“No matter how heated you get, just remember where you came from. We don’t solve problems with our fists. I know some fans go to games to see the fights, to see the brutal battle, but hockey is more than that. It’s about your footwork, your puck handling, the communication with your teammates. It’s about finding the small inches others don’t see. That’s what makes a great player, don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.” No matter how old I get, these lectures will always be a part of my life. “So how’s Mom?”
There is a low chuckle from the other end of the phone. “Over talking about the game?”
“Still a little raw, Dad.”
“Understandable.” There’s a smile in his voice. Everyone knows my dad as someone who’s kept me in line, who’s pushed me to be the best version of myself, but when it comes down to it, he’s never pushed me too hard, and it’s the reason he’s backing off now. He knows I’ve punished myself enough, no need to harp on it. “Your mom is good. A little upset about the fight, but you know how she is, she’ll get over it. I will say this, she was a little shocked from the power you have in that right hook.”
“That’s professional athletic training for you. She didn’t pretend to faint, did she?”
More chuckling. “No, but she did tsk. I caught her looking at replays afterward making a little fist of her own.”
“Yeah? Did she wish she could have a little piece of Marcus Miller herself?”
“I think so. You should have heard her during the game yelling louder than me. At one point she threw one of her throw pillows across the room.”
“I can see where I get my temper. Calm, cool, and collected until we’re pushed a little too far . . .”
“And snap, you two explode.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I definitely get that from Mom.”
“The best is when she’s in the kitchen cooking, and she forgets an ingredient or something doesn’t turn out the way she wants it to. There is always a slam on the pan. It’s my indication to boast about the meal and make it seem like it’s the best thing she’s ever made.”
“Smart man. I remember the pound of the pan on the kitchen counter. I would stay in my room and not make myself known until I was called down for dinner.”
“You know I can hear you, right?” my mom chimes in. I should have known she was on speakerphone.
“Hey Mom.”
“Sweetie, what did we say about fighting?”
Jesus.
With the palm of my hand, I rub my eye.
“Already got the lecture from Dad. Believe me, I get it, you guys aren’t happy.”
“We taught you better, that’s all.” She takes pause. “But that Miller boy deserved a good swat to the eye socket in my opinion.”
“Marion . . .” my dad warns.
She huffs and then asks, “Are you coming home now? What are your plans?”
They aren’t going to be happy I’m in Binghamton instead of visiting with them, but after the long season and brutal loss, I need to be here. I need to step away from reality for a few weeks. I’m hoping they can understand that.
“Uh, not at the moment. I’m actually in Binghamton. I’m staying at Mr. Lockwood’s cottage.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
Fuck.
“Nothing against you guys. I’ll be visiting soon. I just wanted some space, you know?”
More silence.
