Page 63 of Snowed In With the PUCK

“Coach, they…they dug into Linda’s—my mom’s—life. They had no right,” I mutter, but the anger is fighting for room against the sinking feeling in my gut.

“I know, son. I know. But we need you with us tonight. You understand?” He looks me dead in the eye.

I nod, though I feel far from okay. I have one hour to push this anger down, to tuck it away somewhere so deep it won’t interfere with the game. But that’s easier said than done.

My phone is still clenched in my hand, and I don’t even realize I’m dialing Linda’s number until it starts ringing. I don’t know what I’ll say. Part of me hopes she won’t answer. That maybe I can just leave her a message to apologize for what happened.

But she picks up.

“Eric?” Her voice is steady, softer than usual, as if she’s bracing herself for what’s coming.

“Linda… Mom… I… I just read the article.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea this would happen.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and when she speaks again, her tone is gentle, reassuring, and caring—everything I hoped having a mother would be like.

“It’s okay, Eric. Really, it is.”

“How can you say that?” I ask, anger bubbling up despite myself. “They took your life and plastered it across the front page. They turned your story into some…some headline. You don’t deserve that.”

Linda sighs, a sound that seems to carry years of pain and acceptance. “Maybe I don’t. But I made mistakes. Big ones. And they’re a part of me, just as much as the good things I’ve done since then. If anything, maybe someone will read it and realize they can turn their life around too.”

I grit my teeth, trying to process what she’s saying. How can she be so calm about this, so willing to accept something that’s so unfair? I can hear her resilience, her strength, and a part of me wonders if I’ll ever reach that same level of acceptance.

“But it’s not right, Mom. They made you sound like…like…”

“Like a failure?” She laughs softly, without bitterness. “Maybe once I was. But you’re proof that the good in me didn’t die, Eric. I’m your mom, as much as you’ll let me be. You’ve given me a chance to be in your life again, and that’s all that matters. You’re out there making a name for yourself. And you’re my son. That’s enough for me.”

I close my eyes, her words sinking in, cooling my anger like a balm. “I just… I hate that this happened to you.”

“And I hate that I hurt you for so many years by not being there,” she replies gently. “But don’t let this story distract you from who you are and what you love. Hockey is your life, and you don’t need to let this derail you. It’s just a storm. It’ll pass.”

I feel something shift inside me, a spark of determination igniting. “You’re right. We can’t let anyone decide our happiness for us. You have your work. I have hockey. We can’t lose sight of that. I’ll play for you tonight, then. For everything you’ve overcome.”

There’s a pause, and I hear her sniffle. “Thank you, Eric. Go out there and show them who you are.”

We hang up, and I tuck my phone into my bag, feeling like a weight has been lifted. I can’t erase the article, and I can’t stop people from speculating. But I can play my heart out, knowing who I’m playing for.

As I skate out onto the ice with my teammates, I feel a new purpose propelling me forward. The roar of the crowd, the cold of the rink, the sharp scent of the ice—it’s familiar, grounding. And it’s here that I can let everything else fall away.

The game is brutal, more intense than any we’ve had all season. The other team is on fire, pushing us to our limits, but we match them goal for goal. My body moves on instinct, every pass, everyblock, every check blurring together. I’m out there, fighting not just for the team but for myself. And for Linda.

Each time I hit the ice, I imagine I’m proving something to the world, to the people who don’t know the real story. I’m not just some tragic headline, and neither is my mother. I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m giving this game everything I have.

In the third period, with the score tied and only a few minutes left on the clock, Bart has the chance to take a shot, but instead he fixes his eyes on me. It’s like we have a moment of telepathy. It’s like I can see the change in him, the empathy, the desire to support me instead of fight me.

He shouts, “All you brother!” He shoots the puck my way.

For Mom, I think to myself as I get the puck on my stick. My legs burn, and my lungs feel like they’re on fire, but I push through, charging down the ice. I dodge past a defenseman, keeping my eyes on the goal. The crowd holds its breath, and time seems to slow as I line up the shot. I release the puck, and it rockets toward the goal, slipping past the goalie’s outstretched glove.

The horn blares, and the crowd erupts. We’ve won. I skate back to the bench, my teammates surrounding me, slapping my back, cheering. Bart holds up a gloved hand and I fist-bump him as he nods, turning away. Ryan chest bumps me like a little kid, and Coach looks at me with respect.

“Good work out there, Warren.” His words are brief, but the way he clasps my shoulder lets me know he’s proud of me.

The roar of the crowd is immense. Every game, up until the playoffs, is huge for us, for our ranking as a team. But the victory tonight feels deeper than that. This isn’t just about the game. This is about proving something to myself, to everyone who thought they knew my story.

In the locker room, the guys are celebrating, but I hang back, letting the noise wash over me. My phone buzzes with a text from Linda.

Linda:I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it. Thank you for being my son.

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