“Yeah, you know, like I should be doing something more productive. Like laundry or meal prep, or helping April with her homework.” She shrugs. “I don’t get a lot of free time, so it sort of feels selfish if I use it all on myself and don’t have anything to show for it.”
There’s a slight tension in her voice that wasn’t there before, and I’m tempted to change the subject just to avoid overstepping my bounds. But she’s the one who opened up first, and I’m genuinely curious why this beautiful, intelligent, capable woman feels like she’s being selfish by spending a few unproductive minutes in the sauna.
“Can I ask when the last time was that you did something just for yourself?”
Her expression turns thoughtful, like she needs a minute to think back to whenever that time was—which is an answer in itself. “I honestly can’t remember when I did something that was more than a few stolen minutes here and there. Probably before April was born, if I had to guess. But even then I was in college, working part-time, and trying to keep up with everything going on in my life.”
There isn’t even a hint of complaining. She’s just telling the unvarnished, unfiltered truth.
“That sounds like a hectic way to spend a decade of your life. I’m sure it’s been rewarding, though. I don’t have to tell you that you have a great kid, so you’ve obviously done some things to be proud of along the way.”
“Definitely,” she says without hesitating. “Raising April has been the biggest challenge and the best gift of my life, hands down. I wouldn’t trade all the ups and downs for anything in the world. It’s just that—” Her voice hitches and she stops herself, then swallows hard and looks at me again. “I know I’m a good mom, a good sister, and a good co-worker, but I’m not sure what else I am anymore.”
Her honesty catches me off guard all over again. It’s just so damn refreshing and sincere. A conversation like this—and in my sauna, of all places—would normally feel awkward as hell, but hearing her open up to me is having the opposite effect. Instead of wanting to shut down the moment of raw vulnerability, I want to know more.
“Do you ever feel that way?” she asks, then immediately shakes her head. “No, what am I thinking? You’re Grant Parker, the best-in-the-league goalie for the Aces. There’s no room for an existential crisis when everyone knows exactly who you are.”
“Yeah, but that’s a different kind of pressure. I mean, yeah, hockey is my whole life. It has been since I was a kid. Conditioning and training, practice, games, recovery, rinse and repeat. That’s been my routine, my existence for as long as I can remember.”
“It shows. Margo and Noah have told me more than once that you’re part of the glue that holds the team together. They’ve both said the Aces wouldn’t be where they are today without you.”
I look down at my feet, uncomfortable with the unexpected praise even though I know there’s at least some truth to whatshe’s saying. I can acknowledge I’m good at what I do. Damn good, if I’m being completely honest. But the rest is just hype, and it’s mostly subjective.
“They’re both also contractually obligated to say stuff like that,” I say, looking back over at her with a grin. “Margo’s whole job is to make the team look good.”
“Yeah, but she’s not obligated to hype the team up to me. Believe me, my sister would be the first to let me know if she didn’t believe the hype.”
“I just try to push myself to give a hundred percent every single minute of every single game. It’s my job, but it’s also my life, like you said. It’s the only version of Grant Parker I know how to be.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything for a while. Still, the silence isn’t awkward this time. Maybe because we’ve both opened up so much over the past few minutes that we need some time to digest everything that’s been said.
After a couple of minutes, she gives me a thoughtful look. “What’s it like? Being Grant Parker, I mean? Being recognized everywhere you go and scrutinized every second that you’re out there doing your job?”
“Honestly? I used to think it was pretty weird at first. All the attention, I mean. I get that it comes with the territory, but being famous or well-known or whatever can be a hell of a head trip.”
“It must be worth it, though, right? Otherwise I’m sure you would’ve gone for a lower profile gig by now.”
The question makes me laugh a little. “I’ve asked myself that same question so many times over the years. But the answer has always been yes. It’s always been worth it, no matter what inconveniences come with it.” I gesture to the room around us. “And I can’t complain. Hockey has done a lot for me. It’s changed my life in more ways than I can count.”
I leave out the part about how hockey kept me going after my parents died. Even when it felt like there wasn’t much to live for, when I literally dreamed about the world opening up and swallowing me whole, I still had hockey. I still kept showing up for practices and games.
And for my teammates, who are really the only family I have left.
She smiles. “That’s good. If you have to be known for one thing, one singular focus, at least it’s a rewarding one, right?”
“Exactly. But I’d make the argument that it’s probably more rewarding to be known as a good mom or as someone whose work makes a real difference in people’s lives.”
She takes a moment, then nods. “That’s a nice thing to say.” After another moment, she adds, “Thank you for the reminder.”
I look down at my watch for the first time since we’ve been in here, and I’m surprised to see that my time was up ten minutes ago. I never stay in here this long, but now I’m having trouble convincing myself it’s time to go.
“I should probably get out of here,” I say even though I still haven’t moved from my bench. “I usually only spend about fifteen minutes in here at a time.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to keep going on and on. We just started talking and?—”
“And I really enjoyed it,” I say, meaning every word. “Seriously. It’s been one of the best conversations I’ve had in a long, long time. Too long.”
I finally get up to leave, but pause again at the door. “Heather?”
