Huh, so they actually showed up?

I had gotten a text from my mother during the Houston series wishing me a good luck and saying they would be in town should we make the finals. They wanted to attend a game! How quaint.

Like all my other messages from either Mom or Dad, I archived them and forgot about them. Had either of them showed up to a single college game, in the fucking state they raised me perhaps I would be less harsh. But, when you have a habit of disappointment, its hard to break out of that mindset and expect anything to go in any other direction.

My relationship with my parents could reasonably be called complex in a charitable sense, and non-existent on a good day. They pushed me towards hockey, and really only showed any interest in my wellbeing when I started to excel at the sport. I was told in no uncertain terms that C of V was the only place they could afford to send me, thanks to spending money on travel teams and goalie camps. Being drafted was a saving grace, and an opportunity for their “son” to repay them for all the time, money and energy they spent in nurturing my sports career. And by nurturing I mean dropping me off, fucking off somewhere and fooling as many coaches as they could that they actually gave a shit about me when it was time for an adult to have any sort of conversation with another adult about my progress.

Needless to say I really did not feel like seeing my parents, nor did I want to deal with the reality that they would start caring about me and trying to be present in my life if I made it to the NHL. I also did not want to contend with the reality that they somehow made conversation with one of my teammates and peers, so much to the extent that he thought they were “hilarious” and worth spending time around. Guess they found another easy mark to convince that they had any sort of presence around me. 

Brady had kind of falling out of our group during the playoffs, which makes sense given that well the other four of us had paired off with people and were either nesting or fucking or doing whatever the hell we could to get some intimacy during this trying time. Maybe my parents could adopt him, so they would leave me the fuck alone.

“Hey mom. Hey dad. Fancy seeing you here?” I said, trying to break whatever tension happened during what was supposed to be our victory celebration.

“We did give you a heads up, dear.” Mom said. With that fake cheery smile she loved to put on.

“That you did. I’ll make sure tickets for Game One are at will call, and I guess you can put whatever you were drinking on my tab or something.”

“Oh, so you’re just going to shoo us off?” Of course Dad was drunk.

“Dad, its midnight, I’m tired and we have practice tomorrow.”

“Typical.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing this. I’ll see you tomorrow or something. There’s not much to do here, but thanks for coming.”

Walking out, I didn’t even turn to say goodbye to anyone let alone my parents.

“You can’t avoid us forever, sweetie!” Thanks, Mom. Real classy.

Jenna was waiting out for me at my car, I guess she was getting off her shift right as I was headed home. Perhaps Sam gave her a ride in? I didn’t know, I, frankly, didn’t care but I was grateful she was there.

“Give me a ride?”

“You fuckin’, bet.”

“You saw ‘em too?”

“Saw ‘em? They talked to me.”

“Why are they even here?”

“I guess they wanted to see how their potential meal ticket was faring when about to win a championship.”

“God, you’re parents are so fucking gross, Rhea.”

“Don’t have to tell me. Plus, apparently they charmed Brady.”

“I mean…a well place cactus could do that.”

I snorted at that comment. He meant well, I think, but Brady was kind of a dumbass on the best of days. I shot Brock a text explaining why I needed to get out of there, and that I’d talk to him after practice tomorrow. I needed the night to debrief with Jenna, with the two people I would rather think about the least showing up on the other side of the country where they were supposed to be quarantined.

“All good, babe. Just get home safe,” Brock said. Babe. Gosh, no matter what I did I was impervious to the melting that would come whenever my boyfriend used a pet name on me. Scientists should study the heat effects his words had on my body. I’m sure there was a practical use somewhere.

---

St. John, New Brunswick is a bitch and a half of a city to travel to by plane.

That’s what I learned in the immediate aftermath from Clara after the Uprising beat the Valentine Bandits by a score of 3-2 in a classic Game Seven, which defined our fate for the upcoming UHL finals. Due to a quirk to drum up interest in the league’s All Star Game, the Western Conference held home ice advantage for the finals by winning the game 19-11, this season. So, despite having a horrific record compared to St. John, which is different from St. John’s I recently learned, we would be hosting Games One and Two and if necessary Games Five and Seven. It helped, because we would need all the boosts we could get against this league powerhouse.

The Uprising were wire to wire the best team in the Eastern Conference, and boasted a roster full of bonafide prospects and UHL tweeners who were still chasing that NHL glory rather than a fatter paycheck in Russia. In other words, there was a talent disparity. But, we had momentum on our side. After two straight backs to the walls series, we had started to get better and better. Dispatching St. John would be a different story however. One we had a few days to practice for.

