Page 7 of Three Pucking Words
Monsters. Right. Joe mentioned she’d been talking about monsters under her bed at their house. Helen says it started after they watched some animated movie about monsters in school or some weird shit.
“Do you want me to check out the closet to make sure they’re gone?” I ask her.
She looks over her shoulder at the stairs in contemplation before turning back to me with a nod. In as much seriousness as she can muster, she says, “But you need your costume for protection.”
By now, I know exactly what “costume” she’s referring to. Which is why, twenty minutes later, I’m decked out in my old hockey equipment—from my helmet, chest protector, shoulder and elbow pads, down to my shin guards.Just in case, is what Gemma said. Just in case what, you ask? In case the invisible monster tries to kick me in the shins, tackle me to the ground, or hit me on the head with a shoe. Seems reasonable.
Gemma hides behind me as I make my way to her walk-in closet. Helen told me that any girl would be jealous of the space my daughter has for her wardrobe. In hindsight, I guess that means it’s prime real estate for monsters.
I open the door slowly and peak my head inside knowing that my six-year-old is watching carefully. If I don’t do a thorough investigation to ensure there’s nothing here, I can forget abouther having a successful nap this afternoon. Which means no nap for me either, and sleep is high on my priority list right now.
“Hello?” I call into the empty room, looking around at the racks and built-in shelves.
“Be careful, Daddy!” Gemma says from behind me.
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that might just be my favorite. It warms a piece of my chest that’s been a little frozen since Inez’s death. Hell, since probably before then. I’ve never let anybody see that side of me, because it would mar my reputation as the fun-loving, carefree Bodhi Hoffman. But it’s there, lingering on the nights I don’t have something or someone to otherwise occupy my thoughts.
It takes ten minutes for me to do a full sweep of the closet, including the dirty clothes hamper where Gemma insists one of them likes to hide. Once I convince her that there’s nothing hiding in any crack or crevice, I peel off my equipment and swipe a hand through my long, sweaty hair.
“Does this mean its pancake time?” she asks in a perky tone, already forgetting the fear she had over her resident closet monsters.
I can’t help but chuckle as I finish taking off the rest of the equipment. I’m in desperate need of a shower, but I could use a big stack of pancakes before I go about the day. “Yeah, Cookie Monster. Let’s go make some pancakes. I’ll even let you choose the toppings.”
Watching her run out of the room with a squeal of laughter, I smile past the bone-deep exhaustion. Joe is right. Parenting isn’t easy but hearing her giggles echo down the hall makes it all worth it.
*
I should havesaid no to what Coach Erikson asked me to do when he called me into his office yesterday. If I’d known the meeting had nothing to do with the season, I would have made a swift exit to get Gemma sooner instead of listening to his forty-minute spiel that included a lot of unexpected ass-kissing. Coach isn’t really the compliment-giving type, so alarm bells rang when he started off the conversation saying I was a ‘man of good character’ both on and off the ice.
Which is how I ended up driving two hours to the New York Aquarium with a very excited six-year-old prattling on about penguins and otters and seals while I tried not to lose my mind in the backed-up traffic.
All for some estranged daughter I didn’t even know Coachhad. After ten years of playing for his team, I’ve come to know him and his wife pretty well. It’s hard not to when you’re constantly surrounded by the same people at events, games, and dinners. My family doesn’t travel much from my hometown in Vermont, so I’ve been adopted by other families here. And not once did Coach or Sylvia ever mention having a kid.
Correction.
Agrowndaughter.
I didn’t see that one coming.
Just like I didn’t see Coach Erikson asking me to show her around the area to reacquaint her with the city. I’m not sure why he took it upon me to be the welcoming committee to his adult kid when he’d be free today too, but here we are. Because I stupidly agreed to meet up at one of her favorite places to break the ice.
The only positive thing about this is that Gemma loves aquariums. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve taken her to Brooklyn to see the exhibits that don’t change as often as I’d like considering I spend too much time here. She could probably lead her own guided tour throughout every exhibit and spew out the same facts the employees can without thinking twice.
Gemma tugs on my shirt as we stop by the front entrance. “Are we going to see the giant pussy?”
That earns us a few surprised head turns, and a couple amused snickers from the crowd of people passing by.
Clearing my throat, I look down at her. I’m going to kill my best friend, Sebastian, for calling it that in front of her last time we came. Payback will be a bitch when his son Beckham starts repeating every word he hears. “It’s called anoctopus, Gem. And yes.”
“His name is Chuck!” she exclaims to anyone who will listen. But it’s New York, and very few people actually pay attention. It’s one of the nice things about the city. I can walk around and, most of the time, not get recognized. Once in a while somebody will stop and ask for a picture or an autograph, but it’s not as often as people probably think.
I’d like to think that pulling my sandy, shoulder-length hair up into a bun and stuffing it into a Yankee’s baseball cap helps. But I’ve been told the hat and glasses combo doesn’t do much when you’re six-foot-four and built like a brick house on steroids. Apparently, that tends to draw attention—whether it’s from hockey fans or not.
“Can we go in now?” Gemma asks for the tenth time in the last five minutes. “It’s hot.”
Itisabnormally hot for September. The car’s thermometer said it was pushing eighty-five when I looked at it on the way down, which is ten degrees higher than the average this time of year.
“Soon, Cookie Monster. We’re waiting for a friend. Remember? Coach Erikson’s daughter is joining us today. You can tell her all about your favorite animals.”
