Nate laughs and pulls me close, but for some strange reason, I feel that familiar fear again—that this moment is too precious and, one of these days, I’m going to lose it all. Part of me wants to jump out of bed and flee, but I know there’s no escape from this. It’s my PTSD, so I focus on my breathing. I inhale slowly through my nose, count to four, and exhale slowly through my mouth. Then I tell myself that everything’s fine. Nate loves me, Scooter is at my side, and, with the exception of the toxic cloud from the sticky toffee pudding he ate, life is good. I just have to keep breathing and stay grounded.
Part Three
On the Edge Within
2025
Chapter Ten
A Fine Line
Halifax
My son, Connor, steals the puck at the blue line, and I rise to my feet in the bleachers. With astonishing speed and agility for a thirteen-year-old, he flies down the ice toward the goalie in the net.
It’s the final playoff game of a weekend tournament, and the arena is raucous with shouts and cheers. Becky and I jump up and down as Connor navigates around a defenseman, then passes the puck across the ice to his teammate, who immediately casts it back. With lightning-fast reflexes and expert stick handling, Connor shoots and scores. The entire arena explodes with cheering and the clamor of noisemakers.
Ecstatic, I turn to Becky, who throws her arms around me. “He did it!” she shouts.
Other parents around us pat me on the back and shoulders. They’re all good friends because most of us have known each other since our sons first learned to skate, and we’ve been hanging out in hockey rinks and traveling to tournaments for years, supporting our kids through this merry journey.
Connor is special, however, and everyone knows it. He’s exceptionally talented, mostly because he works harder than any otherkid in the league. It’s obvious to me that he inherited a very intense competitive edge from his father.
There’s still a minute left in the game, and the players get into position for a face-off, but everyone knows it’s over. The score is 5–2, so there’s no hope for the other team, but we all watch to the end and remain in our seats for the awards and presentations. No one is surprised when Connor wins MVP of the game as well as the entire tournament.
Later, Becky and I wait by the soda machines for Connor to emerge from the dressing room. He finally appears with Davey, his best friend on the team, the two of them sauntering out with their gigantic hockey bags slung over their shoulders, their hair wet from sweating under their helmets.
“Great game!” a parent says.
“Good job, guys!”
I can’t help but notice a group of young girls in their path.
“Hi, Connor,” one of them says. “Good game.”
“Thanks.” How aloof he is, oblivious to their swooning.
Becky nudges me, and we exchange a look of amusement.
“Thank goodness he thinks of nothing but hockey,” I say privately to her as we zip up our parkas and follow him out of the arena.
It’s cold and dark outside. With the windchill, it’s minus 30 degrees Celsius, so Becky and I jog to the car. We scramble to get in, and I quickly press the ignition button and set the heat to full blast.
While we shiver, Connor takes his time crossing the parking lot with Davey. They stop and chat before Davey veers off toward his parents’ minivan.
“He’s coming,” I say to Becky. I push the button to open the trunk, and he sets his hockey bag inside, shuts the trunk, and climbs into the back seat.
“Becky’s coming home with us for dinner,” I tell him as I watch him in the rearview mirror.
“Cool,” he replies absently, with the glare of his cell phone lighting up his face. I’m not sure if he actually heard what I said, but that’s how it is with teenagers these days, so I’ve learned not to take it personally.
I remind him to buckle his seat belt before I shift into drive, and as soon as we start moving, Becky flips through some radio stations until she lands on an old Gordon Lightfoot tune. As we make our way home, we talk about her workweek coming up. She’s general manager of a downtown shopping mall and always has juicy stories to tell.
We’re ten minutes away from home when Connor speaks up. “Did you hear from Dad?” he asks.
I glance at him again in the rearview mirror, and my heart sinks a little. “No, honey, I haven’t. Did you text him about the game?”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t responded.” We stop at a red light, and Connor gazes out the window. Streetlights from the busy intersection illuminate his face, and I recognize his disappointment, clear as day to me. I see it in the way he rubs at his temple.
