Page 70 of Best Man on Campus

On my way to the rink for the skate around and team meeting, I call her.

“Your lucky day,” she says. Her voice has most of its usual sass, but with a slight edge of uncertainty now. “I was just about to text you or I wouldn’t have answered your call.”

I smile, “What are the chances you can come to the game tonight. It’s a big one.”

“Aren’t they all, hockey boy. You just keep on winning and winning and saving the day like some fucking superhero.”

“Unicorn,” I say. “How about the game?” She’s stalling, so I know her answer.

“Can’t make it. Remember? That’s what I was going to text you.” She’s trying for bravado, but I can hear the tremor of sadness in her voice. “I have that gig in New York City. I almost forgot about it—what with all the drama about getting raped by my fucking uncle.” Her harsh words spoken in an offhand way strike me like a whip across my soul.

“Jazzy—”

“What do you want me to say? You always knew I was damaged goods.”

‘I never cared if you were damaged goods.” She snorts a laugh.

“Who’s going to New York with you?”

““Last time I checked I grew out of training bras years ago, hockey boy.”

“So, you have a gig?”

“Yeah. Don’t sound so fucking skeptical—”

“I’m not. I’m thrilled for you. Really, Jazzy.” I almost forgot about her music. Lost the fact that she’s succeeding in her singing career, getting paid work. Shoving my selfish disappointment aside, I say, “A chance to perform in New York City is a good thing for your career.”

“Sure.” She snorts. You do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

“In that case, break a leg,” I say. Still filled with anxiety even if I have no say. She’s strong today, but I know underneath she’s still frail as a snowflake.

“I will if you do. Score me a goal.”

“I will.” I don’t end the call. I’m not ready. It’s impossible for me to say good bye with the feeling of dread and longing in the pit of my stomach. She doesn’t end the call either.

“Bennie,” she says in a quiet voice, “I’ll call you on my way home. Promise.”

That makes me smile though I don’t have any expectation that she will.

“Can’t wait for that,” I say.

She laughs and ends the call without a good-bye, the way she does. And I allow hope to fill me because she’s not in the habit of making promises. She never has.

* * *

Standing in line on the ice while the national anthem plays, I look into the stands as I always do to see my mom, but I’m surprised. a surge of adrenaline already high spikes when I see my dad sitting with her. A grin takes my face and I have a renewed sense of strength and belief that I can handle anything.

Skating to center ice I take a hard look at the opposing center and feel sorry for him. Because I’m going to beat his ass on this faceoff and every one for the entire game.

I do exactly that and by the end of three periods, with a goal and two assists I play with more energy and pure love of the sport, deep in the zone like never before as the team feeds off me. we win the game 4-2.

Problems don’t exist on the ice and the bubble of good will lasts all through the media interviews. The knot of tension I feel when I see mom and dad waiting for me outside the locker room is pure emotional joy waiting for release as I hug them, squeezing dad tight to make up for all the times we didn’t hug, even though he’s frailer than I’d like.

“I’m proud of you son. You played a spectacular game. You lead the team like a true man.”

My emotions ball up and choke me, preventing me from doing more than nodding. Mom squeezes my arm and gives me another kiss. I see her look around, but thank fuck she doesn’t ask about Jazzy.

“Onto the championship game,” she says.