I don’t know what coach was thinking having me do light drills just to feel like I’m staying loose, but I do think he started to worry about my knee as we got closer and closer to Game One of the finals. He was right to, but I would never publicly admit that to any of my teammates, or Clara really. The morning of our conference victory party, my knee swelled up, and took most of the day to recover before I went out and ran into the two people who conceived me. Thankfully, I was not over Brock’s. That would have been a nightmare. 

After seeing my parents at Markus’ I made sure to not spend anytime at my apartment alone. That meant sticking to Jenna like glue. I knew that if I were alone and one of them called, I probably would have caved and invited them over, much to my chagrin. I already called our ticketing intern and gave my friends and family finals tickets to my parents for Games One and Two. Not that I expected to show up anyway. They probably flew all this way to see what they expected was a team full of people on the verge of going to the NHL next year so they knew who to sweet talk when they were mooching off me in the show. Actually attending a game of importance? That’s too time consuming.

Explaining all of this to Brock, was a chore. It was one that was necessary, especially given our recent bouts of not-communicating and letting things fester. But, reliving it? After running into them, I desperately wanted to run away and just hide in an empty room for six hours. Still, we resolved to call each other at least once a night, when we were at home rather than distract ourselves in this pivotal series. Plus, I told him that there would be plenty of time for us to celebrate together regardless if we won or lost. And I didn’t mean cheering.

Also, I did not need to think about my knee giving out while we were fucking senselessly after an intense hockey game, or on one of our precious days off. It had been getting stiffer, but I think now literally everyone in the hockey universe would understand I wasn’t missing this series unless my body literally ripped apart at the seams.

“Okay, so you think they’re here to just scam someone?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” I said after I called Brock following talking to our ticketing intern. The series was set to start tomorrow and I just wanted to get the nerves of our first two home games out of the way.

“You never really talked about your parents, what’s so bad about them?”

“I was just a tool for them. I never really had great grades, and sports were kind of a prestige thing. There’s a lot of old money in land where we are from, these two never fit in because their families didn’t own a farm or a business.”

“So, they saw you as just something to live through?”

“Not even that! I wish they did. They just were always looking for the next big thing in their lives. Sports were an investment that there needed to be a return on.”

“And you were?”

“Good, but not great until high school. And even then I was just good enough to get drafted, I wasn’t on New York’s radar until I was like 21.”

“So what did that have to do with anything?”

“I was made to feel guilty about the time and money that hockey costs.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“I mean, you don’t get it.”

“Not trying to say I do.”

“Right.”

“But, I can, like, still understand how that would suck.”

“I mean, luckily I was able to get, like, scholarships for the good travel teams.”

“Right.”

“And, like, avoid them. I’m pretty sure they were at one point trying to use my high school team winning a state championship to get zoning laws changed so they could build a crypto mining shed in our backyard.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah, like, these are not people thinking about anything besides making money quickly without too much work.”

“And their supposed son being an NHL regular would do that.”

“Right, little do they know.”

“And now they’re here.”

“In Olympic City.”

“Showing up when we are in the Finals of all time.”

“They apparently gave me a heads up, but I have muted their numbers for like two years.”

“I take it they were not regulars at C of V Games.”

“They’re alumni!”

“And yet when was the last time they saw you play?”

“Fuck if I know.”

There was a weird silence that hung from that. I really don’t remember the last time my parents watched me play. Or asked me about the ups and downs off being on the path of a professional athlete. Yet, I know all about their crypto adventures. Or the multi-level marketing schemes that they would join. And the light insurance fraud that they committed and I had to do some lies by omission when I was in middle school. When you put it all together, they really were not good parents.

And here they were. In Olympic City, Oregon of all places. Checking on their new golden goose. It was too good to be true, wasn’t it? Something was up. My parents didn’t just show up. There had to be something more.

---

It turns out they didn’t just stay either.

Neither of my friends or family tickets were claimed for Games One or Two, an even split between us and St. John in our home arena. They won Game One in double overtime, a hellish nightmare for my knee, but one of the best hockey games I think I’ve ever been a part of.

The final score was 4-3, but both teams had real chances to win in both overtimes. We were done in by a sloppy high stick penalty that led to blood being drawn. A double minor at the worst possible time. Worse, it was Brock. A total incidental play led to our best player being in the penalty box for four minutes in sudden death double overtime. We weren’t escaping that one. I was screened on the goal, too. I wanted it back.

So I got it back. We won Game Two 5-1. It was never really close, it was 2-0 after one and 3-1 after two. An empty net goal sealed it 4-1 with about five minutes to go, and then we got another for good measure after they had a horrid clipping call. Chasing the game and down a man we were toying with St. John. It felt nice.

