18 months later
Ibarely have my gloves off when my phone buzzes from the pocket of my suit jacket hanging behind me in my locker. I rush to grab it, but it’s Conner and not my dad so I send it to voicemail and continue undressing. Nash Westwood is grinning at me from across the dressing room.
“What?” I ask, a smile playing on my mouth. “It’s no big deal.”
“You liar. It’s the biggest deal for guys like us,” Nash replies as he brushes his dirty blond hair, damp with sweat, off his forehead.
I smirk and shrug. He's right, of course. Our eyes meet and he knows I appreciate his understanding. Being the son, or daughter, of a famous athlete is a club we both belong to. Being the only son of arguably the best hockey player in the last two decades is an honor and a curse, Nash shares with his twin brother Crew. Their dad, Avery Westwood, was the league's number-one golden boy when he played. He set a lot of records that still stand today but not the record for the most short-handed goals in a season. That's held by my dad, Jordan Garrison. And, after tonight, I'm so close to beating it, I can taste it.
My phone is beeping and buzzing like it’s having a software meltdown. I ignore all of it, not even glancing at it. Nash’s eyes keep darting to it, though, as it bounces and buzzes on the bench beside me and I shrug. “Family group text. They’re brutal when you have eight cousins, three aunts, three uncles, and two grandparents.”
“And all of them know or play hockey and all of them have big opinions,” Nash adds.
I grin. “Big, well-meaning but annoying opinions.”
"Remind me to thank my Uncle Seb and Aunt Shayne for having puppies instead of children," Nash quips.
My phone rings again. The name on the screen is "The 'Rents". I pick up this time and fight like hell to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Hey."
“Hey my ass,” Dad says, and I fucking love the sound of his voice. I always like talking to my dad. We’ve never even had a rough patch in our relationship. Not even when I was a cocky, brash, hormonal teenager. But now, listening to his voice thick with pride, it’s the best sound in the entire world. “You are just three goals away from not just matching my record, but breaking it. You little, amazing shit. I am so proud of you."
"Three is a lot when there's only ten games left in the regular season,” I remind him. I can get three goals in seven games with one arm tied behind my back, blindfolded. But this isn’t about just getting goals. It’sshort-handedgoals. We need to be on a power play, down one person, on the defensive, for me to score a goal that will count against my dad’s record. Short-handed goals are this magical clusterfuck of circumstances, talent and luck.
“Well, if you don’t score three shorties in that time, you’ll have to focus your energy on getting your name on that Cup,” Dad replies with a chuckle. “There are worse problems to have, Tater Tot.”
“Yeah, like getting called Tater Tot at twenty-freaking-two,” I complain, but I’m smiling and I know he can hear that in my voice.
"Oh to be twenty-two again and think I'm an actual grown-up." Dad laughs like I'm a toddler asking if I can drive the car. He doesn't mean it in a patronizing way. It's more whimsical like he misses being young.
“Those were the days, old man?” I ask, snarky as usual. Dad’s not exactly geriatric. He’s in his fifties.
“Hell no,” Dad replies. “I was a disaster at your age. Ask your mother. But I was in the process of making the history you’re trying to re-write.”
Dad got his first short-handed goal record, tying the previous record-holder, when he was twenty-one, and then, seven years later, after being traded from the Seattle Winterhawks to the Brooklyn Barons, he beat that record by two goals and no one has beaten it since. But I'm going to.
Fifteen goals is all I need. I’m at twelve.
“What are you up to after the game?”
“Beers with the guys and food, I think,” I tell him. “We have a local spot by the beach we love. They have pool tables and great wings.”
“Cool. Mom was hoping you’d have a date.” We both groan a little and he adds, “She means well.”
“You just pointed out that’s not even old enough to stop being called infantile nicknames,” I say and grin. “Tell Mom to cool her jets.”
“Will do,” Dad says. “I’ll let you go sow your oats. Just wanted to say if someone has to wipe away my legendary record, I’m happy it might be you.”
“Willbe me. And thanks Dad,” I refrain from adding ‘I love you’ because Nash and now his brother Crew are staring at me as they peel out of the last of their gear and get ready for the showers.
“Night Tater Tot.”
“Argh! Night.”
I hang up and shove my phone in my jacket pocket. Nash smiles at me as he wraps a towel around his waist and walks by on his way to the shower. “I hope my dad is that big a supporter when I eventually crush his records.”
"I'll let you know how he reacts when I do it first," Crew adds. They're not identical twins, although they look similar with dirty blond hair and matching brown eyes, but Crew is stockier, and Nash is taller. Crew has a wider jaw and nose and Nash has a narrow nose and he can barely grow a playoff beard whereas Crew looks like Grizzly Adams by the end of the first game. The most glaring difference is their personalities. Crew is brash and cocky and aggressive. Nash is quiet and mellow and almost shy. Crew is covered in tattoos, recently getting two full sleeves, and Nash doesn't have one. On the ice, though, they're exactly the same—skilled, fast, with an incredible slap shot, and face-off wins that always lead the league. But they haven't beat their dad's face-off record. Yet.
Nash gives Crew the finger for that comment as they proceed to the showers, and I strip out of the last of my gear and join them. A few other guys congratulate me on inching closer to the short-handed goals record and I just nod and change the subject to who wants to go out for beers and food. I don’t want to jinx this by making everyone hyper-focused on it. Or acting like I care about it. Even though I do care. A lot. I scored my first short-handed goal in the first game of the season and it was somehow the easiest goal I ever scored. It just felt so simple. And then I scored another in the next game. By the mid-point in the season the media was buzzing. I was more than halfway to my dad’s record. The second half of this season hasn’t been so easy, but I’m still managing to score the shorties.
