Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Even more than that first professional game I played when I signed with Calgary. My parents both flew there to watch me play. I’d splurged and bought them first-class airline tickets and put them up in a luxury hotel, proud of the money I was making. I had a limo bring them to the game, and I was on cloud nine stepping out onto that ice, knowing they were there to watch me.
Knowing my dad was there, taking the time from his busy work schedule to come and see his son play.
That moment seems almost dull in comparison to right now, knowing that this could potentially be the last game my dad watches me play live.
I’m going to make it count. I’m pumped and ready to go. In fact, this feeling...the adrenaline and surge of pure joy for the game is the only thing that makes the deep despair in the pit of my stomach that never quite goes away even bearable. It’s hard to let a few minutes go by without thinking about the fact that my dad will soon be gone, and my relationship with him is on borrowed time.
Hockey is the only thing keeping me sane right now.
* * * *
I can still feel my teammates patting me on the helmet after I scored the game-winner tonight, and the taps of their sticks against my calves. The win is a rush that doesn’t die down easily, and I finally feel completely in sync with my new team.
Zack invited me out for some beers tonight, but I declined, not hiding the truth.
“Going home to spend time with my dad,” I told him. “He had a good day today, and I want to take advantage of it.”
Of course he understood, and I knew this by the way he clasped my shoulder with a solemn nod.
Now, though, when I pull into my parents’ driveway, the adrenaline high from winning the game and thus the playoff round for my team, starts to fizzle.
There is nothing inside to be excited about. There is no joy. No solace, security, or hopefulness.
Nothing but a dying man.
With a sigh, I get out of my car. It was delivered a few days ago, along with all of my furniture and belongings. I placed all of it in storage, having no intention of getting my own place just yet.
For the immediate future, I want to spend my time at my parents’ home—my childhood home—so I can be as close to my dad as possible. After the hockey season wraps up, there’s no telling if I’ll stay with the Cold Fury or get traded elsewhere. My deal was only for the remainder of the season, and while I’m playing well so far, that doesn’t really mean anything.
Trudging up the sidewalk with my gear bag over my shoulder, I’m both reticent and eager to walk in. I hate looking at all of the medical equipment now taking up the entire living room except for the recliner, loveseat, and TV, but I’m looking forward to spending the rest of the evening with my dad. Time is way too precious.
I unlock the door with my key and push it open slowly. The hinges are well oiled and don’t make a sound. It’s important to be quiet, as my dad’s bedroom is now the living room, and he may be sleeping.
Dropping my bag in the foyer, I creep up the carpeted half-flight of stairs and peek around the banister. My dad’s actually in his recliner watching the news. I move fully into his line of vision, and he startles slightly, not having heard me come in.
His face morphs and a wide smile breaks out. “There’s the hottest new star for the Cold Fury.”
“You were able to come, then?” I ask.
My dad nods with a lopsided grin. “Even walked myself. Didn’t need that damn wheelchair.”
“Awesome.” My return smile doesn’t feel as forced as it’s been. I think I’m learning to relish his good days. I point toward the kitchen. “Hey...I’m going to grab a beer. Want anything?”
“I’ll take one, too,” my dad replies, lowering the leg support of the recliner so he can sit more upright.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s even allowed to have a beer. He’s on some medications, but regrettably, I don’t know what they’re for. Part of me feels I should question him, but another part of me doesn’t want to offend him either.
In the end, I figure my dad knows what’s best for him. His mental faculties are still all in check, and if a dying man wants a beer, he gets a beer.
I nab two ice-cold bottles from the fridge, my mom having thoughtfully stocked a six-pack of my favorite brew. Skirting around the hospital bed in the middle of the room, I hand my dad a bottle before collapsing back onto the loveseat, directly opposite his recliner.