But we still had to get on three flights to get back there, one to Seattle. Then Seattle to Toronto, and finally Toronto to St. John. All for two games in their buildings, with the likelihood that we would be back for a Game Six. My knee did not appreciate this travel schedule. Thank you life in the minor leagues.

Game Three was more of the same for us. We were rolling. It was 5-2 in the second period, and things had been going so well. I was stiffer than usual going into the game, but I didn’t even care about that. Brock and Claude managed to clandestinely switch their room assignments after we checked-in to the hotel in St. John, and I got a blissful night of sleep cuddled with my boyfriend before we were hoping to reclaim home ice advantage. This series did not feel all that close as we came out on to the ice for the third period in Eastern Canada. Yet, in life when things seem like they are veering in one direction, sometimes all it takes is a minor bump for you to realize that no course is predetermined.

It was a routine play about midway through the third period, and St. John really wanted a goal to get themselves back in this game. We were really suffocating them in our own zone, just not allowing them to really set anything up. I got caught on one side of my crease, while they had a player cutting in on the other side. Somehow to be cute, they sent a power forward straight at the goal, right into me when I tried to cut across, almost like a player setting a pick in basketball. Of course, my knee gets caught when a skate blade digs into the ice and I’m down on the ground in a heap. They score, but the goal is instantly waived off for goaltender interference. I’m sure they knew there was never a chance in hell that goal was standing. But that wasn’t the point. They wanted to rattle us, show that they’re still going to throw us to the mat if we wanted to win this series. The St. John Uprising were not losing this series in five games. The regular season champions were not going to just let us come into their house and push them around.

Well, depending on who you asked what they got out of that little stunt probably sounds a lot different, even if every answer would be media trained to death. Their coach would probably talk about how he was proud that his team stood up for themselves and set the tone for the last seven or eight minutes, where they outscored us 1-0 and ended the game losing 5-3. He would probably drone about how either team needed to win four games, and this series was far from over. Coach Mac would likely say the same thing. It was just win two of four needed to hoist the Commissioner’s Cup. This series was far from over and one stretch wasn’t indicative of anything. St. John were a good team, and just because we were up in the series did not mean we were anywhere close to finishing them off.

If I were at the postgame podium, I likely would have said that it was called a penalty and you play based on what’s called on the ice. Or some bullshit like that. Something sterile. Something safe. Anything to distract from what actually happened. 

The dull pain that I had been living with for the last few weeks, heightened significantly in that moment. It was like someone decided to poke me with a hot iron, just searing the pain into every fabric of my soul. I knew my knee was not going to be okay in the immediate aftermath. Thankfully I was able to just block out some of the pain and finish the game without drawing the attention of the training staff. I did give up a third goal late, but by that point the game was all but decided. The pain coursing through my veins inspired me to keep going, but I knew the second I got the adrenaline to wear off, I was absolutely fucked.

I managed to get my stuff off in the locker room and hide a pretty large limp as I made my way back to the hotel with the rest of the team. I looked a little sullen on the bus, but I think everyone just kind of assumed I was in my head as a goalie who gave up a late goal on the road even in the game that was decided. We are kind of head cases just in general, and in this case the wide berth people tend to give me was keeping me from having a breakdown right there on the bus. 

When we finally got back to the hotel, I staggered to my room, while Brock and Claude went to “Brock’s room” to grab something, before Brock would come back to our place for the night. I’m sure people saw right through it, or something, but we were all too exhausted to point anything out. Plus, everyone had their people at this point in the season that they wanted to room with. Small comforts when you’re 2,500 miles from home add up quickly.

By the time their little covert switcheroo was complete, I was a mess. Brock opened the door and the first thing he was greeted with was me sitting against the wall with my legs sprawled out sobbing into both my hands.

---

“Okay Rhea, what the actual fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” those were the only words I could choke out.

“I’m serious, what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just sorry, okay?”

“What are you sorry about?”

I couldn’t respond, I was too emotional. So Brock did what any caring boyfriend would do and walked over to the wall I was sitting against, sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulder while cradling my head into his neck.

“Let it out, baby.”

He gave me permission to cry. There’s no crying in hockey, certainly not men’s hockey, but tonight? Tonight I needed to fucking sob so hard that I was dry heaving. I had fucked this all up hadn’t I? I pushed myself a little too far and now my knee was probably fucked. I mean that’s the only explanation.

“Let me guess.”

“No. Just give me a minute.”

