the little kid who needs his dad’s acceptance, I stand firm.
I’m playing for myself, my team, and Freeze fans—not him.
He scoffs. “Good luck then. You don’t have what it takes to win the Stanley Cup, because you’re not a winner.
You’re a Lee—soft and weak like your mom.
” He gets in one last vile word, and I let him because I know it will be the last he ever utters to me.
He storms out of the room, passing me by with enough speed to create a breeze against my face.
Olivia gasps and begins to shout after him, saying, “Dimitri Pavlova is to thank for the first two Cups and your team had
to petition for your name to be on the third, so let’s humble ourselves a bit!” She turns back to me, her sharp flared face
melting into a soft sympathetic pout. “He’s gone,” she says in a gentler voice. Her hand rests reassuringly on my arm.
“He’s gone,” I repeat.
Olivia wanders over to the standing beverage fridge, searching through the drinks. “That guy’s a real piece of work.” She
cracks open a can and takes a chug.
Suddenly, I feel lightheaded. A panicked flightiness that only my dad can induce. Was I out of line? Am I in the wrong? How bad does it have to hurt to count? I’ve got scars to prove I’ve broken bones, but anything my dad’s inflicted on me is invisible to any medical exam. I begin
to stumble, panically wobbling to find somewhere to sit. I hardly make it to a plush armchair before the tunnel vision forces
me to take a seat. Momentary total blackness takes over.
“Brody?”
I can’t see her, but I hear Olivia’s sweet voice calling out to me. Blinking open my eyes, I find her squatting close by my
side. She presses the cold can to my cheek and I sit up straighter.
“You okay?” She strokes her hand through my shaggy hair. It’s long enough again that my ends curl around the base of my helmet.
The flow is finally back and just in time as the team nears playoffs.
It’s been a rough night and an emotional weekend, but in this moment none of that is on my mind.
Her brown eyes sparkle with golden flecks.
As I look into them, the only thing I feel is gratitude.
To have found someone I trust enough to exist around.
Through all my imperfections, she still finds me someone worthy of defending.
Worthy of holding a cold can of soda to their cheek and making sure they’re okay.
Some things fall apart so better things can come together. Olivia is that. She’s my better thing.
“I love you.” It comes out like a stream of consciousness. Like letting go of a helium balloon, I watch it float away because
it’s no longer mine to hold.
She smiles softly, bowing her head. “You just lost consciousness. You’re delirious.”
I cup her chin, lifting up her face to get a better view of her marooning cheeks. She’s as red as a face-off circle. “Deliriously
in love with you,” I say.
“And yet, I love you more.”
I cackle out in unfiltered joy, and she lunges at me with a kiss hard enough to knock me out again.