I still haven’t mentioned to them that, even though I’ll never play professional hockey, I still love the game and plan to make coaching my career. I’m planning to postpone that conversation for as long as I can.
Every month my parents fly to Vermont from New York. Dad has a pilot’s license and a small Cessna that my parents bought when Dad turned fifty. It’s the one hobby he allows himself to have and it’s good for him. Makes him seem more human when he does something outside of staying in the office for fourteen hours a day, six days a week like a robot whose only energy source is paperwork.
The drive to Burlington from campus takes about forty minutes. I need every last one of those to condition myself for the two hours ahead. I park in front of the restaurant and take a fortifying breath before I get out.
I would love to have a better relationship with my parents, and it’s improved a lot from when I was, say, seventeen. Still, there’s this tension when we meet that shouldn’t be there. We’re all so afraid of a falling-out that we tiptoe around each other, scared of being honest and speaking our minds. It’s exhausting, and I have a feeling we won’t be able to keep it up much longer. Especially since I’m already done with my undergrad. I enrolled in an MBA program per my parents’ requirements, but if all goes according to plan, that degree will just collect dust, and I’ll be able to concentrate on the thing I love—hockey.
I enter the restaurant and the hostess smiles as she leads me to the table where my parents are already waiting for me. They both stand up as I approach.
“Darling.” My mom reaches out her arms and squeezes my hands in hers as we both lean in and kiss each other’s cheeks. I shake my dad’s hand, and we take our seats. I haven’t seen them in a month, but there’ll be no hugs. My parents have never been overly touchy-feely. A pat on the back is as good as a bear hug by my father’s standards.
We leaf through the menus and make small talk until the waiter brings us our meals. So far everything is going just like it always does. We cover my grades (I have a 4.2 GPA, but I could do better). My dad’s job (he wooed himself a new, important client, but things could be going better). My mom’s latest case (she won her client five million dollars, but she could have won more). It’s the running theme in our family, no matter how well you’re doing, you could always try harder, be better, achieve more.
That was also the reason sitting idly was seriously frowned upon when I was a kid. Every school holiday was packed with activities. Every moment of my day was planned. Before I discovered hockey, I felt like a hamster in a wheel, always going, going, going, but since I didn’t particularly enjoy computer camp or Japanese for Beginners, I felt exhausted most of the time. It was an incredible relief when it turned out a hobby I enjoyed existed.
“I sent you an e-mail about a meeting I set up for you. Did you have a chance to familiarize yourself with it?” my dad asks, and just like that, the somewhat pleasant atmosphere is replaced by impending storm clouds.
I place my fork down on my plate and prepare myself. “Yes, I saw it.”
“And?” He leans forward, a hopeful expression on his face. “It’s a two-week internship, and it’s an incredible opportunity for you to make a good impression on several key players in New York. An opportunity like that is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, son.”
What I’m about to say next won’t make me popular in my parents’ household.
“It’s in August,” I say, hoping against hope that it’ll ring a bell for either of them.
“Yes.” Dad looks confused, since he obviously thinks nothing happens in August.
“What about camp?”
“The what?” Even more confusion, but something seems to register. “Oh, the hockey thing,” he finally says.
Here’s the main point of contention between me and my dad. Everything that I’ve worked toward, all those early mornings spent on ice, hours and hours in the gym, training, studying game tape—it’s all reduced down to that hockey thing.
I sigh. They’ll never understand, and they’ll never support it. “Yeah, that hockey thing.”
“Isn’t that for kids?” Mom asks as she takes a sip of her water.
I close my eyes for a moment. “Yes.”
They look at each other, and there are so many unspoken words flying between them that the air is thick with unvoiced thoughts.
“Does…” Mom starts. “Do you know if…” She throws Dad a helpless glance. Mom’s always been the softer of the two. She’s more empathetic and doesn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings if there’s another way. Don’t get me wrong, she absolutely will if she feels it’s warranted, but she prefers a somewhat gentler approach.
“What we want to say is, it’s not exactly like you get paid to be there.” Dad swoops in to save Mom. “It seems silly to throw away this great opportunity on a hockey camp for kids, where you volunteer.”
“They are a great group of kids, and they’re counting on me to be there.” Which my parents would know if they had any interest in my life—the real one and not the one they wish I was living—but they don’t, and I’ve long since given up on the hope that I’ll get them to support me by making a wish on a falling star.
“But this internship would help you make several very important connections,” Dad presses.
“I’ve committed myself to coaching those kids. I can’t just fuck off into parts unknown because my dad found me an internship.” My mom winces at the curse, but I don’t even feel bad about it.
“Don’t you have spares?” My mother, ladies and gentlemen.
“Sounds like a solid plan. I’ll just give my spare coach a call,” I say and try my hardest not to sound too sarcastic. I’m already toeing the line of being disrespectful, but in my defense, she started it.
My dad places his hands on the table and looks at me. “What is this really about? It’s a great opportunity, why do we have to convince you to take it?” He studies me for a few unnerving seconds. “Please tell me you’re still not entertaining this foolish notion of a career in hockey.”
