Jaysen: My body hurts
Mickey: Don’t look at me
Jaysen: Little shit
Played more barbarian ping pong with my cousins last night
Mickey: ok wtf is barbarian ping pong
Jaysen: I’ll show you back on campus
Start a new party game with the boys
We text back and forth all day, just random little things about what’s going on, our family’s antics, childhood holiday memories.
It makes me miss him.
That’s dangerous.
Dad and I manage to skirt around each other for a couple days, until Spencer flies out to his family and Dad doesn’t have his masculinity to lean on in a house full of women. Never mind that every woman in this house could kick my ass.
He sticks to small talk at first. NHL standings, his thoughts on some of the bigger-name players out there this season. Then my grades come in, and I mean, they’re decent, but as my parents I guess they’re obligated to tell me I could do better.
It’s the morning of Christmas Eve when things finally get heavy.
I’m sitting on the couch with a mug of hot cocoa, watching my sisters decorate the tree. I tried to help, but there’s too many of them crowding around one another and all the ornaments I put up just got moved as soon as I bent to pick up another one anyway, so I’m fine letting them handle it. I’ve finally gotten comfortable enough to sit with my feet pulled up onto the couch, which is good because I didn’t bring enough heavy socks and this wood floor is cold. I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands and hold the mug close to my face, grinning as Nicolette wraps Madison in tinsel and starts taking pictures. Mom and Dad stand off to the side with their arms around each other and mugs in their hands, smiling as they watch.
I almost feel like I’m ten years old again.
Once the tree is decorated to their liking, we all gather in front of it for a picture taken on a timer with Nicolette’s camera, Mikayla’s arms around my neck and probably the biggest smile I’ve had on my face in years. I take a few selfies with my sisters and send them to Nova, and she responds with a bunch of crying and heart-eye emojis.
After, we start heading toward the kitchen to get breakfast started, but Dad holds the sleeve of my hoodie to keep me back. “Can we talk?”
I literally feel the blood drain from my face. He sounds so nervous it’s like he’s the teenager in this situation and not the fifty-two-year-old retired NHL legend.
I run a hand through my hair and toss the other one up like I guess. Not like I have a choice. I sink back into the couch and pick up my cocoa again, hiding my mouth behind the oversize mug. Dad sits on the other end of the couch, elbows on his knees, turned slightly toward me. I take a sip and wait for him to find his words.
Maybe Bailey was right. Maybe all my issues really are petty and childish. I’m not the only hockey player out there who left their parents young to play for elite teams. At least I always had a roof over my head.
Dad scratches his jaw and doesn’t look me in the eye. “You’ve grown a lot since August,” he says. “Everyone’s noticed.”
I tap a fingernail against the mug, focusing on the soft ping and saying nothing.
“Not size-wise,” he adds quickly. Awkwardly. “As a player.”
“I get it,” I grumble.
He finally meets my eyes. “And as a person.”
I look away, holding the rim of the mug against my bottom lip.
“I’m not going to pretend to really know you.” His voice sounds almost choked with emotion, enough that it makes my eyes burn. “I know I’ve failed in that regard, and I want to do better. But I’ve seen the way you’ve changed through interviews, things your sisters say. How you carry yourself. And I’m proud.”
My hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking?
“I could talk about how you’ve changed on the ice, too, but…” He clasps his fingers together. Rolls his thumbs around each other. Sighs. “But that only matters if this is something you want to keep doing.”
I blink at him. There’s no way he’s saying what I think he’s saying. “What do you mean?” I ask slowly.
“Do you want to play hockey, Mickey?”
God, I really wish I’d spiked this cocoa. Those are words I never thought I’d hear come out of Dad’s mouth. It’s never been a question. He carried me on the ice as an infant. Strapped skates to my feet as soon as I was steady on solid ground. Had me out on our pond when I was three. Before my parents even met, it was decided I would play hockey. This is the one thing I have wanted him to ask me from the beginning, and now I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.