Page 64 of Just One Season
But right now, all I can think of is Ava and tomorrow’s oncology appointments.
Over the years, the sharp fear about Ava’s health has faded into a constant dull ache. I’m sure all parents feel this to a point, but being the parent of a cancer survivor is a whole other ball game. It’sthe lack of control over my daughter’s future, and by extension, myself. If something happened to her—if she got sick again—I can’t fix it. Not money nor prayers nor the best doctors can assure me everything will be okay.
I’ve trained myself to live in the moment with her. Live for today. Not worry about the future.
But sometimes that training slips.
Especially leading up to her appointments.
The whistle blows, and we head to the visitor locker room for what I imagine will be an intense lecture by Coach Jackson.
I barely hear Coach talk to us about the mistakes we made, getting our heads back in the game, staying strong against the provocation of the other team. When his five-minute team speech is over, he leaves us to our individual intermission routines—everyone hydrates, stretches, and some meditate, listen to music, chat with each other, anything to reset and refocus. He pulls aside a few players for individual talks.
I close my eyes and lean against a locker, trying to push my wayward thoughts into their assigned rooms so I can get my head in the game.
Underneath my worries about Ava, there’s a nervous excitement about the situation with Lucy. Her as Ava’s soccer coach. Our moments at the fall festival. The upcoming retreat in Wyoming and Thanksgiving together in D.C.
Before I manage to ground myself back in hockey, Coach is calling our attention for the last minute’s pep talk.
I don’t feel any better skating back onto the ice for the second period.
And it shows.
One of the Dallas Stars’ forwards keeps attempting to provoke me with trash talk, but joke’s on him as I can’t focus on his jabs.
But Lachlan can.
I can hear him growling behind me. He can have a temper onthe ice, so hearing him getting pissed off actually helps bring me to the present.
The other team scores. Our line is swapped with Finn, Armas, and Rhys. Lachlan heads off with the other defenseman and a new pair skates on.
“You’ve gotta keep it together, Lach.” I attempt to diffuse the situation, but he just glares at me.
My line heads back on the ice, and Lachlan’s joins us in defense a minute later.
It can’t be more than thirty seconds later that Lachlan is shoving the Stars’ forward into the boards and throwing a punch at his helmet.
Shiiiiit.
The crowd screams in encouragement and astonishment—this is what the hockey audience often wants—but from our perspective, fighting is only a bad thing. I pull Lachlan off the Stars player and the ref sends our best defenseman off but lets the other team keep their player, even though he’s the one who started the fight.
The Stars are pushing us hard during their power play and the puck stays in our zone. Fuck! Ref should’ve sent the other guy off. Asshole was looking for this exact thing to happen, and now he’s got a smug look on his face that I want to punch off.
I won’t, of course.
I’m usually the one stopping the fights, not starting them.
The other team scores twice during the period.
During the second intermission, Coach gives us a longer than usual speech about team integrity and player accountability, then he pulls Lachlan aside.
This time, I focus intensely on my mental exercises. Taking all my distracting thoughts and pushing them to where they belong while I’m on the ice. Then heading back to the main room of my house. The hockey room.
At the end of the intermission, Coach leads us in afive-minute meditation and focus session, and the energy in the locker room shifts noticeably.
Finally, I feel calm.
Everything clicks into place—the bedroom doors are all locked in my house—and instead of distractions, my mind is a ticker tape of plays, strategy, positions, and control. Lachlan looks better as we skate onto the ice, that fury gone from his eyes, replaced by grim determination.
