It might be too late for Emerie and me, but I want to be a better person. I don’t deserve her in my life, but I want to try. Because being the best person I can be is more than being the best hockey player. Hockey will end. Family and love are all we really have.
Mom and Dad are both still at work, so I cruise around town, visiting old haunts like the arena where I watched junior hockey as a kid, dreaming of playing with a team like that. I drive by the community rink I played at as a kid, the school I went to until I was drafted by Kitchener, the burger place I used to hang out at with my friends.
Memories of Eric are all tied up here, too. When I moved to Kitchener at age sixteen, Eric was already deep into the addition cycle. His hopes of a hockey career had been shattered. I felt guilty that I’d been drafted by the OHL but determined to make the best of it like he hadn’t been able to. If I could do anything to give Mom and Dad a spark of happiness in their lives, I’d do it.
I park out front of the house just as Mom pulls into the driveway. I let them know I was coming, so it’s not a surprise. She waves at me as I climb out of the car and start toward her. It’s a wet spring day, the pavement shiny, the grass just starting to green up, the trees still bare.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Owen.” She hugs me, though I tower a foot over her. I get my height from my dad, but I’m taller than him, too. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Yeah.” I squeeze her then step back. “You, too.”
“Come on in.”
I have a small bag, but I leave it in the trunk of the car until later.
The smell of the house has memories rushing back—the cookies Dad bakes, the cinnamon candles Mom loves. She fishes mail out of the mailbox and glances through it before setting it on the kitchen counter.
“I’m going to change,” she says. “Help yourself to a drink or a snack.”
I nod, and she whisks down the hall in her suit and heels. She’s a manager at a local bank. I open the fridge and pull out the milk. I’ve spotted the cookies on the counter, and I definitely need milk with them.
I’ve already downed two cookies when Mom comes back, now wearing yoga pants and a fitted long-sleeved hoodie.
“Great cookies, Mom.”
She laughs. “Thanks. Do you like the almonds in them?”
“Love it.”
“Dad should be home in a bit. You want to tell me why you’re here? Or should we wait for him?”
“We can wait for him.”
We chat about random stuff. My cousin Mika is getting married this summer. The next-door-neighbors had to put down their dog, Barry. “Geez. He was old when I lived here.”
She laughs. “He would have been five.”
“I remember when I hit a baseball into their yard and I went to get it, he wouldn’t give it back.”
Dad arrives home and greets me with a big hug. He offers a beer, but I decline. Then I wonder why. Why do I make such an effort to be perfect—no drinking, no drugs, no junk food—when it all ends up being for nothing?
Dad cooks most of the meals, and he gets things out of the fridge and gets to work. “How are you doing?” he asks as he browns ground beef for tacos.
I don’t need to ask what he means with his serious question.
“Crappy.”
He shakes his head, focused on the frying pan. “I knew you’d take this hard.”
“Wouldn’t anyone?”
He gives me a look. “No. I’m sure most guys don’t like it when they hurt someone, but it is part of the game. You’ve been injured yourself.”
“Yeah.
“But I don’t think most guys are as hard on themselves as you are.”
My lips twist up. What can I say? He’s right. I beat myself up over a missed shot on a shootout. Over a dumb turnover at the blue line.
“He’s right,” Mom says, cutting up tomatoes.
“I know,” I say in a low voice. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“We know that,” Mom says. “Of course we know that.”
I remember Emerie saying that, too. Fuck me. I’m a fucking lucky bastard to have people who believe in me no matter what, and I didn’t even know it. And what did I do? I sent her away.
A burn hits my chest.
“I’m sorry you’re being put through what you are,” I add. “I feel sick about what’s happened.”
“That is not your fault,” Dad says. “People are assholes.”
I smile. “Yeah. They are.”
“So why are you here?” Mom asks. “We don’t see much of you anymore.” She’s looking at the tomatoes, not at me, but I can feel her hurt pulsing in the air around us.
“I know that, too.” I clear my voice. “I need to talk about Eric.”
Mom’s head snaps up. She blinks, then glances at Dad. “Okay.”
“I’m not sure where to start.” I curl my hands around my empty glass. “I’m…angry at him.”
Dad squints. Mom’s eyes widen.
“Oh,” she says.
“I don’t think I even realized it,” I go on. “But…I think I need to talk about it. I need to…deal with it.”
“You haven’t dealt with it by now?” Dad asks gruffly.
Mom sets her hand on his arm. “It takes time,” she says softly. “Everyone’s different. Everyone deals with loss in their own way.”
I nod. “So here’s the thing.” I swallow. “When Eric was having problems—”
“He was a drug addict,” Mom cuts in. “We can say that.”
My throat squeezes. “Right. Okay. He was doing drugs and getting in trouble and…I didn’t want to be like that. I saw him wasting his talent. He was a great hockey player.”
“He was,” Dad says quietly. He turns off the stove and moves the pan.
“When I went to Kitchener, I worked as hard as I could. I didn’t want to waste what I had. I didn’t want to be like him.” My voice catches. “It was the same when I got drafted into the NHL. When I started playing with the Bears.”
Mom presses her fingers to her mouth.
I meet her eyes. I force the ugly words out. “I was mad at him.”
“Oh Owen. Your feelings are what they are. I understand you feeling angry at him. I was angry, too. So many times.” She sighs. “I was also brokenhearted, frustrated, sad…well, my emotions pretty much ran the gamut.”
“I know it wasn’t his fault,” I say. “But I can’t help it. I was mad. I didn’t want to feel that way. So I tried to stop feeling anything. I tried to stop thinking about him.”
“How’d that work out for you?” Mom asks.
“It was going great. Until…”
They both eye me curiously. “The hit on Schneider?” Dad asks.
“Actually…no.” I feel like I’m being strangled. “I, uh, met a girl.”
Mom lowers her chin, her eyes sparking. Dad frowns.
“Tell us more,” Mom says.
“I care about her. A lot. But I think I f— er, I think I messed up.”
“How so?” Mom asks gently, and her non-judgmental words and tone settle me.