“Uh…” I swirl what’s left of my cocoa, watching it creep up the sides of the mug. “I don’t know, I mean…”
“This is important, bud.” Dad inches closer, and I glance up for a second to see him giving me this sad, serious look. “This isn’t something you can go into with uncertainty. There are contracts and millions of dollars involved, you don’t get a choice where you end up, and sometimes you don’t even get a warning before you’re traded across the continent. It’s not something you should follow through with unless you’re fully in it.”
My chest feels like it’s caving in, my heart wrung out.
“Then there’s this,” Dad adds, quiet and cautious as he reaches out to tug on the sleeve of my hoodie. But it’s not my hoodie. It’s big enough to engulf my hands and hang halfway down my thighs. Because it’s Cauler’s.
Shit.
It’s got his name and number on the back. He left it in my room and I like big sweaters and I didn’t even think about it.
Shit shit shit.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice how wide my eyes have gotten, how I’ve stopped fidgeting with the mug. He just keeps talking, saying, “After the Royals, you’ll probably never play on the same team again. Unless you get really lucky, you’ll be hundreds of miles away from each other.”
Okay. Yep. This is happening. I set my mug on the coffee table and put my face in my hands. Rub my eyes, push my fingers into my hair. Try not to freak out.
“You’ll have to think about it for anyone you end up with. You’ll be traveling a lot. If you get traded, it’s not just your life that’s disrupted. Then there’s—”
“Dad.” I cannot listen to this anymore. What is happening right now? I keep my elbows on my knees and my hands in my hair and stare at the floor. “It sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of it right now.”
“No, no, of course not,” he says quickly. “There’s a lot of great things about going pro, too. I wouldn’t trade my experience in the NHL for anything. But. Mickey, your heart’s never been in this. I thought if I kept pushing you, you’d eventually learn to like it more, but instead it’s done the opposite, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mickey. I just want you to be happy.”
“But that’s the thing,” I say. My voice shakes. “Nothing makes me happy. Not really. It’s not even that I don’t like hockey, it’s just … I don’t like anything. Not enough to matter. All I ever wanted with hockey was a choice. I wanted to come with you when you moved. I didn’t care about the best opportunities. I was ten. I wanted my family. You could’ve retired in Buffalo, but you chose to come here and keep playing. You chose to leave me. And when you did finally retire, instead of coming back, you stayed here.”
Dad looks down at his hands, his eyes red-rimmed. “I’m sorry,” he says.
The words are soft and genuine and goddammit. I choke on a sob and drop my face back into my hands. My whole body shakes. I can’t breathe. Dad puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me in until my head is against his chest.
“Whatever you need to do,” he says, his chin on top of my head and a hand rubbing my back. The couch dips on my other side. I smell Mom’s perfume a second before another set of arms wraps around me. “We’ll support it.”
“But I don’t know what I want,” I say. I hear glass clinking in the kitchen. The sizzling sound of something cooking. If I can hear that, my sisters can hear this. I don’t have the energy to be embarrassed.
“You have time,” Mom says. “You can stay in school. Get a degree. Or play in the NHL and take online classes. Or do none of those things and come live here until you figure it out. There’s no rush, topolino.”
“But what if I take too long and miss the cut? What if I never figure it out?”
“You will,” Dad insists. “The most important thing is taking care of yourself.”
“We’ll get you through this,” Mom adds. She kisses me on the shoulder and presses her face against my back, both of them holding me together as I fall apart.
It doesn’t erase the years of absence. But in this moment, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
TWENTY-SIX
JANUARY
Campus is quiet.
Classes don’t start for another three weeks, and with the snow muffling everything, it feels like I’m the only one here.
It’s cold, but I miss the dock. Bundled up in enough layers to make moving inconvenient, I sit on the edge with my legs pulled up and my phone in my lap.