I’m not ready to have this fight, but there doesn’t seem to be much choice. Where is an earthquake when you need one? Or a snowstorm that comes out of nowhere. I should have left my car doors unlocked. Maybe somebody would have stolen it, and I would have a reason to leave.
“It’s my current plan for my future.” I slip the p-word in there to make the dream seem more realistic. After all, plans are achievable, aren’t they?
“I thought we agreed it’s not a smart move,” Mom says, and she seems to believe that all of us have, in fact, acknowledged that I should not pursue my dream.
“You and Dad agreed.”
Mom looks stunned for a moment, as if that’s something she really hadn’t given a second thought to.
“It’s a hobby,” Dad says casually, brushing years of hard work aside like it’s nothing. “It can’t be anything more. Be realistic, Law.” My temper is close to boiling point, so I stuff a large forkful of pasta in my mouth. My plan is to clean the plate as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.
“It’s not just a hobby,” I mumble through a mouthful of food. Mom shakes her head, but she says nothing. It speaks to the gravitas of the situation that bad table manners seem to be the least of her worries.
“Son, you cannot still be entertaining the notion you’ll make a comeback. The doctors were very clear that playing professionally was out.”
I finish the pasta and take a long drink of water. “There are more ways than one to have a hockey career.” I’m proud of how level my voice is.
What my parents don’t get is that I know all the drawbacks they’re dying to lay in front of me. I know the competition for the few available NHL coaching jobs is fierce. I know the statistics, and I know it won’t be a walk in the park with extra time to smell the roses. I also know that, like with a lot of things, you have to start from the bottom and claw your way up. I know there is very little job security, and that a lot of the times
, the pay is shit. It’s fucking backbreaking, hard work, and like it or not, there’s also the component of luck involved. I know all that.
The thing is, some people will make it to the top, and I want to be one of them no matter how narrow the odds. I’m not going to just step aside and be a forty-year-old financial analyst who’s bitter about everything because he lacked the balls to try.
Parents should be proud when their child sets their mind to something and works their ass off to get it, but listening to my mom and dad, it almost feels like they’re embarrassed.
It’s like I’m the only son of a well-off family that has a shameful secret. Might as well face it: hockey is my drinking problem.
I can picture my mom’s friends whispering, Lawrence Anderson, yes. Such a nice boy. Too bad about the… And then they’d mimic hitting a puck. The image is almost enough to make me snicker.
“Don’t gamble your future away on a long shot,” Dad says.
“You took a risk when you started your own company,” I argue. “Why can’t I do the same?”
“The chances of me making a living in finance were much better than yours at hockey. Besides, you won’t have that problem, seeing as you’re going to inherit a successful company,” Dad says.
It is my own fault that Dad still operates under the assumption that I’ll be taking over, since I’ve never just come out and said that I won’t be. Mom and Dad seem to think my grand plan right now is to dabble in hockey a bit, but once the metaphorical college gates fall shut behind me, I’ll come to my senses and give the financial world a chance. Attempting to talk me out of coaching is just their way of trying to speed the process along. Why waste years on a silly game when I could graduate and start my cushy job as Dad’s sidekick, right?
I don’t even know why they’re so insistent on me inheriting the company. It’s not like Dad would retire as soon as I took over the reins. There’s not a chance in hell that is happening. He’ll stay on board until he dies, and even if he takes a tiny step away from the wheel, he’ll still be around, micromanaging and checking my every move.
The two of us working together sounds like a nightmare, even if I had a deep passion for the finance world. I should just come clean.
I don’t want to take over the business, Dad.
There. Is it really that hard? Why yes, yes it is. Otherwise I would have already said the fucking words out loud.
I should just force the words out. Rip the Band-Aid off and be done with it. It’s family, though, and it’s never easy when blood comes into play. Disappointing my parents is not something I want to do. I’d love to be interested in finance. It would make life easier for everybody. Unfortunately, when Mom and Dad combined their DNA, there must have been some sort of an error. How else do you explain that two people who are as unathletic as they come, managed to produce a son who lives and breathes hockey?
So we’re at a stalemate.
Say it. I don’t want the company. Just man up and say it.
I open my mouth… and Dad’s phone rings. I slump back in my chair. Saved by the bell. It’s cowardly as hell, but I’m fucking relieved I can postpone this conversation for at least another month.
Cowardly Lion, thy name is Lawrence Anderson.
“This is unacceptable,” Dad barks into the phone, and it’s the tone Mom and I are well acquainted with. Somebody has screwed up. I’d say I’m sorry for whoever it is, but Dad is actually very reasonable when it comes to work. Depending on the severity of the mistake and if it’s a repeat offender, he’ll either give them another chance or fire them. He’s a fair boss, and even though people complain about the fact that he’s strict and lacks a sense of humor, they respect him. I could never lead the company as well as he does, so really, should it come to that, selling is in everybody’s best interest.
“I’ll be there in a couple of hours,” Dad says. He stands up and starts walking. It takes him a couple of steps before he remembers that a) he wasn’t here alone, and b) he forgot to pay. Mom’s already taken out her purse, and she tries to hold back a smile as our waiter hurries toward us. It always amazes me when she does that. How is that funny that your husband forgot about you because of a business call?
