Page 108 of The Blame Game

Shea would never forget the time they’d spent in the car on the way to and from rinks. He’d never forget the drills they’d worked on together, or the way it had felt when he’d finally gotten something he was struggling with and they celebrated together.

Shea would never forget the laughter or the hugs or the times they went out for ice cream after a game. Because yeah, his dad had his moments. He could be harsh and demanding at times. And maybe he’d pushed too hard, been too rigid, but he’d always tried to be a good dad.

They’d been close and then … they weren’t.

“I hate that we don’t talk anymore,” Shea blurted out.

His dad glanced away from the TV, his brow furrowing. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” Shea said, frustrated. “Anything? I know you’ve never forgiven me for quitting hockey but I miss—”

“Forgiven you?” He frowned. “There’s nothing to forgive. I don’t agree with your choice but you didn’t do anything to me that I need to forgive.”

“Didn’t I?” Shea looked down at his hands. “I know I disappointed you. You wanted me to make it to the NHL so bad.”

“I did. But—but you wanted it too, right?” His dad sounded troubled. “You wanted to be a hockey player.”

“Yes!” Shea looked over at him again. “Of course I did. I still hate that I lost my chance. I still wish things had gone differently.”

“Good. Because I—I know I was tough on you. And maybe I was too tough, sometimes.” He looked away.

Shea hesitated. “Yeah, sometimes you were,” he finally admitted.

His dad nodded, still staring at the TV. “Thought so.”

“And I’m not saying you caused my knee problems,” Shea said. “But—but sometimes you—you didn’t listen when I said it was hurting. And then when I realized I needed to quit, you made me feel like I’d failed.”

“I thought you were going through a rough period mentally and you needed to buckle down and work harder.”

“That’s not always the solution, Dad. I know your generation thinks mine is so fucking soft but maybe we’re tired of sacrificing our minds and our bodies all the damn time. Yeah, of course you have to work your ass off to make it to the NHL and you have to push to win. But there’s a point where you’re destroying yourself in the prospect—mentally and physically—and maybe … maybe that’s not always worth it.”

His dad nodded again, staying silent, so Shea pressed on.

“I mean, you’ve heard some of the guys in the league talk about mental health stuff. Do you want to tell me that Theriault bottling up the shit he was struggling with when his father was diagnosed with CTE was healthy? Or that Hale drowning his sorrows in a bottle was the way to cope with a breakup and career struggles?”

“No, of course not,” his dad said gruffly.

“I know everyone thinks it’s fucking strange that La Bouche retired when he did or that Murphy and Hartinger did the same, but you know what? I admire what they did. I admire that they knew their limits and walked away when they could still fully enjoy their retirements.”

“Sure, but they’d accomplished something,” his dad argued. “They had their Cup wins.”

“And I accomplished nothing,” Shea said, stung by his dad’s words.

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Didn’t you? Because by most people’s definition, I’m a fucking failure. I gave up my dream for nothing.”

“Shea—”

“But I—I didn’t want to spend most of my career out on IR or recovering from surgery after surgery or not being able to walk without constant pain when it was over,” he said. “And Em showed me that it was okay to admit when sometimes you have limits.”

“She still pushes herself too hard.”

“Maybe? Or maybe we should trust that she knows her own body better than we do. But the thing is, she also isn’t afraid of using the tools out there to help her live the life she wants to live. Finding that balance.”

“True.”

Shea licked his lips. “And when it comes down to it, I guess I didn’t want to be a pro player bad enough to put myself through the kind of agony I’d be in with shitty knees. And I know you think that makes me weak but—”

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