Bailey would be so pleased right now, seeing me proven wrong about him.
It’s a struggle to get to my feet, and I feel weighed down as I follow Dad down a dark hallway, wincing and holding up a hand to block the sudden brightness as he hits the light switch inside the third doorway on the left. It’s meant to be an office. I can tell even before my eyes adjust, with the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves and a wall of windows facing the back patio, nothing but sheer curtains for privacy. The double bed pushed into the corner where the two solid walls meet looks completely out of place. The shelves are loaded with all the trophies and medals I’ve won over the years, and some of my old jerseys are framed on the walls. I know all of it’s been stored in boxes until now.
“It’s not ideal,” Dad says as I silently take it all in. “But I wanted you to have a place of your own.”
“Why?” I croak. I needed this years ago, not now.
“I want you to know you’ll always have a place here.”
My throat closes up and I bite my lip, tucking my chin and keeping my eyes on the ground so he can’t see how much this is affecting me. My bag’s already on the floor by the bed. Jesus.
Dad bears my silence for a minute before clapping a hand on my shoulder and squeezing. “Get some sleep. I’m making breakfast in the morning.”
I give him a nod and wait for the door to close behind him before changing into gym shorts and turning off the lights. I’ve slept in plenty of unfamiliar beds in my time. Countless hotels and temporary homes. But even in the room made for me in my parents’ home, I feel like a guest.
What would it’ve been like to grow up here? To know the city as well as Madison. To have summers in the pool with my sisters. To always have them within reach.
What would it have been like to grow up with a family?
After an hour lying awake, staring at the ceiling, I grab my phone from beside the pillows and message Bailey.
Mickey: Sorry for being a brat
I don’t expect a response till morning, but she answers just a few minutes later.
Bailey: Same
It’s just
I talk to dad a lot
And i know he’s trying
So it’s hard for me to see you brush him off like that
I get where you’re coming from
Just give him a chance to fix it
Mickey: Ok
Bailey: Love you brother
Mickey: You too
* * *
CAULER MESSAGES ME in the morning while I’m eating bacon drenched in maple syrup, blessing me with something to focus on instead of my extremely loud family of morning people.
Jaysen: My body hurts
Mickey: Don’t look at me
Jaysen: Little shit
Played more barbarian ping pong with my cousins last night
Mickey: ok wtf is barbarian ping pong
Jaysen: I’ll show you back on campus
Start a new party game with the boys
We text back and forth all day, just random little things about what’s going on, our family’s antics, childhood holiday memories.
It makes me miss him.
That’s dangerous.
Dad and I manage to skirt around each other for a couple days, until Spencer flies out to his family and Dad doesn’t have his masculinity to lean on in a house full of women. Never mind that every woman in this house could kick my ass.
He sticks to small talk at first. NHL standings, his thoughts on some of the bigger-name players out there this season. Then my grades come in, and I mean, they’re decent, but as my parents I guess they’re obligated to tell me I could do better.
It’s the morning of Christmas Eve when things finally get heavy.
I’m sitting on the couch with a mug of hot cocoa, watching my sisters decorate the tree. I tried to help, but there’s too many of them crowding around one another and all the ornaments I put up just got moved as soon as I bent to pick up another one anyway, so I’m fine letting them handle it. I’ve finally gotten comfortable enough to sit with my feet pulled up onto the couch, which is good because I didn’t bring enough heavy socks and this wood floor is cold. I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands and hold the mug close to my face, grinning as Nicolette wraps Madison in tinsel and starts taking pictures. Mom and Dad stand off to the side with their arms around each other and mugs in their hands, smiling as they watch.
I almost feel like I’m ten years old again.
Once the tree is decorated to their liking, we all gather in front of it for a picture taken on a timer with Nicolette’s camera, Mikayla’s arms around my neck and probably the biggest smile I’ve had on my face in years. I take a few selfies with my sisters and send them to Nova, and she responds with a bunch of crying and heart-eye emojis.
After, we start heading toward the kitchen to get breakfast started, but Dad holds the sleeve of my hoodie to keep me back. “Can we talk?”
I literally feel the blood drain from my face. He sounds so nervous it’s like he’s the teenager in this situation and not the fifty-two-year-old retired NHL legend.
I run a hand through my hair and toss the other one up like I guess. Not like I have a choice. I sink back into the couch and pick up my cocoa again, hiding my mouth behind the oversize mug. Dad sits on the other end of the couch, elbows on his knees, turned slightly toward me. I take a sip and wait for him to find his words.
Maybe Bailey was right. Maybe all my issues really are petty and childish. I’m not the only hockey player out there who left their parents young to play for elite teams. At least I always had a roof over my head.
Dad scratches his jaw and doesn’t look me in the eye. “You’ve grown a lot since August,” he says. “Everyone’s noticed.”
I tap a fingernail against the mug, focusing on the soft ping and saying nothing.
“Not size-wise,” he adds quickly. Awkwardly. “As a player.”
“I get it,” I grumble.
He finally meets my eyes. “And as a person.”
I look away, holding the rim of the mug against my bottom lip.
“I’m not going to pretend to really know you.” His voice sounds almost choked with emotion, enough that it makes my eyes burn. “I know I’ve failed in that regard, and I want to do better. But I’ve seen the way you’ve changed through interviews, things your sisters say. How you carry yourself. And I’m proud.”
My hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking?
“I could talk about how you’ve changed on the ice, too, but…” He clasps his fingers together. Rolls his thumbs around each other. Sighs. “But that only matters if this is something you want to keep doing.”
I blink at him. There’s no way he’s saying what I think he’s saying. “What do you mean?” I ask slowly.
“Do you want to play hockey, Mickey?”
God, I really wish I’d spiked this cocoa. Those are words I never thought I’d hear come out of Dad’s mouth. It’s never been a question. He carried me on the ice as an infant. Strapped skates to my feet as soon as I was steady on solid ground. Had me out on our pond when I was three. Before my parents even met, it was decided I would play hockey. This is the one thing I have wanted him to ask me from the beginning, and now I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.
“Uh…” I swirl what’s left of my cocoa, watching it creep up the sides of the mug. “I don’t know, I mean…”
“This is important, bud.” Dad inches closer, and I glance up for a second to see him giving me this sad, serious look. “This isn’t something you can go into with uncertainty. There are contracts and millions of dollars involved, you don’t get a choice where you end up, and sometimes you don’t even get a warning before you’re traded across the continent. It’s not something you should follow through with unless you’re fully in it.”
My chest feels like it’s caving in, my heart wrung out.
“Then there’s this,” Dad adds, quiet and cautious as he reaches out to tug on the sleeve of my hoodie. But it’s not my hoodie. It’s big enough to engulf my hands and hang halfway down my thighs. Because it’s Cauler’s.
Shit.
It’s got his name and number on the back. He left it in my room and I like big sweaters and I didn’t even think about it.