Dad is still distracted as he tries to wrestle his wallet out of his pocket and ends up handing his car keys to the waiter. Mom snatches them back as she gives the guy her credit card. It’s a choreographed dance they’ve performed many times over the years. I leave a big tip to compensate for the mess that our sudden departure causes.
In front of the restaurant, Dad is pacing back and forth as Mom calmly takes the keys of their rental and navigates us all toward the vehicle.
“We’ll see you next month?” she asks as she squeezes my hand in hers. I nod. They climb in the car and I think I’m in the clear, but just as Mom starts the car, Dad lowers his window.
“Read the e-mail,” he says. “I expect you to contact Roy.” He taps his fingers on the edge of the window. “Time to take your future seriously, son, and stop playing around.”
With those parting words, the window rolls up and they take off. Tension has slammed into my body like Thor has put it there with his hammer. The parting shot about me playing around makes my insides vibrate with anger. I’m regretting now that I didn’t say that I don’t want the company. The petty wish to hurt Dad back has taken hold of my insides, so as if in a daze, I pull out my phone to call him and say my piece.
I weigh the phone in my hand before stuffing it back into my pocket. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t answer me, anyway. If there’s a crisis in the office, he’ll be busy handling it for the foreseeable future. There’s also still some reasonable part of my brain that insists that it’s not a conversation to have over the phone. Ugh! Just for once I’d like to turn the logical part of my brain off and act purely on instinct. Too damn bad today is not that day.
It takes a while to work my frustration off at the gym. I’ve been seething and muttering to myself so that everybody in the gym has given me a wide berth. I’m so preoccupied that, by the time I get out of the shower, I realize that I’m late. I’m supposed to meet Andy at my place at four, but it’s already four-fifteen.
“Fuck,” I snap as I quickly pull on a pair of sweats and a hoodie. I grab my bag, and I’m out of here.
On my way, I text Andy before I jump into my car.
I park in my space in front of the apartment I rent in Montpelier. The town is minuscule compared to New York, but I like it. The campus is only ten miles away. Most people prefer to live in the dorms, but I like privacy, so for the last two years, I’ve rented an apartment.
I used to rent a house with my teammates, but now that I’m not playing anymore, it doesn’t feel like an appropriate setup. Living alone has taken some time to get used to, but it’s fine. I’m not lonely, or anything. Plus, I have some serious neat-freak tendencies, and the mountains of beer bottles that littered the counters and living room corners in that house always drove me insane, so living on my own has its advantages.
I grab my bag and hurry inside, half certain that Andy has already left, which would be a huge waste of time for the both of us, since I’d have to track him down again and convince him to help all over again.
But he’s not gone. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall next to my front door, reading a book. His hair is in its usual disarray around his head, curls of it are falling in front of his face, and every once in a while, he brushes it away with his hand. He looks peaceful and nice and I have a sudden urge to sit next to him and just bask in Andy’s presence, where there is no disapproval, expectation, or tension.
I must make some kind of noise because Andy’s head shoots up, and he looks at me. He uses his middle finger to push his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose.
“So you do live here,” he says. “I was starting to think you were pranking me when you gave me the address.”
There’s no anger in his tone. Most people would be pissed at me for be
ing late, or they would already be out of here. Not Andy because, clearly, his mission in life is to be unpredictable. He just closes his book and looks at me expectantly.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say. “I got caught up at the gym.”
I don’t know if it’s imagination or wishful thinking, but Andy’s eyes run over my body, and he seems to like what he sees. I force those thoughts aside. I already have too much on my plate with my parents’ demands and hockey and school.
I like Andy. I like him a lot, but there’s no way I can pursue anything with him. A hook-up would be nice, I admit, but Andy doesn’t seem like the type, and I like him too much to complicate the tentative friendship we’ve got going on with sex.
And then there’s the fact that Andy has a crush on Falcon Asola.
“No worries, I’ve been keeping myself entertained.”
He waves a thick book in my direction. It has so many complicated words in the title that I can’t even begin to guess what it’s about. With his other hand, he points to the biggest bag of candy I’ve ever seen.
“Ooh.” I sit down next to him, not caring that we’re still in my hallway, and make a grab for the bag of candy. “I haven’t had those in forever.”
He scoffs, “Of course you haven’t. You’re an athlete. You guys hate things that make you feel good.”
It’s unexpectedly nice to hear Andy refer to me as an athlete. All my teammates and friends avoid the topic of my short hockey career like they’re afraid I’m going to burst into tears.
Before I can stop myself, I run my eyes over Andy. “Not all good things,” I say and damn if my voice doesn’t sound suggestive. Andy looks startled, but before either of us can really think about what I said, I stand up. “Let’s get inside.”
I reach out my arm. Andy looks at it for a second before he grabs it, and I haul him to his feet. I ignore the tingles that run over my skin as Andy’s palm touches mine. I let go of him as soon as he’s on his feet and turn to unlock the door.
Project Hero Page 6