“I told him that with the right girl, anything is possible. But then he gave me a look.” I wanted to think he was telling me April is special and not to mess it up. But Badaszek isn’t particularly feel-y. Definitely not touch-y. His life stance is moreTake a puck to the gut like a man.
“Huh.” April is quiet for a moment. “Do you think he knows it’s fake?”
“With Badaszek? It’s hard to say, but historically speaking, the man somehow knows everything.”
We’re laughing about Coach’s omniscience when April’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and her entire demeanor changes. Her smile tightens.
“It’s my parents,” she mumbles.
“Want me to—?” I gesture vaguely, offering to give her privacy since talking to her mom and dad isn’t usually a walk in the park.
She shakes her head. “Thanks, but no. Still, I have to answer.”
I can hear her mother’s voice through the phone—sharp, clipped, demanding.
“Yes, I’m still in Omaha. Well, not right now. I’m in Cobbiton walking Clark’s dogs ... No, I haven’t reconsidered law school ... Because I have a job, Mom. A good job ... It’s not a hobby, it’s a career ... The Barkery is a business plan, not a pipe dream...” Her tone dips with each defense.
My jaw ratchets with every dismissive comment I can hear from her mother’s end.
It’s like April thinks that if she just explains her life choices the right way, they’ll finally understand. But they never do.
“I’m not wasting my potential ... Mom, please ... Yes, I know Dad thinks ...” She lets out a little groan of frustration.
The sky, which was clear and blue twenty minutes ago, is rapidly clouding over. A spring storm rolls in, matching the change in mood.
I want to grab the phone and tell her parents exactly what I think of their “real job” nonsense. Want to list every single thing that makes April exceptional. Want to ask them how they can’t see what everyone else does—that their daughter is brilliant and driven and building something meaningful.
But I don’t. Because that’s not my place. I’m just the fake boyfriend.
“Yes, I’ll think about it ... Okay ... Bye.”
She hangs up and immediately focuses all her attention on Buster, who’s stopped to sniff a fresh patch of grass.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“Fine. They just ...” She sighs. “They want me to give up this ‘dog walking phase’ and finish my law degree. Get a real job with benefits and a 401k.”
“Which, you already have, by the way.”
“If they could get past the dog walking part of it and actually listen to me.”
“That you don’t want to be a lawyer.”
“I never wanted to be a lawyer. That was their dream, not mine.” She finally looks at me. “Sorry. I know this isn’t your problem.”
“It is my problem. You’re my—” I catch myself. “You’re my best friend. Your problems are my problems.”
She gives me a small smile. “Thanks.”
As we continue walking, I can’t stop thinking about how April has always been there for me. Not in a patronizing “You got this, champ!” kind of way. But not as a blind optimist either.
When I told people I wanted to play professional hockey, I generally got two responses. The naysayers would remind me that “It’s a tough business and only a small percentage ever make it.” Translation: lower your expectations, squelch your dreams, prepare for disappointment. Some people straight-up said, “It ain’t gonna happen.”
Then there were the eternal optimists. “Of course you’ll make your dreams come true!” As if hard work and talent were all it took. As if I could party late and skip practice and still somehow end up in the NHL.
April was different.
She believed in me. Quietly. Loyally. Unflinchingly.
