Alex
Page 15
When I stepped out onto our driveway, softly lit by the two lights flanking the garage door, my dad already had his stick in hand and the driveway lined with hockey pucks. He pointed to the position he wanted me to take and I went to stand in front of the garage.
“Why are we doing this?” he asked, his voice still tinged with anger.
“Because I messed up,” I answered woodenly.
“And how did you mess up?” he asked, toying with one of the pucks on the ground with the blade of his own stick.
“I didn’t make the sacrifice,” I said tiredly.
“You didn’t make the f**king sacrifice,” he affirmed, his voice filled with disgust. It didn’t matter that his son scored two goals. Didn’t matter that his son got an assist. Didn’t matter that his son was the best player on the team. Didn’t even matter that we won the game. The only thing that mattered to him, at that moment, was that when one of my opponents shot a blistering slap shot at our goaltender, I dove out of the way so that my goalie could see the puck coming. I was standing directly in front of him, blocking his view.
It’s true. It never crossed my mind to let the puck hit me. It was aimed in the general direction of my right thigh and it would have hurt had it hit me. Fear of getting hit with the puck played no part in my split-second decision to throw my body out of the way, though. No, I wasn’t afraid of pain, because God knows I’d become almost immune to it. I was just thinking of our goalie, and hoping to give him a split second of reaction time to make the save.
I made a bad choice. The puck sailed past me, sailed right past our goalie’s glove because he couldn’t see it coming and right into the net. Had I just stayed still—let the puck hit me, I wouldn’t be standing out here getting ready to do drills.
“I think twenty should do it,” my dad said quietly. “You’re not to defend and you sure as f**k better not move out of the way.”
Swallowing hard, I gripped my stick tight and tried to relax. My natural instinct was going to be to try to deflect the puck when it came my way. But that would have earned me further punishment.
Yes, punishment. My dad called it drills, but it was punishment. Fucking abuse was more like it.
He wound his stick back, legs crouched. Didn’t matter that he’d been drinking. My dad had played in the minor leagues and he knew how to make a slap shot. The blade made contact with the first puck with a resounding crack and it came hurtling my way, so fast I could hear the whistle of it against the air.
I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, letting out just a small ooph when it caught me in my chest pads. It wasn’t exquisitely painful, because my dad didn’t have the strength he used to, but, more important, the drinking had made him a bit clumsy with his shot. But it still hurt like hell.
The next puck came on the heels of the first, and I took it in the right thigh. My dad raised his arms in victory and yelled, “He shoots, he scores!”
The f**ker was proud he hit his ten-year-old son in the right thigh—exactly where I would have taken the puck tonight had I just stood still.
My dad was having too much fun tonight. I was betting twenty turned into fifty before it was all said and done.
“You okay, Crossman?” I hear Sergei ask, almost like he’s in a tunnel of some sort.
Giving my head a small shake, I look at Sergei and he comes into focus. His face is worried and I wonder how long I just zoned out while I took a trip down memory lane.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say gruffly and walk past him and his son.
Rounding the corner to the house, I immediately take in the color and sound, all of it causing a momentary flare of panic to well up inside of me. Kids run around everywhere, screaming and laughing. There’s a clown wearing the brightest, most horrendous lime-green outfit I’ve ever seen. It actually hurts my eyes to look at it. Multicolored balloons are tied to everything, floating and bobbing on the early fall breeze. Classic rock music blares out from speakers set up around the yard, and the babble of adults partying slams into me.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a flashback like that, and I’ve often found that a quiet, dark place will help me come down from the terror of the memory. Instead, I’ve walked into a f**king circus filled with so much color and sound that I feel disoriented and woozy.
No doubt seeing Sergei and his kid knocked me backward in time, but I was primed for it. On the way over to the party I listened to a voice mail from my dad that he had left last night. I saw his number on my iPhone screen but didn’t answer. I don’t ever answer when he calls, but it doesn’t stop him. He calls, does his duty and leaves a voice mail, then I won’t hear from him until my next game.
This particular voice mail he complained about my line changes. Said I looked sloppy and slow coming off the bench, wasting precious seconds that could be detrimental to the team. I did what I always do, and deleted the voice mail while anger surged through my veins. It stayed with me, even as I was walking up to Leo’s house.
“There you are,” Cassie purrs from behind, and I feel her fingertips slide up the back of my shirt. While ordinarily I would rebuke Cassie for any type of public display, the mere fact that someone I know is touching and talking to me is helping to ground me somewhat.
I knew Cassie would be here. She’s at every Cold Fury party with her sister and Kyle. I can’t stand that f**ker. He’s a pompous ass who thinks the world was built to serve him. His wife Allie is a bitch, and takes pride in spending every bit of Kyle’s money as soon as it’s earned. Can’t feel sorry for the dude, though. He screws around on Allie every chance he can get, bragging about it in the locker room. They are a f**king travesty together, and the worst part about it is that both Allie and Kyle have it in their heads that Cassie and I would make a beautiful couple.
