I roll my eyes. “That’s not my choice to make.”
“If you played better, your coach would keep you in more often.”
We’ve had this conversation. I actually agree with Coach Shively’s reasons for swapping me and Marion so that we’re both playing regularly. I’ve voiced as much to my father. No matter how many times I explain the reason we see similar ice time, in his eyes, I still suck. Otherwise, I’d always be in the net.
I don’t bother answering with more than a blasé “okay” this time. There’s no point.
“You need to win a Stanley Cup before you retire. You’re getting old and slow. Your retirement’s coming.”
I’m not getting slow. I’m one of the top goalies in the NHL. Even Toby Eads says so in his hockey feed that we hockey players may or may not low-key use as a better reference than the so-called experts. He says I’m in the top five in the league.
While I believe him far more than my father’s opinion—who didn’t know a damn thing about hockey until I wanted to play when I was five—his lack of confidence in me stings. Always. I feel it as if it’s another pound of weight that drops onto my shoulders.
“Did you talk to Pucket?” he asks.
I sigh, closing my eyes. “No.”
“You need to stop squandering your money, son, and put some away for the future. You’re not going to be playing for much longer and you need to have a financial plan in place. Call Pucket. Tonight.”
I give him another noncommittal sound.
“You know what? I’ll have him call you.”
I’m not answering,I say mentally. I already have an accountant and a financial advisor. There’s no way in hell I’m talking to Dad’s.
“Have you thought about what you’ll do when you retire?” he asks.
Our conversations are the same every time we talk. Which is far more regular than I’d like most days. Bottom line, everything I do is wrong. Even if I talked to his Pucket guy, I’m sure something would pass between them, and I’d be a lame son. If I had a plan for after hockey, it would be the wrong one.
“No,” I say and tune him out as he berates me for being irresponsible. Wasting my career—that he still isn’t sure how I managed to pull off a place in the NHL, but it’s Winnipeg, so he supposes it’s not that surprising. Which is ridiculous since this isn’t even the team who picked me up initially. No matter which team I’m on, it’s always, ‘well, it’s onlyblank’ so clearly they’d take a lame goalie like me.
He’s a fair-weather fan at best. His favorite team is whichever one is winning. If they start out winning and then lose, he hated them to begin with. Unless my team is winning, in which case we could always do better. I could have a perfect game, a fucking shut out, and he still thinks I could do better.You almost let that puck in, son.
But I didn’t, Dad!
By the time he’s off the phone, I feel like I can’t catch a breath. I don’t know what to do with myself as I curl into the side of the lounge and close my eyes. My chest is tight. My head hurts. My eyes sting. My stomach churns. My muscles are tense. I’m shaking.
I hate this feeling, but I don’t know how to make it go away.
This is one of those times I wish someone was here to take the burden from me and hold me. Or pin me down and fuck me as I fight them. Yes, that’s what I need. I want to be pinned downby someone stronger than me and have them force all these shitty feelings away.
As it turns out, guys get concerned when you tell them that’s what you want them to do to you. Usually, that’s the end of seeing them. More often than not, I get ghosted after that conversation.
THREE
REN
Nearingthe end of the first period, Felton has let in three goals. Three! Most of the time, that’s more than he lets in throughout an entire game. Combined with some shitty penalties that were both deserved and not deserved, we’re feeling frustrated.
After the third, I skate to Felton before taking my spot. When he turns from getting a drink, his mask already lowered, I grab the bars of it and bring his face to mine. I can see that he’s stressed. There’s a lot going on in his eyes and I’m not entirely sure that it has to do with the game tonight.
“Come back, Fel,” I say. “Stay with me. No more pucks in the net. I know you can do this.”
Felton’s lips press together. I’d think that he’s going to snap back about defense being where they need to be—which he’s not wrong about—but I can also see that as I spoke, something kind of… melts away. He takes a breath, his eyes clear, and he gives me a tight nod.
I let him go and slide backwards a little. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks. I needed that.”
