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Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a thirty-five-year-old man of the world, not to mention a professional hockey goalie, yet I was scared of a tiny human.

Most days, I didn’t let a pint-sized dictator rule my life. Today, however, was different.

Today was the first day I’d ever been solely responsible for my son on a road trip. Previously, my ex-wife had been along for the ride.

Back when we were Mommy, Daddy, and Baby made three.

Back when a gold band on my ring finger pronounced my commitment.

Back when my life made sense.

Just before I could once again go over the emotional deep end, three simple words–the ones dreaded by every potty training parent on a drive longer than ten minutes–interrupted me.

“I gotta pee!” Owen shouted from the backseat.

Inwardly, I groaned. This was probably the tenth time he’d made that proclamation since we’d left Atlanta, which was four hours ago for a trip that was only supposed to take two. We’d become well acquainted with gas stations right off the interstate.

At first I was tempted to respond like I did when something pissed me off on the ice, which was to hurl a string of expletives while gesturing rudely with my gloves.

Thankfully for both Owen and me, I kept my reaction positive. “Positivity Around Pottying” was one of the catchphrases from the Potty Training consultant I’d been recommended by some of the WAGS from my hockey team. On more than one occasion, I wanted to tell the consultant to fuck off with her positive pissing. That there was a reason why Owen wasn’t potty trained, and it wasn’t just because I was busy with hockey.

No, it had everything to do with the fact his mother had fallen in lust with some jackoff she met while on our anniversary trip to Portugal nine months ago. A week after we were back stateside, I came home from a hockey workout to find her and all her shit gone.

I could be all macho and pretend like I hadn’t been shaken to the core. So much so I’d resorted to therapy–somewhere no man in my family had ever gone before. After being a zombie for a month, I got my head out of my ass and back in the game.

Just as I started enjoying life again, I was blindsided once again. This time it was on the ice. The team I’d spent ten years with and planned to retire from traded me to the Atlanta Heat. Now I had to uproot my already emotionally traumatized little boy away from everything that was familiar for a new city.

Thankfully, my mom came for a month to help us get settled. When she left, both Owen and I cried the entire way home from the airport. Then it was time for me to meet my new team.

Evidently, my trauma wasn’t hidden as well as I thought because it practically sent out a Batman-type distress signal to the WAGS. Led by Macy Tyrell, the wife of my buddy, Cal, they’d refused to take no for an answer. They helped unpack our new digs, lined up a nanny, and got Owen enrolled in a preschool. They were fucking miracle workers, and their efforts helped to free me up to focus on acclimating myself to my new team.

Macy and her band of relentless WAGS were the reason why I was speeding through the backwoods on the way to some Alpine-themed town called Helen. Although I was without any German ancestry, celebrating Oktoberfest had always been something I looked forward to. Thankfully, it was something I did with my team, so it didn’t have any negative memories attached to it.

Never one for patience, Owen threw back his head and shouted, “Daddy, I gotta pee!”

Glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror, I forced a smile to my face. “I know, bud. I’m gonna pull over, I promise.”

Of course, that was easier said than done considering we weren’t on the interstate anymore and found ourselves surrounded by nature and not many forms of civilization.

We’d almost passed the turnoff when I saw a faded Shell station. After whipping the steering wheel hard right, we careened into the parking lot on two wheels before sliding into a spot.

Leaning forward in his car seat, Owen peered out the windshield. “Daddy, dat place is yucky.”

“I know, buddy. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

His eyes lit up. “Can I’s take a bush wee?”

Fucking Bluey. One episode of a blue dog taking a leak in the woods enamored Owen with pissing in the great outdoors. “Nope. We’re gonna be city boys and pee in the men’s room.”

“Not fair.”

“Sorry, bud.” As I opened my door, I grabbed my phone and quickly dialed Cal. When he picked up, my eardrum rang with a sensory overload of sound.

“Mulvaney, where the hell are you?”

“GPS says about fifteen minutes,” I replied, as I helped Owen out of his car seat and onto the pavement.

“You missed lunch.”