Page 136 of The Import Slot
Vicky tells us that my dad is in the bar with Johnny, so we go through the tunnels and toward the double doors. My heart is hammering in my chest as if I’m being summoned to the principal’s office.
I hold the door open for Jen, and as soon as Dad sees me, a smile breaks out on his face.
“Ryan,” he says, patting my back. Never a hug from him, as he knows how I feel about them, Uncle G being the exception.
To my complete and utter astonishment, he reaches out to Jen and offers her a hug, which she accepts, and they briefly embrace each other.
“Jen said I needed to come and talk some sense into you. Sounds like she’s got your best interest in mind.” Dad gives me a look before setting his eyes on Jen. “Your Uncle has had a word with me. Thinks I need to lay off a bit, let you make your own mistakes, and Johnny here seems to agree.” He nods to Johnny, standing with Uncle G at the bar.
“Dad, I—”
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward an empty table. “You too, Jenna,” he says, noticing Jen holding back.
We pull up some chairs, and my dad sits opposite us.
“We watched your game, you know. Vicky arranged for us to have seats in the box. Your pairing with McCoy is good.”
I give him a rundown of what Scottsy and I have been working on, and he nods approval before cutting to the chase.
“Tell me about this four-year offer.”
“Nothing’s agreed yet, but Ronnie’s been in talks with the Jets,” I say. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, Dad. I’m tired. I’m tired of all the travelling, all the media, and the shit that comes with it. I just want to play hockey. I’m staying.”
“Would you not go back? Just for a couple years, instead of the four?” Dad asks, raising a brow.
“Leave the kid alone,” Uncle G says, coming to a stop behind us.
“Look, I’ve told you, I’m done with it all. I just want to do what I love with who I love.”
“Well, geez, you didn’t tell me you were that serious,” Uncle G says.
Everyone’s staring at me now, and I just burst. “I know you’re trying to look after my best interests, but I can’t stress enough that it’s my decision. If you love me like you say you do, you’ll let me make my own mistakes. Excuse me.”
I stand up, push the chair back with my leg, and head straight for the double doors and toward the dressing rooms.
I head to my stall, take a seat, and draw a deep breath, letting the air flood my lungs.
I’m half expecting someone to follow me, and I think no one does, but then the door cracks open, and Johnny strides in.
He doesn’t say anything, though. He sits in his stall and starts taping a fresh stick as if he planted it there to look busy for a time like this.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I ask.
“Nope,” Johnny says, ripping the tape off and starting again.
“John. I just wish people would let me make my own decisions,” I sigh.
“No one can stop you from making your own decisions, Prez. No one will hold a gun to your head and force you to sign for the Jets. No one will force you to do anything. They’re just making sure you make the right decision for you, and you’re not sitting next to Bettsy on the coach next season, listening to him talking about anal sex, wishing you were in Manitoba instead.”
“Have you been speaking to Jen?” I ask.
Johnny shrugs.
“Look, I can’t promise I’ll not regret it, but this is what I want now, and regrets are a perception anyway, yeah? Because most of the time, the decisions you make are the right ones at the time, or am I wrong?”
“No, I agree with that,” Johnny says, putting his stick down. Standing, he heads for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Gym first thing?” I nod, and he waves as he goes.
My calf is throbbing, and my head hurts and I’m not sure how long I stay there for.
