Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Brody
My heart pounds in my ears. A combination of nerves, adrenaline, and fatigue have me panting like a dog in the sun after a
long walk. My shift is running long, but we’re stuck in the defensive zone with no whistle in sight. The Tampa Storm cycle
the puck around the net, waiting for a shot to open up, and we’re trying our best to not give them one. Game’s tied up late
in the third with a goal apiece. Any closer to the edge of your seat and you’d be on the ground.
There’s a scramble in front of our net. A bouncing puck squeezes past our defense, but not our goalie. Hammer covers up the
loose puck and the ref whistles the play dead. Right when I think my legs are going to give out from under me, the Tampa Storm
call a time-out.
As we skate to our respective benches for a strategic time-out, an announcement plays on the jumbotron. Before I even reach
the bench, Coach Carol has his clipboard out and is going over face-offs with the team.
I don’t need to watch him draw X’s on a whiteboard to know where to go.
The play is simple: Don’t get scored on.
Instead of listening, I stare up at the jumbotron watching the highlight reel of my dad’s best moves.
The Storm’s play-by-play announcer provides the voice-over.
“Congratulations to legendary Tampa Storm forward Erik Parker on his induction into the Hockey Hall of Fame,” the voice bellows,
tauntingly so.
I pay no mind to this announcement, just as I’ve paid no mind to my dad’s retired jersey number hanging in the rafters. It’s
not at all surprising. I got a tip last week from my agent, Lamar, that a formal announcement from the Hall of Fame was soon
to come.
As much as my dad hated my name change and the controversial press it attracted, he was always going to get the Hall of Fame
call. When you’re hockey royalty, there isn’t much people aren’t willing to forgive. The old boys club never revokes a membership.
His jersey, the Hall of Fame, and his pathetic attempts to repair his image are just noise. When you play in front of thousands
of fans every other night, you have to learn how to block out the madness. Filtering it through the lens of motivation and
turning it into fuel to carry on.
I’m sure the Storm thought by playing this announcement at this very moment, they could throw me off my game. Maybe they wanted
to show me what I was missing, what I threw away when I turned down their contract offer and signed with the Freeze. The video
ends and I feel anything but regret. Instead, my legs are fresh, my pulse is rested, and my body is buzzing to get back on
the ice and finish this game.
We win the draw but struggle to clear the puck out of our end.
The Storm’s bulkiest defenseman is fed the puck.
I follow his windup, anticipating where the release is headed, and drop a knee.
Despite my better judgment, I’m laying my body on the line to block a shot from this season’s NHL All-Star Game’s hardest slap shot winner.
I cover my teeth with one hand and dangle the other between my legs to cover more space.
It’s game 4 of the Stanley Cup Final and we’re down in the series three games to none.
We’re looking to make a historic comeback, and it starts tonight.
Anything for the boys, everything for the Cup.
I hold my breath as he releases his windup. No time to second-guess myself now. I brace for the biggest bruise of my life—or
worse, a broken hand. His stick slaps loudly on the release, except there’s no puck hurtling my way. Instead, his twig snaps
at the shaft, near the blade, and the puck skips like a stone into open ice. As if time stands still, we all take a second
to realize what happened.
I explode out of my crouched position and in a couple powerful strides am the first to the puck. It’s mine and so is this
winning goal. My legs, which seconds ago burned with such sharp pain they shook, are now weightless beneath me. My lungs,
which felt stretched to their capacity, are now breathing deep steady breaths synchronized with my strides as I blow past
a flat-footed Storm defenseman. My mind, which was focused on protecting Hammer and keeping pucks out of our net at any cost,
has now flipped a switch. From a defensive mindset to an offensive hunger, I shift as quickly as I find my opening into the
offensive zone.
This isn’t a puck on my stick. It’s a pulse in a must-win game.
The crowd—which was just on their feet to celebrate my dad’s induction announcement—goes silent, watching in horror as I come barreling down center ice.
The sound of my blades carving into ice has replaced the loud cheers that once boomed when the Storm had possession of the puck.
The puck taps on the blade of my stick steady like a metronome as I carry it into the offensive zone.
Six ounces isn’t much, but in the palm of my hand, it’s lethal.
I toe-drag past the last Storm defender with my vision locked on their goalie, Eli Gauthier.
Gauthier is out at the top of his crease, challenging me as I enter his territory. He’s been stellar all game: no rebounds,
always in position, and vision through any screen we put in front of him. Those things won’t help him now.
I take the puck for a walk, skating it way wide through the face-off circle. With Gauthier at the top of his crease, I charge
in on him, faking a slap shot. Gauthier drops to his knees, flinching in anticipation. Just like I practiced, I pretend to
pull the shot to my backhand and he slides across the ice toward the middle of the crease where I skate, leading him with
me. However, Gauthier is ignorant to the fact that I’ve left the puck behind. My fake-out shot has just enough heat on it
to slowly slide through his five-hole opening. The momentum carries the puck across the goal line.
It’s a Goal Horn. I pull off the impossible move for a second time this season. The boys come crashing into me as we celebrate
in the corner to the sound of seventeen thousand boos raining over us. We live to see another game.