“Why are we doing this?” he asked, his voice still tinged with anger.
“Because I messed up,” I answered woodenly.
“And how did you mess up?” he asked, toying with one of the pucks on the ground with the blade of his own stick.
“I didn’t make the sacrifice,” I said tiredly.
“You didn’t make the f**king sacrifice,” he affirmed, his voice filled with disgust. It didn’t matter that his son scored two goals. Didn’t matter that his son got an assist. Didn’t matter that his son was the best player on the team. Didn’t even matter that we won the game. The only thing that mattered to him, at that moment, was that when one of my opponents shot a blistering slap shot at our goaltender, I dove out of the way so that my goalie could see the puck coming. I was standing directly in front of him, blocking his view.
It’s true. It never crossed my mind to let the puck hit me. It was aimed in the general direction of my right thigh and it would have hurt had it hit me. Fear of getting hit with the puck played no part in my split-second decision to throw my body out of the way, though. No, I wasn’t afraid of pain, because God knows I’d become almost immune to it. I was just thinking of our goalie, and hoping to give him a split second of reaction time to make the save.
I made a bad choice. The puck sailed past me, sailed right past our goalie’s glove because he couldn’t see it coming and right into the net. Had I just stayed still—let the puck hit me, I wouldn’t be standing out here getting ready to do drills.
“I think twenty should do it,” my dad said quietly. “You’re not to defend and you sure as f**k better not move out of the way.”
Swallowing hard, I gripped my stick tight and tried to relax. My natural instinct was going to be to try to deflect the puck when it came my way. But that would have earned me further punishment.
Yes, punishment. My dad called it drills, but it was punishment. Fucking abuse was more like it.
He wound his stick back, legs crouched. Didn’t matter that he’d been drinking. My dad had played in the minor leagues and he knew how to make a slap shot. The blade made contact with the first puck with a resounding crack and it came hurtling my way, so fast I could hear the whistle of it against the air.
I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, letting out just a small ooph when it caught me in my chest pads. It wasn’t exquisitely painful, because my dad didn’t have the strength he used to, but, more important, the drinking had made him a bit clumsy with his shot. But it still hurt like hell.
The next puck came on the heels of the first, and I took it in the right thigh. My dad raised his arms in victory and yelled, “He shoots, he scores!”
The f**ker was proud he hit his ten-year-old son in the right thigh—exactly where I would have taken the puck tonight had I just stood still.
My dad was having too much fun tonight. I was betting twenty turned into fifty before it was all said and done.
“You okay, Crossman?” I hear Sergei ask, almost like he’s in a tunnel of some sort.
Giving my head a small shake, I look at Sergei and he comes into focus. His face is worried and I wonder how long I just zoned out while I took a trip down memory lane.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say gruffly and walk past him and his son.
Rounding the corner to the house, I immediately take in the color and sound, all of it causing a momentary flare of panic to well up inside of me. Kids run around everywhere, screaming and laughing. There’s a clown wearing the brightest, most horrendous lime-green outfit I’ve ever seen. It actually hurts my eyes to look at it. Multicolored balloons are tied to everything, floating and bobbing on the early fall breeze. Classic rock music blares out from speakers set up around the yard, and the babble of adults partying slams into me.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a flashback like that, and I’ve often found that a quiet, dark place will help me come down from the terror of the memory. Instead, I’ve walked into a f**king circus filled with so much color and sound that I feel disoriented and woozy.
No doubt seeing Sergei and his kid knocked me backward in time, but I was primed for it. On the way over to the party I listened to a voice mail from my dad that he had left last night. I saw his number on my iPhone screen but didn’t answer. I don’t ever answer when he calls, but it doesn’t stop him. He calls, does his duty and leaves a voice mail, then I won’t hear from him until my next game.
This particular voice mail he complained about my line changes. Said I looked sloppy and slow coming off the bench, wasting precious seconds that could be detrimental to the team. I did what I always do, and deleted the voice mail while anger surged through my veins. It stayed with me, even as I was walking up to Leo’s house.
“There you are,” Cassie purrs from behind, and I feel her fingertips slide up the back of my shirt. While ordinarily I would rebuke Cassie for any type of public display, the mere fact that someone I know is touching and talking to me is helping to ground me somewhat.
I knew Cassie would be here. She’s at every Cold Fury party with her sister and Kyle. I can’t stand that f**ker. He’s a pompous ass who thinks the world was built to serve him. His wife Allie is a bitch, and takes pride in spending every bit of Kyle’s money as soon as it’s earned. Can’t feel sorry for the dude, though. He screws around on Allie every chance he can get, bragging about it in the locker room. They are a f**king travesty together, and the worst part about it is that both Allie and Kyle have it in their heads that Cassie and I would make a beautiful couple.
