Chapter 4 #3
Morgan shoves her sleeves up and washes her hands, and then pops the lid and stirs the stew. "It sure does, if I say so myself. Hope you like venison—by the way."
"Do fish shit in the ocean?" I say. "You're a hunter?"
She blows a raspberry. "Hardly. I'll go hiking, canoeing, kayaking, whatever, but hunting and fishing?
No. I've got better things to do than sit around waiting for some poor animal to let me murder it.
No, there are a couple of families who trade me for lessons.
This batch of venison came from John Highsmith. "
"I know John. Watched him make a three-hundred-yard shot with iron sights, once. His girl skates with you?"
"Leah, yeah. Darling girl. I give her lessons and he gives me all the venison I can eat and then some."
I look around. "Where's Mallory?"
"Studying at a friend's. She'll probably crash there for the night." She rummages in the freezer. "If you can wait another ten minutes, I'll have some crusty bread."
"Ain't gonna pass out on you, Morgan," I tell her. "No worries."
She tosses two small-ish, frozen baguettes into a toaster oven and then pulls a couple bottles of beer from the fridge, a stout from a local brewer—local being the general area, not specifically Tomlin Falls; so far, we don't have our own brewer—gesturing at me in question.
"Wouldn't say no to a beer," I say, "since I'm off duty."
She snaps the tops off each beer with a deft twist and stands across the island from me, one hip against the counter edge, a foot propped up on the inside of her knee; I think I saw Taylor doing something similar during an at-home yoga class and she called it "tree pose," although in that case her hands were over her head.
"You really think Mal is that good at hockey? Like, she could play at a university?"
I nod. "Absolutely. She's talented, Morgan. And dedicated enough to consistently defy you in order to keep playing.” I hold up my hands.
"I'm not excusing that—kids oughta listen to their parents.
But speaking from experience, here, we parents can get caught in the trap of thinking we know best when really, we're just operating out of our own ignorance.
And if it's not ignorance, it's just simply not being able to see it objectively.
I don't need to know why you have such a strong objection to her playing hockey.
It's none of my business. You wanna talk, I'll listen all night, okay?
The point I'm tryin' to make is that when our kids get to Mal's age, defiance and rebellion are part of the schtick.
She's trying to figure out who she is apart from you, and that's not an indictment of you or your parenting.
It's normal. One of the things you learn only via hindsight is the importance of picking your battles.
That shit is hard, Morgan. You want to protect her.
But is the thing you're tryin' to protect her from actually a threat to her?
Or is it a threat to you for reasons I can't possibly know? "
Morgan takes a long, glugging drink and sets the bottle down with a little bit of force. "Jesus, Noah. I asked about hockey, not parenting advice."
"I know," I say, keeping my tone level and gentle. "But what I'm asking is whether it's really about hockey or not." I take a drink, myself, then. "I'm sorry to lecture or offer unsolicited advice, Morgan. I'm just trying to help."
She looks away, out the window over the sink and into the backyard; I follow her gaze and see a bright red cardinal perched on a low tree branch at the edge of the small yard, fluffing his feathers against the cold.
"I'm not really mad about the defiance aspect, honestly.
Hockey is sort of Tomlin Falls' unofficially official sport.
Most of her friends and classmates play.
Even her girlfriends play pond hockey sometimes.
I get it. It's more about the division of her focus away from the thing she's really, truly incredible at. She's better than I ever was, by far."
I have a billion thoughts, but I bite my tongue on all of them. I've already pissed her off once just today, not counting the business at the rink the other day. Any more unasked-for opinions and I risk alienating her totally, cutting off any potential for anything more.
Which I do see.
And I think she does, too.
It's just got to be a tiptoe to get there.
She eyes me, eyebrow arched. “Nothing to say, now, huh?"
"I've butted in too much as it is. She's your daughter, and I barely know you two.
I just know she's a hell of a skater. I've talked to Bill about her—before any of this—and he's honestly sorta salivating to get her on the O-line.
