Page 107 of Check the Halls
Sam isn’t at the bookstore.
I jog back to my car, my heart pounding harder now, not from the cold but from the weight pressing heavier on my chest. I climb in, slam the door shut against the wind, and sit for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, trying to think. The next stop is the mall—but as I’m about to shift into drive, I catch sight of a man and his son crossing the parking lot, skates slung over their shoulders as they head into a sporting goods store.
They're probably getting them sharpened.
And just like that, something clicks.
Sam mentioned a rink nearby—one he used to play at when he was younger. It’s barely more than a hunch, but it’s a hell of a lot more manageable than searching a packed mall three floors high and crawling with Friday night shoppers.
I take a sharp right out of the lot and head toward the arena.
The rink’s just as busy as I expected—this time of year, ice time is gold. The parking lot is nearly full, and inside, the air is sharp with the familiar chill of cold concrete and the tang of skate wax. A PeeWee practice is underway. Kids fly across the ice in a blur of jerseys and shouts, their sticks clacking against the boards. Parents cluster along the glass, some pacing, others curled up in the stands beneath fleece blankets, coffee cups steaming in their gloved hands.
I scan the rows of seats quickly, eyes darting from face to face. And then—I see it.
That red beanie.
Far end of the rink. Slouched posture. Alone.
The relief that hits me is so sudden, so overwhelming, it nearly drops me to my knees. My breath catches in my throat, and I have to close my eyes for a second just to stay upright.
He’s safe.
I want to run to him, throw my arms around him, demand what the hell he was thinking—but I don’t. I force myself to walk, slow and steady, each step giving me time to calm down.
When he spots me coming up the stairs, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t even look surprised. He just keeps sitting there, hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the ice like he’s trying to memorize the drills.
He looks so small in that oversized coat. Sotired. And so incredibly sad.
My heart aches just looking at him. Whatever reason he had for coming here—whatever he’s been carrying—it weighs more than a missed text or a worried phone call.
I’m barely settled on the bench beside him when Sam speaks.
“It’s my fault he left.”
I thought my heart was hurting when I didn’t know where he was, but those five words have just shattered it. I’m not a violent person, but right now I would like nothing more than five minutes alone with his dad.
“I couldn’t skate backwards,” he continues. “I tried. I did everything the coaches told me to, I just couldn’t. It was like my body wouldn’t listen to my brain's commands. My coach tried to help me. Said it would come with time; just keep working on it. But my dad just wouldn’t let itgo. He was at every practice, watching me. Then we’d get in the car and he’d lecture me the whole way home. I started hating going to practice. I’d get so nervous I’d throw up before every one. When Mom told me I didn’t have to play anymore, I was so relieved. After that, he didn’t really want anything to do with either of us. They fought more and more. And then he left. Sometimes…sometimes I think that if I could have just sucked it up…tried harder. He might have stayed. My mom didn’t deserve what he did.”
I rest my hand on his shoulder making him look up at me. “Sam, your dad didn’t deserve you. Either of you. Your parents are supposed to love you for who you are. For everything you are. They’re not supposed to abandon you when you don’t turn out to be exactly what they wanted. You didn’t fail as a son, he failed as a father. And I’m sorry that you were left to pick up the pieces. That’s not fair. But your mom gets you. She sees you and accepts you and loves you exactly as you are. And she’s really scared right now.”
“I didn’t mean to scare her. I thought…I don’t know what I thought. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. Let’s find a phone and let her know that you’re alright.”
The teenager working the canteen lets Sam use his cell to call his mom. In return, I pose for a selfie and sign a hockey stick for him.
We leave the rink and walk to my car. More snow has fallen and I start the engine before clearing off the windshield and windows. By the time I climb back in, Sam’s playing with the radio, seeming much more like himself.
“I think part of me always thought he’d come backsomeday,” Sam says when we’re not far from his house. “Not because I really wanted him to…but being a single parent is hard on my mom. When I saw him with the pregnant lady, I guess I realized he’s not coming back.”
I nod. “I get that.” I hold back that I think they’re both better off without him.
“I wish Mom could find a better job. It would help if my dad paid child support.” He shrugs when I raise my eyebrow at him. “I overheard her talking to her friend.”
“You need to stop eavesdropping, man.” I shake my head. “The Otters are looking for a new team physiotherapist. I’ll send your mom the details.”
“Yeah?” He looks so hopeful.
