Page 177 of Ice Dance Hockey

I hand Theo over to the captain. “Sorry to have wasted your time, Captain Leslie.”

Steven rushes in like a rabid chihuahua with his glasses down his nose. “That’s enough. Everyone out. Rhett, you remember the deal with your father. You can play hockey so long as you follow the rules.”

That’s supposed to embarrass me and serve as a warning for more to come if I don’t sit up and obey like a good boy. A sliver of humiliation rears its ugly head, but only because I’ve spent my life bowing to my father, worshiping the ground he walks on. I did everything with pleasing him in mind and look where it’s gotten me? Father doesn’t love me; he wants a model son that he can control so that he looks good.

If I want to free myself from his authoritarian rule, I have to stand up to him no matter the cost. Fight this with everything I have for as long as it takes.

“Don’t worry, Steven, I’m not leaving, and it’ll be the first time Father wished I hadn’t followed his rules.”

* * *

On The Ice

Even if Father’s only mission was to raise a showman who could cushion and conceal his political chess moves, I’m grateful to my father for all the time he put into my hockey career. It will always be one of the greatest loves of my life. The scrape of my skates over the ice, the chill on my face, the dominating power when I slam Alderchuck into the boards.

“Fucking ogre,” he chirps.

“Does your coach know you’re out here, Alderchuck?”

“Heard better chirps from a dead bird!”

I laugh. It’s good to be on the ice and it’s good to be the largest thing out here. I’m going to forget about kissing Jack, forget about my dirtbag father, and do what I always do: Score goals.

I win the puck from Alderchuck in the face-off, sneering, but don’t have the time to rub it in. I’m off, heading into the attack zone with the puck. A stick blade smacked against the ice echoes behind me—Linden. I pass back and then,wham, slammed into the boards by an opponent. I push him away from me with a horizontal stick to the chest I hope the ref misses. No whistle. Perfect. Skate blades claw into the ice, and I make it over the blue line just after the puck, catching it nice and solid against the blade of my stick.

It's like I have all the time in the world. It doesn’t matter that their wingman is about to barrel into me with the force of a battering ram—can see him in my periphery—or that their defense is blocking the path to the net like a traffic jam.

There’s one pocket, a tiny one, and I’m gonna send the puck right through it and tie up this game.

Elkington shoots he scooores!It bounces off the crossbar and into the net right behind the goaltender.

The team jumps on me and the guys on the bench go nuts while the Vancouver crowd groans. My line has a shift off the ice and Vancouver almost gets the opportunity to score again; the fans are on their feet, the whole crowd holding its breath. But it’s not happening. Our defense is on fire.

Third line’s coming off and I get ready to jump on the ice again, glad to see Jack’s still with me.

Marshaw, one of our wingmen, zigzags his way through center ice and passes back to defense as a Vancouver defender pokes his stick out just enough to catch him. Marshaw chest plants, skidding across the ice. A whistle stops play.

“Vancouver, two-minute minor, tripping,” the ref says to the sound of booing Vancouver fans and chirps about the ref missing his vision checkup since he can’t see the plays.

Good for us. Now’s our chance to end this tie game on the power play.

Shift change comes, and I hop over the boards, ready to intercept the puck.Slap, slap, slap!Jack’s behind me, whacking his stick against the ice, hungry for the puck. He wants to score one for Mercy, doesn’t he?

I drop it back and get checked into the boards. The puck lands sweetly in Jack’s cradle and there’s no one on him. Holy shit, no one. Vancouver defenseman does a jump that lands him on his belly, sliding across the ice with this stick out as a last-ditch attempt to thwart Jack. Jack skips over him like he’s a game of hopscotch and has nothing but a sea of ice in front of him.

Jack breaks in and he has a chance … he scores! Beautiful backhand goal.

The clock runs out and Jack’s goal ends up being the winning goal with an assist from me and somehow that lands me MVP of the night. I don’t know how, and I skate out on the ice for my mention as mystified as some of the fans probably are. Speaking of, at least they’re leaving and whatever grandiose plan Father had, loses steam by the second.

“Something special will be taking place on the ice in just a moment. Stick around and an attendant will bring you free beverages and snacks,” the announcer says.

The vanishing crowd freezes in their tracks. Free food and drink at Rogers Arena are too good to pass up, especially when even the shit beer is eighteen bucks a pop. Evil, Father is fucking evil. Patrons who were leaving, filter back, taking their seats again.

Staring at the mongering crowd isn’t giving me any inspiration as to how I can stop this from happening. My gaze lands on Jack who’s waiting by the gate, ready to skate onto the ice for this fiasco.

What if you just … not,Jack had said.

What if I just?

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