Page 2 of Friendzone Hockey
Over breakfast, I begged Dad to let me come down here—just for a little while. I smooth my right thumb over the tender left one as if maybe this time I’ll finally push away the constant ache. I should have worn my brace. It’s been months of physical therapy; shouldn’t I be done with the brace? If this were the movies, I would be. Real life should be more like the movies.
I’m sitting in a booth at Dad’s pub-style restaurant, The Wicklow, way at the back where no one will see me. It’s taken me months to make my way down here, to the main restaurant. We live upstairs in Dad’s small-ass apartment. Even the trailer I lived in with Mom was bigger, but at least it’s solid, I guess. And nice. Dad has a lot of nice things. More in the well-made sense versus the bougie sense. Dad’s not a bougie guy. My favorite part about the apartment by far is the massive window that spans the east wall. Even though I don’t like heights, I love my place on the couch where I can sit with the curtains open and watch the busy streets of Vancouver.
I sleep on the couch. Dad tried to get me to take his room. When I passionately turned that idea down, he suggested asecond bed in his room with one of those divider thingies. I didn’t want that either. I wanted this spot on the couch. I’d never be able to fall asleep in a bedroom without the lights on, and I wasn’t making Dad suffer through that. He has a restaurant to run, he needs his sleep.
The open living room with the bright moon—when it’s not clouded over—is enough that I can eventually pass out from sheer exhaustion and stay asleep.
I’ll take anything over being in the dark. I spent months in the dark. Months that felt like an eternity. All alone. Things crawled over me. My movements were limited. Robin fed me, but not often enough. I spent every moment on edge, waiting for the day he’d shoot me up with something. Would I get addicted too? Would I love it? Would I need it? All I know is what drugs did to Mom. I stayed the hell away from them.
I escaped before I ever found out the answers to those questions.
My schoolbooks are spread across the table and, eventually, I’ll get to working. I’m not going back to school. I’ll get my GED and call it a day. My sights are set on hockey. I’m just stubborn enough that I won’t let what the physio and doctors say penetrate my thick skull. I’ll find a way to get my hand back to where it was. That’s what I’m interested in working on. That and maybe making it out of this restaurant on my own.
I can’t leave Dad’s sight. Or more like, Dad can’t leave mine. I’m fine in the apartment where all his stuff is, but down here, I need to have him within my line of vision. Though, I think it goes both ways. I suggested I try taking a walk around the block. Dad told me in no uncertain terms that wouldn’t be happening. He’d take me, or maybe in a week or so, he’d feel comfortable with Dirk taking me.
It's been a week or so. He’s not comfortable with it. But it’s just as well. It was my idea, which means I’m sure it was a terrible one.
I look for Dad. He was near the bar last I checked, stocking the well, counting how many bottles of each kind of wine he had in the fridge. The yellow bottle-filled crate is there, but no Dad. My eyes flicker back and forth, scanning every crevice of the bar. Where … where the fuck is he? My heart beats out of my fucking chest. Something drops from my hand and there’s a rolling skittering sound as I swing my arm across my chest, clutching fabric, clutching reality.
Heaviness lands on my shoulder. Fingers. I catch the faint hit of deep-fryer and cologne. Maybe some vodka, too, from all the messing around he was doing behind the bar.
Dad.
“Dash? Buddy? Fuck. What was it that book said?” he mutters. Has he been reading books so he can help me? “Take a breath, son. Nice and slow.”
He places my non-injured hand on his flannel shirt. His barreled chest rises and falls underneath my palm, acting as a guide, triggering my brain into compliance.
“That’s it. There you go.”
My eyes blink open. He’s there. His hard face, smooth golden skin, long hair falling across his face. Dad has chin-length dark hair, but it’s kissed by the sun at this time of the year. He does all the landscaping around the restaurant himself, shirtless. It’s disgusting how many men and women gather around to watch him. He’s my dad! But I think it’s the tattoos. Every inch of him’s covered in ink.
For me it says he’s fierce. That he’ll protect me. Still don’t know why he would, after everything. I’ve been a horrible son. Mom and Robin told me the worst stuff about him, and I believed them. Kinda hard not to when some of the stuff abouthim checked out. Like how he used to be a member of a motorcycle club. It doesn’t help that he looks like every biker criminal stereotype. Dad is a ruffian, but he’s also got a soft side.
“Maybe it’s time you head back upstairs,” he says. It’s not a suggestion.
“I’m fine. You’re the one that left.”
“I popped into the kitchen for five seconds, Dash.”
I get it. I’m weak. Can’t even be in a booth sequestered from the other patrons. Got to have my daddy nearby.
He runs a hand through my hair. Shit. It’s wet. Am I sweating? “We’ll try again tomorrow, okay?”
I nod with the bite of a thousand fire ants twisting my expression into something vile. I wish he’d let me drink. I’m so close to nineteen. Sure, that’s the legal drinking age, but what’s a couple months? But it’s not an argument worth having. With stiff limbs, I scoop up all my school shit, refusing to look at him. I don’t know why I’m so mad at him; this isn’t his fault. It’s so far from his fault, but the people deserving my ire are out of reach or dead.
“Wait, here you go, bud.”
He holds out the pencil that fell to the floor in his big hand. Is Dad a hugger? I could really use one. Maybe he’ll let Dirk come up later, after his shift is over. Dirk’ll cuddle up to me after he lectures me for doing too much too soon. After he tries to convince me for the hundredth time to see a counsellor.
I won’t go back. I won’t. Counselling didn’t work out for me.
“Thanks.” I sniffle and use the back of my free hand to wipe the tears before he sees them.Ow.Fuck. My fucking hand. Yeah, should have worn the brace. I’m not ready for life without the brace. I’m not ready for life with people.
With TheraBand covering my thumb like it’s got some kind of latex kink—thank you internet for that one—I move it up and down, side to side, and through every possible range of motion for the thumb. I don’t stop there, working on the wrist, too, as well as every piece of my hand. Dad found me an amazing trainer who specializes in these kinds of injuries. I mean, she calls them sports injuries, not “injuries sustained while escaping a madman”, but potatoe potahtoe.
I’ve been diligent, and the exercises have been paying off. I’ve ditched the brace, and she thinks I should be fine to play next season. It still aches sometimes, and nobody can tell me why. They say things like, “these things just do” as if it’s perfectly normal for a joint to retain some damage no matter how far away you get from the day it was injured. It doesn’t make sense to me. The tissue’s repaired and the muscles have strengthened.
I’ve decided it’s haunted. That it needs to remind me so I never forget.
