Page 35 of As You Ice It

Including Naomi and Liam but also the man standing in his underwear in my house.

“Good. I would have been there if you had a game,” Mike says. “And I would have put something in the oven if I knew you were coming home now.”

“Or maybe you would have put on pants?” I suggest mildly.

Looking down at his bare chicken legs, Mike chuckles. “Maybe. Maybe not. Are you hungry? I was making … something.” He blinks at the counter, and I can see him cataloging the same mess I am and trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. “A sandwich?” he suggests.

Thereisbread on the counter. And cheese, though it’s shredded, not sliced, and scattered across the counter and floor. He also got out a can of soup, crackers, a head of lettuce and a box of frozen lasagna. I wonder how long it’s been defrosting on the counter. Quickly, I glance at the oven, relieved when I see that it’s not on.

This is the reason I can’t stay away from home long. I have two caregivers: one who’s here with Mike on days when I’m at the rink and another for away games. But it’s not an ideal setup, and already, the caregiver I hired for away games put in her notice. She’ll handle the next road series, but I need to find a replacement after that.

Mike can be by himself, at least for short stretches. For now. Tonight, I got roped into doing some press, possibly as a sort of punishment for my poor performance, and Jordan, the day caregiver, had to leave before I got home.

A few weeks before Naomi and Liam arrived in Harvest Hollow, Mike moved in. We’re still very much in the adjustment period as I try to figure out how andifthis will work. It’s been fine, but any time he’s left unattended, it’s with the distinct feeling of dread that I might come home to find him missing or a smoking pile of rubble instead of my rental house.

Mike isn’t my dad, but for years, he’s felt like the closest thing to it. After I got drafted by the Youngstown Phantoms at sixteen, I moved seven hours away from home. Billet families, essentially host families, are common for teens who play for developmental youth leagues. I got lucky with the Bells. Mike and his wife, Debbie, were warm and welcoming and had years of experience hosting guys. At first, they were like a second family, and then, after what happened with my parents, they became more like my only family.

Now, I’m a decade older, a good six inches taller, and fifty pounds heavier than I was back then, but Mike often still sees me as that young kid who lived with them. Somehow, this all works in his head. I think because heneedsit to work in his head.

Human beings are excellent at doing what we need to survive and adapt. From what I’ve seen, when Mike’s understanding doesn’t match up with the reality he’s confronted with, he bends the truth to accommodate for it. Which is why it’s possible for him to talk as though this house is his house and he’s still married to Debbie, though they’ve been divorced for years. Most of the time, he thinks I’m in high school even though I no longer look like I did back then. Mike simply jams the ill-fitting pieces together to craft a reality that makes sense.

I used to fear a career-ending injury more than almost anything. Now that I’ve seen memory loss up close and personal, this is a more chilling possibility than a physical injury.

Despite the decline in his cognitive function, Mike’s mood stays upbeat, same as always. His personality hasn’t changed or been dampened. Every so often, when there’s a crack in his carefully constructed narrative and he can’t find a way to reconcile his memory with reality, he wilts. The best option I’ve found seems to be playing along and ignoring inconsistencies rather than pointing them out.

“I ... wanted a midnight snack.” Mike’s eyes land on the oven clock, and he briefly frowns. It’s nine thirty-five. We had a late afternoon game today or itwouldbe closer to a midnight-snack time. “I mean post-dinner snack,” he amends.

“I can make something if you’re hungry. Or order something,” I add.

I’m only good at cooking a few things: eggs, baked chicken, and hamburgers. Not well, either. But passable.

Honestly, cooking anything feels like too much work right now after the game, which is why I picked up something on the way home. A fast food grilled chicken sandwich wasn’t the ideal post-game meal, but it was enough.

“Actually, I’m not hungry,” Mike says, scratching the side of his belly. “I’ll just clean up. Don’t want to leave this mess for Debbie.”

I don’t tell him that Debbie is living in Palm Beach with hernewhusband. Or that his second wife divorced Mike a few years ago and couldn’t be bothered when she found out he was suffering from an as-yet unspecified form of early-onset dementia.

On the plus side, his leaky memory means he doesn’t usually remember the bad parts of his past. Like the way he wrecked his marriage by having an affair, crushing both his wife and his daughter in the process. This is how he ended up with me.

Though I was shocked and disappointed to hear about Mike’s affair, it was different for me. The betrayal wasn’t personal but a real-life example of realizing your heroes have crumbly clay feet.

“I’ve got this,” I tell him. “You go sit down. Isn’t Toronto playing?”

I can hear the low sounds of the game coming from the living room. I’m sure that’s what he was probably watching before he wandered in here to make the “midnight” snack he no longer wants. Of all the things that he’s unsure about, Mike’s love for the Leafs is unwavering. Which is unfortunate for him since the Toronto Maple Leafs have historically struggled in the playoffs.

“I think this is their year,” he says. “I’ve got that feeling.”

“We can always hope,” I say. With hockey, there’s always hope. It’s one of the things I love about the sport. Any team can win, any given night.

I’ve seen comebacks where a team scores three goals in two minutes to win a game. It’s why fans should never leave a game early.

I wonder what year Mike thinks it is—that could impact his hope in the Leafs. Time is more fluid than linear for Mike now. He slips between thinking it’s one decade and then the next within the same few sentences without even realizing it.

Maybe he’ll be right this year. I’d love that for him.

“Will you come watch with me?” Mike asks. “Or do you have plans with friends?”

“I’ll be right in,” I tell him, loosening my tie. “I need to get out of this suit.”

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