Page 42 of Grizz

I sit in front of my stall, peeling off my gear piece by piece.First jersey, then tape, then pads.

I grab my phone from my bag and see I missed a call from my sister before the game along with a single text from her.Call me.It’s important.

My stomach knots and a cold dread settles in my chest.She wouldn’t tell me it’s important if it weren’t, and I should call her back right away, but honestly… I’m scared of what might come next.I hit the shower first and make it a fast one, nothing like the usual slow burn after a game.Water scalds my skin but my head’s elsewhere, already spiraling, already imagining worst-case scenarios.

By the time I’m dressed in my jeans, hoodie, and damp hair shoved under a cap, I’m moving fast past reporters, trainers, and the rookies tossing towels at each other to fill the silence.

I slip out the back hallway, the one only players use.It’s narrow and dim, a service route built for privacy, not comfort.There’s a small side room near the exit… tiny, with a single bench and bare walls.I duck inside and shut the door.

I hit call, and Eliza answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Grizz,” she says.She doesn’t sound normal.

“What happened?”My throat is already too dry.

She exhales shakily.“Dad had another episode.”

I sit on the bench, and the small room feels even smaller.My lungs do that thing with the stuttered breath I never let anyone see.

“When?”I manage.

“This morning.Around ten.”Her voice wavers.“He left the house.Just… walked right out the front door.No coat, nothing, and it was snowing.”

I close my eyes.I can picture it—the quiet street, the wind howling through open fields, the cold biting deep.Saskatchewan winters aren’t built for mistakes.

“They found him near the Co-op,” she continues.“A cop spotted him wandering near the intersection.He was confused and kept saying he was on his way to your peewee game.”

A punch to the solar plexus.

“He could’ve fallen,” she whispers.“It was icy as hell.He could’ve gotten hit by a truck.I just… this can’t keep happening.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, pressing my hand hard over the center of my forehead.My breath moves in and out in slow, controlled drags.“Is he hurt?”

“No.Just cold and disoriented.He was treated at the hospital and he’s okay now, but…” Her voice breaks for the first time.“This is getting worse, Grizz.”

I swallow hard.

“We talked about this,” she says softly.“We hoped he could stay at his place longer, but… I think we need to consider moving him to an assisted living care unit.Somewhere with round-the-clock supervision.”

I stare at the concrete floor.

My father.Round-the-clock care.Another level up.Another reminder of what he’s losing.What he’s already lost.Or what I wish he remembered.

There’s a part of me that wants to say no.That wants to keep him where he is because some twisted, childish part still resents that he gets comfort now.That he gets softness after giving none.

But this isn’t about me.

It’s never been about me.

“Eliza,” I say quietly, “whatever you think is best… do it.”

She exhales, relief and exhaustion tangled together.“I know it’s a lot.I know this brings up… everything.”

All the nights he yelled instead of loved.All the mornings he pushed instead of praised.

“Just tell me what it costs,” I say.

“You already pay for too much—”