"Saint Sebastian," he says before bending down to squat to my eye level. He takes the box from my fingers, gently removing the necklace from its perch. He continues talking as he unclips the back of the necklace. My eyes are glued to him, waiting for his next words.
"It's said that Roman authorities tried to kill Sebastian with arrows. However, he returned to taunt the Emperor and was beaten to death after. Later he became the patron saint of athletes because of his ability to suffer and push through."
I feel the warmth of his hands as he reaches around my neck to clip the necklace in place. His fingertips barely graze my skin and I swear I feel sparks. His fingers are softer than I imagined.
I didn't even know Bishop was religious, and my throat is itchy with questions.
"Dear Commander at the Roman Emperor's court, you chose to be also a soldier of Christ and dared to spread faith in the King of Kings, for which you were condemned to die. Your body, however, proved athletically strong and the executing arrows extremely weak. So another means to kill you was chosen and you gave your life to the Lord. May athletes be always as strong in their faith as their patron saint so clearly has been. Amen…"
With the necklace clasped, he pulls back, looking at it dangle above my shirt. My fingers nervously grab the pendant, playing with it softly. I look down at the shiny new necklace, tracing the engravings.
"Where did you learn that?" I ask curiously. It’s the only question I can get out.
"My high school hockey coach's wife was Catholic. Gave me that same necklace on my thirteenth birthday. She told me I needed protecting. I've worn it every day since she gave it to me." The weight of his words makes the gift much more important. This means something to him, and obviously I mean enough to him that he is sharing this moment with me.
"I didn't have a lot growing up, but Coach and Anna gave me hope that one day I could be something. This was their way of showing their faith in me."
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying to hold the tears in. "What did you need protecting from?"
He sighs, standing up, running his hands through his hair. His eyes have lost all their warmth, replaced with a much darker color. I can see the emotion that passes through them. I know because it mirrors my own.
Pain.
"Ghosts."
He says it in a way that leaves no room for questions. My heart squeezes in my chest, and I grip the necklace a little tighter. He reaches forward, bending at the waist, and grabbing the necklace from me.
"It served its purpose for me. So I'm passing the magic to you. This pendant, this…" He shakes the gold jewelry for good measure.
"It is my faith in you when you step out on the ice. Every time you look at it, or touch it, I want it to remind you that someone always has your back no matter what. No matter how many people tell you no, one person will always say yes." He pauses. "Remember that I'm always in your corner, always, Vallie and I am never leaving. Not now, not ever. I am always with you."
My eyes are burning. Wet, hot tears gather in my eyes. So heavy they fall in large drops. I bite my bottom lip. Looking down and quickly wiping my tears away. I sniffle softly. This feeling in my stomach that feels like butterflies on steroids won't leave.
I just nod, swallowing all my words. When I get like this it's hard to form words without getting more emotional, and I hate crying. I throw my arms around his neck, surprising him with a hug. I bury my head in his neck.
"Thanks, B. You're the best," I whisper.
"Always, Vallie…"
I enjoy his embrace for a little longer before he pulls away, ruffling my hair with a casual smile.
"Come on, let's go get some cake, kid."
To Bishop the gift is to a little kid who doesn't have a mom and needs support. But to me, this is a piece of him, something I will carry with me for the rest of my life. A reminder that Bishop is more than just a person to me, he's my person.
I follow Bishop down the steps of my apartment, meeting my pops at the bottom.
"Hey, there's my champ!" It didn't matter how I felt, my dad always knew how to cheer me up no matter the situation. Even when he didn't understand it himself.
I smile, his beard is shaved, and his age is starting to show, which for a thirty-seven-year-old retired hockey player doesn't look too bad. Nostalgia washes over me as I think about the last time I saw him on the ice. He was…unbelievable.
My father, John Reid Sullivan, or JR, announced his retirement two days after his third Stanley Cup win, nearly a month ago. After thirteen seasons, winning the Selke Award twice as the NHL's top wing, and hoisting the Stanley Cup three times for the Fury, he had called it quits. Hockey had lost a great one that day. After 1,160 games played, thirty-four game-winning points, and over twenty-five hat tricks, my father went down as a legend.
When he was asked about why he was retiring, he shrugged and said, "Never thought I'd see the day but," he paused, letting his eyes fall to mine, "I've found something I love much more than hockey, and they need all my time now." Then he winked at me.
I knew from the day I was born I was meant to play hockey. It was the kind of thing that wasn't a question, it just was. He didn't ask if I wanted a stick and a pair of skates, I just had them. He never had to ask if I was ready to practice, I was waking him up at five in the morning packed and ready to go.
I wanted to be the best. The kind of player who inspired people. I wouldn't settle for good, I wanted to be great.
As the child of a legend, the pressure was intense but only from outside forces. Media, friends, all made comments about me being like my pops one day, being a hockey superstar. I thrived off it. The need to make sure people never doubted me or my talent.
My dad showed me how to play. He taught me everything I knew, but he never pressured me to love the game. I knew that if I looked at him and said I was done with hockey, he would love me the same.
He told me he was proud after the first game I won, after my first hat trick, my first fight, my first loss. He always made sure I knew he was proud, even without hockey. I was his daughter and to him, that was enough. It was us against the world, and although most girls would have been sad that they had to wear ball caps everywhere and didn't get taught how to apply makeup, I was the happiest kid in the world.
I got to watch NHL games whenever I wanted, eat my stomach full of pizza, and wear jerseys with baggy jeans. I grew up around grown men who burped, farted, and cussed. A world where I could be anything I wanted to be, and I wanted to be just like them.
I don't remember anything about my mom, she left when I was so little that I don't even recall her face. I don’t even know her name, and honestly? I don’t want to know. Putting a name to her, would be giving her power over me. Pops didn't talk about her, only a few words here and there. I know that she hurt him.
I knew I was the result of a one night stand, and when I asked him about it he told me that he didn't think he was ready to be a father. That he was nervous, and didn't think he was fit to be a dad. He told me that when he first held me, it all changed for him. At that moment, he knew I was always meant to be his daughter. In this life, and the next, we would be a part of each other's life. Even if he came to me as my best friend or a stranger, something in the sky knew that he needed me, and he would always need me.