Page 80 of Home Ice Advantage

“Dad, you know the Cons won the Cup last season and Morin scored the game winner, right? You know Campbell almost single-handedly backstopped the Libs totwoCups, right?”

“Shut the fuckup,” Dad said, his voice loud enough now that Ryan could hear Chelsea drop something in the kitchen. “You know as well as I do that the league is headed in the wrong direction. It’s on your fucking staff, too, with that goddamn Jew on the bench—”

“Hey,” Ryan said, sharply. “Stop it.”

Dad stared at him like he’d never seen him before. “What did you just say to me?”

“I saidstop it. Shutup, Dad.”

“Where thefuckdo you get off talking to me like that?” Dad demanded.

Ryan stood up, too. His father still loomed over him, even when Ryan was standing. He was about Eric’s height, well over six feet. And he was imposing with the bulk of a life spent playing sports and then letting the underlying muscle go to seed. Ryan was the same as he’d always been, short and barrel shaped. No matter how strong he’d been, when his father stood like this, he always felt like a small child again, cowering in his mother’s shadow, as if she could somehow protect him from the wrath he knew was coming. But he wasn’t a child anymore. He was a grown man, and he would stand his ground.

“Because I’m fucking tired, Dad. Because you’re a horrible fucking person and I’m tired of listening to you. That’s what I came here to tell you. I’m through with this goddamn family unless you can get your shit together. Unless you can learn, somehow, to stop being such assholes. I truly don’t believe you’ve got it in you to figure it out, so until then, leave me the fuck alone. Don’t come to practices. Don’t come to games. If you try to talk to me, I’ll have you escorted out. If you try to call me, I’m going to block your number. I’m fuckingfinished, Dad. I’m tired. I’m goddamn disgusted. And if you ever,evertalk about Eric like that again, I’ll make sure you never set foot in the Spectrum again.”

Mark stared at Ryan like he’d never seen him before. His face was mottled red and white, like he would have gone pale if he hadn’t been so apoplectically flushed with rage beforehand. For a second, Ryan thought that Mark was going to hit him, or try to. He tensed for the blow that never came.

That was the thing: he always knew, growing up, it could have been worse. Some of his friends had dads that used a belt on them after bad games. Dad had never done that. He’d never laid a hand on Ryan. He’d just yelled. Or stopped speaking to Ryan entirely. But ultimately, it had always been the guilt of knowing it could have been worse that kept him coming back.

It wasn’t until now, until he was middle-aged himself, responsible for kids as young as he’d been once, that he was starting to realize just how truly vile his father had been.

How fucking sad his childhood had been.

“So that’s it?” Mark snapped. “You’re choosing that—that fuckingAronsonover your own goddamn family.”

“Yes,” Ryan said. He felt, weirdly, calm. As calm as he’d ever felt before a big game. As calm as he’d been before Dallas retired his jersey or being inducted into the Hall of Fame. “And he’s a better man than you could ever dream of being.”

Mark lurched forward, and for another brief second, Ryan thought he was going to throw a punch, or try to push him back in the chair, or something insane. He didn’t. He stood there, frozen and tense, panting with anger the same way a dog that had run too far and too fast would pant. Ryan could see his tongue through his open mouth, red and obscene.

“If you take one step out of this room, I’m going to disown you, boy,” Mark growled.

“Good,” Ryan said, simply. “I always stayed away from home, from you. I wasn’t here for Mom when she got sick because I was fuckingscaredof you. But I’m not scared of you anymore. You can yell, you can disown me, you can do whatever you fucking want. But I’m telling you, right now, that this is a choiceIam making. And you? You can go fuck yourself.”

And he turned and left.

He could hear his father screaming at him as he left, but it was just background noise, like any kind of television static.

“I’m sorry, Chelsea,” Ryan said, as she trailed after him toward the door. “He’s really going to be in a mood tonight.”

“It’s fine,” she said, smiling tightly. There wasn’t any humor behind the expression. “It was a long time coming, really. I’m...sorry, too, Ryan. About the way things went. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Ryan said. “You know I don’t blame you for any of it. Take care of yourself, okay? If you ever...you know. You’ve got my number.”

Chelsea looked at him, her wide blue eyes as blank as a frozen-over lake. She was a beautiful woman still, even though living with his father had carved deep lines into her forehead and mouth that she’d tried to smooth out with Botox and fillers. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, and shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“You don’t have to be, though.”

Chelsea laughed then, and leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You were always an idealist, you know. Go, Ryan. I’m sure you’ve got a million better places to be than Southie.”

The feeling Ryan had when he shut the door behind him was like nothing he’d ever felt in years. A combination of fear—the finality of the way he had ended things with his father—and relief—the finality of the way he had ended things with his father. Somehow, it felt like he should have been shaking, but his footsteps were steady and his back straight as he walked back toward his car. It had been an awful confrontation, but he felt surer about himself, aboutthingsin general, than he had in years.

Instead of heading back to his apartment, he drove farther south, toward Roslindale. He hadn’t been down that way in ages, mostly because he had no reason to. The only reason to visit was the Mt. Calvary Cemetery, where his mother was buried, and he hadn’t been to visit her grave in years. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that he hadn’t come home because he’d been afraid of his father. And he’d avoided his mother’s grave out of guilt for decades afterward. But if he was facing up to his fears, he had to face up to her, too.

The Mt. Calvary Cemetery was one of the few large Catholic cemeteries that were still active in the Boston area, and it wasn’t anything particularly special. There were trees lining the fences and the roads that wound through the extensive grounds, but once you got inside, it was mostly just rows and rows of graves lining the flat ground, browning in the spring thaw. A stone chapel, door locked against intruders. Some larger, ostentatious stones.

Katherine Sullivan’s grave wasn’t anything like that. It was a simple, small headstone that listed her birth and death dates. It said,BELOVED DAUGHTER, SISTER, WIFE, AND MOTHER.

Ryan still remembered, like it was yesterday, standing by the graveside and listening to the way that the dirt sounded when it fell on top of the coffin. He had helped the cemetery workers shovel some of it in. It was the finality of the noise that had stuck with him, back then, the hollow patter of rocks and dirt on wood. He hadn’t gone back since, and it looked like no one else had, either. The cost of the plot had included perpetual care, so the grass was weeded and mowed the same as any of the other graves.

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