She looks over as I pull into a parking spot. “What are we doing here?”
I sweep a flourished hand toward the big marquis sign that says, “Big Bob’s Putt-Putt Palace”. It has a portly-looking fellow—who I suppose is Big Bob—with a golf club slung over his shoulder and a broad smile.
“Putt-putt,” I say simply.
Lucy stares blankly for a moment, then cocks an eyebrow.
“Oh, come on… you used to love doing this with me. We’ll play horribly and pretend to be TV announcers, whispering play-by-plays as we mock the other people who are actually better than us. Then… wait for it… ice cream!”
“Sounds lame,” she mutters.
I frown, not expecting this. Lucy loves doing goofy stuff with me. “Want to go to a movie?”
“Lame.”
“Ice skating?” I venture. Lucy’s good, and yeah… she gets that from me.
I get an eye roll in return. “Seriously, Dad… don’t you ever get sick of the ice?”
I twist to peer out my window, so she doesn’t see the wince that comes unbidden to my face. That was a direct slam against me.
It is a clear thought I often have. Without repentance, I put hockey above my family, especially above her mother. Lucy might be thirteen, but she’s not stupid, nor is she oblivious to how her parents’ marriage disintegrated. While I know Ella would never share details or complaints with Lucy, it would not be difficult for my daughter to discern I often made her mom sad.
That fucking hurts, and I rub at the throb of pain behind my breastbone.
Turning to face Lucy, I put on my fun-dad face. “All right… tell me what you want to do, and I’m on it.”
“Can we just go to your house and hang for the day?” she asks dully.
In other words—I don’t want to do anything with you, Dad. I want to go to my bedroom, shut the door, and listen to music or read a book. I’d bet a million dollars that’s exactly how today will play out if I agree to it.
I make a last stab at a connection. “Come on, kid… tell me what’s eating you.”
She whirls on me, eyes accusing. “If you’d been around more, you’d know.”
It does me no good to offer her a different perspective. That many people in the world have jobs that require them to travel. I’m not the only dad in the world like this. And we find ways to make it work. While I might be gone a lot, it doesn’t mean I love her any less and when it matters, I’m there.
Except… that hasn’t always been true.
Four years ago, Lucy had a piano recital. She was so excited about it because it fell during a period we had three back-to-back home games, and I could attend. Lucy had been teetering back and forth about whether she wanted to stick with it. While Ella and I started her on lessons when she was six, we knew she was getting old enough to make her own choice if she wanted to continue. We felt it was important that she have a passion for it.
Of course, I promised I’d be there.
Except at the last moment, I realized I had forgotten to switch a meeting I had with my agent and the Royals’ general manager to discuss a contract extension. I had known the meeting was set and had every intention of getting it moved, but, like always, with me putting in extra practices and workouts and hanging out with some of my teammates, I pretty much forgot all about it.
Ella was in charge of our schedule and when she reminded me about the recital, which conflicted directly with my contract meeting, we ended up getting in one of our worst fights ever.
Ella demanded I cancel the meeting.
I’d told her it was impossible as it was our livelihood we were talking about.
“You’re going to let down Lucy in a way she won’t forgive,” Ella stated.
I refused to believe that. “She’ll have other recitals, and besides that, my role in taking care of this family is just as important as attending a recital. This deal could help seal our future.”
Ella’s eyes went frosty, and her sarcastic voice chilled me to the bone. “I’m sure your nine-year-old daughter will understand the intricacies of balancing good parenting with business opportunities.”
“I’ll buy her a big bouquet of flowers,” I replied, brushing off her comment even though I knew deep in my gut it was true. I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, though. “I’ll take her out for something special later.”
“You’re an asshole,” Ella murmured so softly it packed an even bigger punch.
She turned and stalked away from me.
That day, I got more than I had anticipated in negotiations. It was one of the best deals the Royals had ever given a player. Ella sent me a text with a video of Lucy’s performance, and it was beautiful. I made sure to show it to my buddies—my closest teammates—who I went out with for a celebratory beer after I signed the documents.
When I got home, Lucy and her mom were cuddled on the couch, watching a movie. I sat beside Lucy, tugged on her hair playfully, and asked if she wanted to go out to a special daddy-daughter dinner to celebrate her recital. I made sure to tell her how much I loved the piece she played.
“No, thank you,” she replied quietly, not taking her eyes off the movie. I’ll never forget what they were watching—Tangled—a movie she adored and had watched a bazillion times before on DVD. I know this because I’d watched it with her several times myself.
“Oh, come on,” I coaxed, trying to tickle her in the ribs a little. She squirmed closer to her mom, not laughing from the tickle but grimacing like she didn’t want to be touched.
Ella stared over Lucy with sorrow in her eyes. She gave a tiny shake of her head, but I wasn’t ready to give up.
“Vinnie’s Steakhouse,” I tried to tempt her because my kid loves beef. “We’ll split that big thirty-ounce ribeye. It will be a celebration.”
“Nothing to celebrate,” Lucy muttered, her head resting on her mom’s shoulder and her arm crossed over her belly. Ella cuddled her with an arm around her shoulder. It had been clear they were a unit, and I hadn’t been included.
I looked back at Ella, who advised me, “Lucy decided she wants to stop piano lessons, so that was her last recital.”
“Oh,” I’d replied stupidly.
I couldn’t think of another damn thing to say because to do so would be disingenuous. There’s no doubt I killed my daughter’s potential love of the piano by not coming to her recital. I knew that because of Ella’s expression of disappointment and Lucy’s dull dismissal.
Soundlessly, I’d gone into the kitchen and blankly looked around. Should I get something to eat? Cook them dinner?
Instead, I moved upstairs, figuring I’d watch TV on the couch in the bonus room. My mind was swirling with guilt. My brain was trying to make me rationalize—attempting to convince me that I did the right thing for my family and that, one day, Lucy and Ella would appreciate it.
As I walked by Lucy’s room, I glanced in as the door was wide open. I had indeed bought her a huge bouquet of flowers that I gave her before I left for my meeting.
They’d been stuffed into her garbage can beside her desk.
I blink out of that memory, feeling the heavy weight of guilt. Far heavier and more pressing than it ever was in the past, because, back then, I refused to cope with it. I made myself feel better by telling myself over and over again that I made the right decision for my family that day. That I would make up for it. Lucy would forgive me, and all would be okay.