“Sorry. You probably don’t care about?—”
“No, I—” He’s quiet for a moment. Pulls out into traffic. “Do you go to church? Regularly?”
“Most Sundays, yeah. Unless I have an event.” I glance at him. “Do you?”
“We did. When I was a kid. My mom had faith.”
His voice changes.
Softer. Quieter.
“It sort of died with her.”
The words hang in the air.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”
But it’s not fine. I can hear it in his voice. The way he’s gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. The careful control.
“You know, she got me into hockey,” he continues. “My mom. She was sick most of my childhood. Cancer. That’s why we moved to Minneapolis, actually. Shorter commute to Mayo for her treatment. Anyway, hockey was the one thing that was just mine. She’d come to my games when she could. Sit in the stands wrapped in blankets, even when she was exhausted. She never missed a game if she could help it.”
The pale streetlights pour through the window, softening the hard lines of his face. My heart aches at that faraway look in his eyes. He’s back there now, with his mom.
“Hockey saved me,” he continues. “Gave me purpose. A future. A way out. After she died, my dad started drinking. A lot. Home was chaos. But hockey had rules. Structure. If I worked hard enough, played well enough, I could control the outcome.”
He pauses.
Glances at me.
“That’s why I can’t lose it. Hockey is everything. It’s all I have.”
It’s all I have.
The words sit heavy between us.
He doesn’t have people. Doesn’t have family he can count on. Doesn’t have anything except the game and the performance and the careful control he’s built to survive.
And now I’m taking twenty thousand dollars from him to help him keep the only thing he has left.
Great.
Cool.
Love that for me.
“You’re not alone,” I hear myself say. “I know it feels like hockey is all you have. But you have people. Even if you don’t see it yet.”
You’ve got meI want to say. But I can’t promise that. I shouldn’t promise that.
Brody doesn’t respond. Doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
I can’t tell if he’s being mysterious or is suddenly thinking this is a bad idea.
Then he pulls up in front of a restaurant—dark brick exterior, warm lighting glowing through windows, elegant signage that readsBarcelona Wine Barin script letters.
I stare at the sign.
