Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 230(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“She’s not wowed you’re an NHL player, huh?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
“I like that,” he says. “And what does she do?”
“She’s a pastry chef.”
He arches his brows. “Hey, that’s pretty neat.”
“You’d like her.”
This time, his smile is sad. “Maybe someday you can tell her about your old man, who made you learn how to skate when you were three.”
His meaning hits me hard—he won’t be around long enough to meet her in person. I clear my throat, forcing myself not to get emotional.
“I’m pretty sure I was begging you to teach me,” I tell him.
Dad’s eyelids are starting to droop as he says, “I remember that feeling, seeing my son in pads and skates out on the ice. It was…damn, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.”
My muscles tense with the effort of holding back my emotions. My dad is only sixty-seven years old; his story’s not supposed to be over. And if his number has to be up, unfair as it is, he wouldn’t have wanted to go this way—wasting away to nothing in front of his family.
“I hope you’re happy,” he says, his voice so soft I can hardly hear him. “I never really gave you much choice about hockey, and it’s hard to have a regular life when you’re on the road so much.”
I clear my throat and say, “Dad, I couldn’t be happier I followed in your footsteps. I love hockey. It’s always been a part of me.”
His expression relaxes into a smile. “Good. I wish I could hang on long enough to see you play in the Olympics…” He pauses, seeming to struggle to keep speaking, “…and have a family of your own.”
My throat is so tight it’s hard to even speak, but I make myself find a way. “I haven’t even been picked for the Olympic team yet.”
“You will be.”
His eyelids close, his body exhausted. I don’t want our conversation to end. I don’t want to leave tomorrow, and go back to playing hockey while he keeps deteriorating. But he made me promise when he first got sick that I’d keep playing, telling me it’s for both of us.
“Get some rest, Dad,” I say, standing up to help him get situated in a lying-down position again.
This time, he doesn’t fight me. He doesn’t have the energy.
I pull the covers up to his chin and bend down to kiss his forehead, a tear falling from my eye onto his pillow as he sleeps.
All the good memories I have of my dad flood my mind as I sit watching him sleep. The first time I touched the Stanley Cup was after my dad’s team won when I was a kid. I have a picture of us on the ice together after the game, him holding me and smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen.
He taught me how to shave, how to fly fish, and how to change a tire. But looking back, there’s so much more I learned from him that I can’t even put into words. He’s never raised his voice to my mom. My sister and I got yelled at when we deserved it, but even on the few occasions I can remember Mom being wrong, Dad shouldered at least half the responsibility. He was always fierce on the ice, but even-tempered at home. He taught us to do what we had to do—get good grades, practice sports and do our chores so we could do what we wanted to do—have fun and succeed.
I bury my face in my hands and cry softly. On one hand, I’m not ready. I can’t imagine a life where my dad’s not a phone call away anymore. A life where my mom is alone for the first time in thirty-three years.
But at the same time, I don’t want him to suffer. I wish he could just fall asleep and not wake up, if waking up means being in pain and losing his dignity.
Sitting up and wiping my thumbs beneath my eyes, I get myself together. If he wakes up or my mom walks into the room, I don’t want either of them to see me like this.
I take out my phone and scroll news headlines, keeping the sound off so I can hear my dad’s soft snoring next to me.
My heart sinks when I see the top headline on a popular pro hockey blog. Alexei Petrov’s in trouble again. Anton’s twin brother has always been known as a wild one—partying hard and making no apologies for it. He’s one of the nicest guys I know, but he’s a headache for the PR team in Austin, where he plays.
This time, it looks like he showed up intoxicated for a game. At least, that’s the unconfirmed rumor. The team spokesman says he was sick, but unnamed sources say he was stumbling and slurring his words in the locker room.