There’s no sense of relief. Every remaining game is going to be an uphill battle harder than the one fought before it. For
a moment, I look forward to getting off the ice and texting my person—Olivia. She’ll commiserate over my bad pass in the second
but remind me that I ultimately came through when my team needed me the most. As soon as I picture her sweet face, I remember
that we’re not speaking.
In all the pain, I’ve been seeking understanding. I thought I felt betrayed, but as the days have dragged on, it feels a lot
like loss.
As soon as I got home that afternoon after the party, I researched and learned about her dad, Kevin Hinckley.
It’s a devastating loss. I’ve tried to empathize with her, put myself in her shoes, but I can’t imagine losing a father worthy of vengeance.
What does a dad worthy of carrying such inner turmoil look like?
Does he always know what to get you on your birthday?
Did he give the best shoulder rides growing up?
Is he funny? Is he kind? I bet he doesn’t micromanage your career.
I bet he doesn’t show up the day of your skills competition to tell you he and Mom are divorcing.
Whoever said you can’t miss what you never had is full of shit because I wish I had a dad worthy of such grief.
In remembering everything I clung to while hoping my dad would be the father I needed, I’m able to better understand why Olivia
did what she did. If she could love me—half Erik Parker coursing through my DNA—then her feelings for me were real. And what’s
more, I’m not the monster he is. I push the emotional pain out of my mind by focusing on the physical aches—my hips, my shoulders,
my back. It all stings as we inch closer to the end. It’s going to be a long, lonely flight home.
Back on home ice, tired and aching after practice, I linger in the locker room. It’s a thin line between focused and consumed
and I’ve got a skate on each side. The guys give me space; not giving too much pushback when I turn down their offer to grab
lunch. There’s something more important than carbo-loading on the docket today.
Alone, I wander down the hall, moving unsuspectingly around the vast underground maze known as ice level. I stop outside the
door with my hand wrapped around a cold metal doorknob. Before I can knock, Derek Thomas sees me through the sidelite. He
waves me into his office.
“Come on in, Brody,” he says. Unphased by my impromptu visit, he sets his work aside.
I grab a seat across from him and brace myself on the arms of the cushy office chair. “I need your help with something,” I say.
He rubs his thumb and pointer finger in small circles over his eyelids as he sighs deeply. “Please don’t put me in the middle
of this. A few seasons ago, I caught one of the rookies messing with the coach’s daughter. Let’s just say only one of them
is still with the team. I have no interest in any hockey romance.”
“What rookie?” I scoot my chair closer before realizing I’m getting off track. “Never mind. That’s not why I’m here. I want
to do something for CTE research. The Players’ Association says you’ve been trying to get something off the ground for years.”
Ever since I read the words died from CTE complications in Kevin Hinckley’s Wikipedia page, I haven’t gotten them out of my mind. Of course, I know the acronym, every hockey player
does. Just like every hockey player thinks they won’t be the one to suffer from it. At twentysomething, you’re invincible,
fast and strong like a superhero, so focused on your next game that you don’t stop to think about life after hockey. There
is only hockey.
Lately, I’ve been asking myself, how did everyone fail Kevin Hinckley? And how am I failing the next generation of guys, enabling
them to suffer in silence?
Derek smiles, relaxing into his chair. His gaze drifts across the room to the picture hanging on his wall. It’s one of him
and Kevin Hinckley as Minnesota Freeze teammates. “Now that’s something I have a lot of interest in,” he says with a cracked
voice. “I’ve been trying to form a coalition. There’s plenty of interest from retired players like myself, but we need current
guys to move the needle.”
“What are you thinking?”
“The CBA comes due for renewal this summer. The PA needs to push for more CTE preventative measures and lifetime health care.”
The Collective Bargaining Agreement is the legally binding contract negotiations between the NHL and the Players’ Association.
We’ve got some leverage on the league this year and could use it to make the game a safer sport.
Fewer concussions mean fewer players having to retire early due to head injury. A healthy player is a happy player.
“I’m the Freeze’s player rep. I’ve been in some of those meetings,” I say eagerly. I only wish I had thought of this sooner.
So much of my energy was consumed trying to live up to the expectations my dad had for my career that I never thought what
legacy I wanted to leave behind.
“That’s why you’re the perfect guy to help me with this,” Derek says. “Players respect the hell out of you. Plus, you’ve got
everyone’s attention right now with the way you’ve been playing. A guy like you starts talking and everyone is going to listen.”
“If we get enough current and past players on board, the league will listen too.” The wheels turn in my mind as I think of
everyone I can get involved.
Derek slides over to his computer, his hands typing feverishly over the keyboard. “Looks like I’ve got some emails to send.”
“Let me know how I can help.” Both my knees crack as I push myself out of the chair.
Without looking up from his computer screen, Derek says, “You just keep playing the way you are. I’ll have more for you to
do once the season ends.”
My lower back throbs as I make my way to the door. Just a few more games, I tell my herniated disc.
“Oh, and Brody,” Derek calls out to me. When I turn back to see what he needs, I find him looking directly at me. “Kevin would
have loved a teammate like you,” he says.
I leave before he can see the tear trickle down my cheek.