She tends to be a bit of a showboat, so she'd need to learn how to be a team player, how to run plays, how to pass and screen and all that, how to use her speed to her advantage without getting pasted by the bigger guys, since she'd be a girl playing with boys, and opposing teams aren't necessarily gonna play nice just because she's female. "
"And nor should they," Morgan says. "If a girl is gonna play on a boys’ team, she has to be able to hang at their level.
She can't expect them to hold back. And that's one of my biggest worries.
Yes, she's fast. Yes, she's agile. Yes, she can out-skate almost everyone in Tomlin Falls, you and me included.
Only Bill, your son, and maybe the Ryerson twins can match her.
But one bad check, even a clean one, could be the end of figure skating for her. "
"And I think if she were here, Mallory would say the same is true of figure skating, right? One bad fall, one bad break, and…" I hold up my hands again. "I'm just saying."
Morgan nods. "I know. And you're right—that's exactly what she'd say.
But she's not one competition season away from making the women's national team, Noah.
" She must see the effort on my face as I hold back my comment.
"Well, don't spare me now, Captain Austin.
Hit me with whatever it is I can see you trying not to say. "
"And here I thought I had a decent poker face," I quip.
She snorts. "I hope you don't really think that."
I guffaw. "Hell no. I'm the world's worst poker player." I take a slow sip, swish, and swallow. "Is making the Olympics team her dream, or your dream for her?"
She lets out a cheek-puffing sigh. "I was afraid you were going to ask that.”
"Listen, back when Noel was in…tenth grade?
Eleventh? Taylor and I had to have a sit-down about this exact thing.
I was pushing Noel really hard. I saw how good he was, how much potential he had, and I wanted him to make the most of it.
His team was poised to go to nationals, and I wanted him to take them there.
And even though he resisted and pushed back against me, I knew he loved hockey.
Yet the harder I pushed, the more conflict there was between us.
Eventually, Taylor sat me down and asked me why I was pushing him so hard.
To make him better? Or so he'd achieve something I hadn't? "
"And?"
"My own father pushed me to the point of refusing to go where he wanted me to go in life just to prove a point.
I could've gone to college on a hockey scholarship.
I had offers from some D1 schools and a couple of farm teams, too.
I chose the fire academy instead. And I don't regret my choice, Morgan. Not at all. I love my job, and I’m happy in my career.
But I think if my dad had backed off a little when I was younger and just let me enjoy the game and figure out my passions and my path on my own, I very well may have gone a different direction.
I had to think about that, back when Noel was sixteen or whatever.
Why was I pushing him so hard? It was for me.
I was making the same mistake my father was.
I didn't want Noel to miss out on his obvious future, and so I pushed him.
Ironically, that's what made him nearly quit hockey entirely. "
She frowns at this. "Did he really almost quit?"
I nod. "He did. Missed the whole first month of team practices because he was just sick of it all.
I'd made him work so hard in the off-season that he was burned out.
" I feel the shame in my gut, even still.
"Taylor called me on it, and I realized my mistake and backed off.
Told him he didn't have to play if he didn't want to, and I'd support him no matter what.
That was a hard thing to say, though, I'll admit. "
“He went back to hockey, obviously," Morgan says, turning to the toaster oven as it dings.
"He did. But that season, he held back. Refused to be captain, insisted on playing right wing instead of center, focused on passing more and assisting plays instead of being the play.
I think in the end, that season made him a better player, but that was a by-product, not the intent.
He was proving to himself and to me that he could do things his way. "
Morgan grabs the loaves out of the oven with her bare hands, tossing them onto a wooden cutting board and slicing them into quarters. She moves the cutting board to the island, dishes heaping servings of stew for both of us, and then takes a seat at the island beside me.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence.
"This is damned good stew," I tell her. "Thank you. Beats the hell out of Salisbury steak in the microwave.”
"I couldn't very well let you go hungry."
"It's my dream," she says eventually, between bites, so quietly I almost miss it. "It was my dream."
"I'm not saying it's not hers,” I say, “I don't know. I just think, in my personal experience with a similar situation, it may be helpful for you to reflect on that question within yourself and then have an honest conversation with her about it."