His passenger-side door is jerked open a second later, and I have to clutch my chest in relief that I didn’t park beside anyone.If I had, the other car would surely have a dent in it now.A repair that I cannot afford to pay for at the moment.
By the time I get out of the car and make my way to the trunk, Joey already has his hockey bag over his shoulder and is slamming it closed.
Let’s go,Joey demands, grabbing my sleeve and prompting me to speed walk with him to the arena doors.I don’t say anything about his bossiness.I know how much today means to him—being able to see his hockey hero.
Last night, as I lazed on the couch and let the stress of my workday melt away, I remembered talking about this event with Joey.His coach had mentioned the charity to me after he noticed Joey struggling with the weight of loss and leadership.
He’s only fourteen, but it’s evident that my son has talent and possibly a future in hockey.If that’s what he wants.With that talent, however, comes responsibility and a heavy burden of finding balance.He feels every loss more deeply because he feels like he owes that to his team, while at the same time, he can’t let the losses affect him because he needs to set an example.
He’s resilient, but I sometimes worry he’s hiding more than I could possibly see.And without a father figure in his life, he doesn’t have anyone to talk to about this.He comes to me now and again, but it’s not the same.
I can’t let that stop us from living in the moment.And right now, as long as my rambunctious, moody boy doesn’t knock my coffee cup out of my hand, I can smile at his bossiness.
The second his sneakers hit the arena floor, he takes off down the hall like a pinball, hockey bag bouncing wildly against his hip.
Bye!I love you!I shout at his back.I get a distracted hand wave as he continues to run, not bothering to turn around.I watch him jog to a table at the far end and speak with a woman with a name tag.After jotting something down, she points in the direction of the rink.
He’s off in a flash, spotting his friends, all of them chatting and laughing as they sit on the benches, getting their skates on.Some of them are already whacking each other with their sticks, even though they’re feet from the ice.
And honestly?Scenes like that always do something to me—make my chest warm, soften the edges of my exhaustion.There’s something magical about seeing your kid in their happy place.Joey’s a confident kid, but hockey brings out another side to him and such joy.
Joey steps into an arena and feels a world of possibilities and excitement.I step into an arena and feel nothing but the cold.Yet I would wear seventeen layers of clothing if it meant my boy was happy.
I sip my coffee, smiling at the boys, when I feel a presence on my left.I know, even before she says a word, that our conversation is going to be grating.
Cutting it close, aren’t you, Edith?
For fuck’s sake.No matter how many times I tell Rhonda that I prefer the name Eddie, she never uses it.Something about her disliking women using men’s names—as if that’s even a thing.A name is a name, right?
No hello, no how are you, no acknowledgment of the fact that I clearly crawled out of bed looking like someone in a zombie movie.Just straight to judgment.
Her eyes narrow, like I’ve personally offended the sacred schedule of youth sports.I shouldn’t engage.Not today.Not when I’m held together solely by caffeine and willpower.
I’m aware,I say, smiling the kind of smile you give someone when you’re trying to be polite but also mildly fantasizing about throwing your coffee at their shoes.Traffic.
There’snevertraffic at this hour.
Maybe not from the direction you’re coming from, but from mine?I shrug.Oh, you’d be surprised.
I doubt it,she mumbles, not trying to keep her opinions to herself.I don’t bother responding to her question.I know she’s not expecting an answer.Needing to get her off my back, I ask what I think is an innocent, general question.I should have known better.
Are you excited to meet a couple members of the Toronto Nighthawks today?
Why would I be excited, Edith?They’re not here for me.They’re here for the children.This is a professional event, and I expect everyone to conduct themselves accordingly.
Oh, God.It is far too early to deal with crap like this.Closing my eyes and mentally cataloguing all the reasons why I should not put Rhonda in her place, I force a smile.I need to get out of here.
Enjoy the morning, Rhonda.
She doesn’t say anything back, but I can feel her eyes on me as I walk away.I glide past her—gracefully, shoulders back, head and coffee cup held high—and start toward the check-in table, where I’m supposed to be stationed.
The event is already buzzing with activity.Kids everywhere.Coaches corralling tiny, hyperactive gremlins.Volunteers setting up stations with inspirational posters and mental health pamphlets.The Goals for Good banner unfurls over the entrance to the ice.
And honestly?I’m impressed.
The whole organization is built around helping young athletes feel safe talking about their emotions and challenges.There are young hockey players here of all ages and backgrounds.I watch a girl who can’t be more than six get help with her skates from an older player.She’s watching him with such focus, taking in everything he’s doing and saying.
There’s a kind of magic here.Something special.When an event that focuses on a serious and rising topic can bring this many people together to learn and play, you know you’re a part of something big.I wish a program like this had existed when I was younger.Maybe then more adults of my generation would feel comfortable sayingI’m not okay.