He nodded and went back to holding me tight. I needed the sensory overload to let myself calm down, and neither of us had showered, so the scent of tonight’s game lingering in our closeness was welcomed. I was really hoping for tonight to be a nice win that we could celebrate together with a shower make out session and some sleeping before a day off in a city we likely would never get to see again save for coming back for Game Six. We’d get a cute little double date for coffee with Claude and Scott at the harbor, and enjoy the nippiness of Atlantic Canada in late May, early June. When its not too hot and muggy, but the frozen part of spring hasn’t completely given up on being around. It would be aggressively cute, but just for us, as no one else on the team would bat an eyelash about what this all meant to us. We’d just look like four hockey dudes enjoying a morning off, not being recognized for who we were because at the end of the day even if St. John is a minor league town, guys from the team out West were not on anyone’s radar.

“So, that bullshit goaltender interference.”

“Oh yeah, fuck that guy. What a bush league fuckin’ play to pull on you. These guy’s are getting desperate, Rhea. You can feel it.”

“Well.”

“Well, what? Tell me your knee isn’t fucked. Did something happen on that play?”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking, hell. Rhea. What?”

“My skate got caught in a groove, and I felt something twinge when I went down. But like, not a minor injury. Like, this could be it. I don’t know if I can even get up from where I’m sitting.”

Without saying a word Brock got up. Oh my god, I made him so angry didn’t I? He warned me about this, and I blew him off and it caused us to blow up at each other. But he was right, he was always right. I was reckless and I may have blown my entire career, or at least everyone’s chance to win a championship this season. For some of these guys this was it. There was nothing after Olympic City. Just retirement, and doing car dealership commercials in fucking Oregon if they stayed.

Instead of a lecture, I got a boyfriend returning with a bucket of ice from the hallway and two pillows. 

“We’re going to stay down here, have you ice this for like 15 minutes then we’ll try to get you in bed. Put your leg on these pillows.”

I nodded. He was right, this is what I needed to be doing.

“So, how did it feel?”

“Like, every vein I had in my body was simultaneously on fire.”

“Right.”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

“Well you’re not playing Game Four.”

“No, I’m absolutely not playing Game Four, but coach is going to kill me.”

“I don’t know about kill you, but he’s probably going to be very mad that you stayed in the game and possibly hurt yourself more.”

I hadn’t even considered that. I just figured that I was experiencing a minor setback in the moment, and didn’t even stop to think that maybe my rash actions of not asking for help set me back even more. Oh, god. I was going to spiral.

“But, this guy has seen it all. You’re not the first injury he’s had in an important series I’m sure.”

“Yeah, but he’s never won anything. No titles in college, no pro championships.”

“Neither has nearly everyone that plays this sport. Winning is so fucking hard Rhea, you know this.”

“I know. But I am also letting fucking everyone here down.”

“No. Stop. We’re not doing this. You’re not going to blame yourself. We play a game on fucking ice for fucks sake. This stuff happens.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.” There wasn’t venom in that response, but it definitely wasn’t neutral.

“Fine.”

I didn’t really want to talk after that. I really just wanted to curl up and never be perceived again. Rhea the season ruiner right here. Flushing everything we worked towards down the drain.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Brock said in a reassuring tone. “You’re going to tell coach. Like, now. I’m going to watch you call him. Give the coaching staff time to figure out what to do. Then we’re going to bed. You’re not thinking about this for another fucking second while conscious. I don’t care what your dreams are about, I’ll be there if you wake up with a nightmare. Third, you’re going to do whatever the training staff tell you to do tomorrow and beyond. And you’re not coming back into that crease the second a doctor, doctor gives you an okay. Not just the head trainer.”

I couldn’t do that. If I could walk, I was playing. But I needed this moment to just end and I needed to find a way to stop this spiral.

“Yeah, I can do that. I don’t know how the team will handle the third part.”

“You’re not pushing yourself back into that crease unless we absolutely need it.”

“I will not be reckless.”

“I want you to promise that.”

“I promise. I promise not to be reckless. I don’t think I can promise that I won’t play again this series.”

“That’s…that’s fine. I think I just got over protective.”

“Its cute. And I needed it.”

“I just worry.”

“For the first time so do I! I don’t want to fuck myself with this! But also I know with me in net we are probably taking home the Cup.”

“Now that’s the Rhea I fell for.”

I gave Brock a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek before pulling out my cellphone. Without hesitation, because if I paused I would have found a way to avoid this call, I dialed Coach Mac’s number and hit call.

“Hey coach, yeah, I’m sorry to be calling you this late. But we need to talk.”