Fontenot glides by in a wide circle, coming to a lazy stop by the goal. “Everything alright over here?”
“Get lost,” Poirier says. Fontenot’s eyes widen and he disappears to the other side of the rink, where the rookies are drilling their stick handling. Poirier turns back to me. “This is the type of shit I’m talking about, dude. I don’t know what happened, but you can’t let them see you like this. Not this close to the playoffs. Why don’t you go walk it off, and I’ll be here if you want to talk later, eh?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, maneuvering the puck between his skates and slapping another shot towards Häkkänen. Häkkänen doesn’t even have to try—the puck sails past his head and collides with the boards behind him. A complete miss.
“Don’t make me put you on your ass in front of the team.” Poirier grabs me by the collar, his voice low and threatening.
“Get your hands—” I start, but Häkkänen cuts me off.
“He’s right, tyhmä,” he says, calling me a dumbass in that slow, Finnish drawl of his. “Take a break. I’ll be here when you’ve untwisted your dick.”
Glancing between their looks of mirrored reproach, I concede I’ve been outvoted. With gritted teeth, I nod. Poirier hesitates a moment longer, then releases me. I take one last shot—this time landing it in the net—before skating off the ice and ripping my helmet from my head.
I’ve just buckled my seatbelt when my phone rings. I don’t want to talk to anybody right now, but I glance at the screen anyway. It’s Micke. My heart sinks and I think about my mother, and what he said about her liver. He wouldn’t call me unless it was urgent. Begrudgingly, I answer.
“Tjena, Micke,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot.
“Tjena,gubbe. Do you have a moment to speak?” he says to me in Swedish. He doesn’t sound upset, in fact he sounds excited. The tension in my gut unfurls a little.
“Sure.”
“Astrid and I have some news. I don’t know how else to say it, so I’ll just say it. We’re going to be parents.”
My mouth falls open. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
“Hallå?” he says when I take too long to reply. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” I stammer. “Shit, Micke. Congratulations.” I should have known this was coming. He and Astrid have been together for a while now, and both are settled in their careers. Last I heard, they were thinking of buying a flat together. Still, I’m not prepared for this moment.
“Thank you. I’m going to be a father, Matte.” He sounds like he can barely contain his giddiness. “Everything looks good. She’s due in July.”
July. Just after the Founders’ Cup Finals—not that I’ll be playing in them. Micke's only twenty-five, which seems young for parenthood, but he's already mostly where he wants to be in life so who am I to argue?
“That’s amazing news,” I say slowly, my mind reeling.
“I know. You’re going to be an uncle. Exciting, right? Not many kids have an uncle in the NHL.”
I picture tiny fingers wrapped around mine. Christmas back home—a child’s first pair of skates wrapped beneath the tree. Micke bringing in wood from the shed while Astrid hands me a cup of glögg. Warmth. Family. Micke saying,let’s have Uncle Matte show you how to break in those new skates, huh?
He sounds so happy. I want to be happy for him. Iamhappy for him. It’s just poisoned by the boiling rage I feel towards everything that’s transpired in the last week. My heart sinks, knowing what this means. Micke’s going to be looking after a family of his own soon. Soon, he’ll have his hands too full to check in on our mother all the time. He’s going to need help. I’m going to have to move home and look after my mother sooner than expected, Cupless. I can hire help, but she’ll need someone to handle her affairs. I’ll have a front row seat to her slow death from alcoholism, while everything I ever wanted to be atrophies away.
This is going to be the Monarchs’ last season. Which means there’s a good chance I’m down to my last few months in the NHL. I can hear Poirier’s words in my head.Maybe you should start thinking about what comes after hockey.I didn’t expectafter hockeyto come so quickly.
This moment isn’t about me, though.
“You’re going to be an incredible father, Micke,” I say. I know he has doubts—we’ve talked about it before. He was only five when our own father passed. He never really knew him, and I know he’s uncertain about his own capacity for fatherhood. I’ve told him that’s bullshit.
“I hope so.” His reply sounds rattled.
“I know so.”
“Will you be here? Astrid is due July 15th.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” It’s not even a question. I want to be there for him, as much as I hate going home. We both know our mother won’t be.
“Fuck, man. Wild times.”
“You and Astrid take care of yourselves,” I say as I pull into my garage. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. See you this summer.”
