Page 51 of Cross-Checked

“My parents weren’t...terrible to him. They didn’t abandon him; they were just neglectful. I was a senior in high school when my mom got pregnant, and it was obviously not planned. They’d always wanted more kids, but by that point, they’d long ago accepted that it wasn’t going to happen. And then it did. I missed most of his early years because I was at college...”

“Too busy captaining a championship hockey team?” His voice is teasing. This isn’t something we’ve ever talked about, so the fact that he knows I was the captain of my two-time NCAA winning women’s hockey team means he’s looked into it.

“But I moved back to St. Louis when I graduated so I could be closer to my family. I didn’t want to not have a relationship with my little brother. That’s where I coached a D1 women’s team while getting my MBA,” I say, thinking about how back then, there was no path for women playing hockey beyond college, so I moved into coaching and earned that business degree so that eventually I could get into the management side of the sport. “And as busy as I was, I still managed to spend exponentially more time with Nicholas than my parents did. I was absolutely appalled at how he almost didn’t exist in their lives.”

“How’s that possible?”

“They just left him with a nanny all the time while they went about their lives. International travel, full days of golf followed by dinner at the country club, weekends away...he was never part of any of it.”

When I glance over at him, his eyes are full of sympathy. Normally, I hate the thought of anyone feeling sorry for me or my brother. But with McCabe, it feels maybe more like empathy—like he can relate, somehow. Not because his parents were neglectful, but because he lost them when he was still so young.

He turns onto his side, elbow bent so he can prop his head up and stare down at me with that intense green gaze. “Was it like that when you were younger too?”

“No...my mom was never super maternal. All she ever wanted to do with me was take me shopping, go to high tea at fancy hotels, go to brunch at the country club, that type of thing. But I was never interested in any of that. I had much more in common with my dad. He spent every spare minute with me, shaping me into the hockey playing son he wished he’d had...”

McCabe’s low rumble of laughter shakes the whole bed, and when I dip my eyebrows in confusion over his response, he says, “Sorry.” His eyes slip down my body and then back up to my face. “I just have trouble imagining you as someone’s son.”

“You know what I mean. It was no secret that my dad wanted a boy, so I put tremendous energy into connecting with him in the same ways he’d have connected to a son. It’s probably the only reason we had a relationship.”

What I don’t say is that it took me years of therapy as an adult to finally realize that my compulsive need to be the best at everything stems from the years of trying to live up to what my dad wanted me to be—which was someone else.

I got lucky in that I really did develop a true love of hockey, but I do sometimes wonder who I’d be if I hadn’t been trying so hard to fit a mold of someone else’s creation.

Maybe I’d be the same me, but maybe I’d be someone entirely different?

“He wasn’t like that with Nicholas, though?”

My single shot of laughter is bitter. “No, once he finally got the son he’d always wanted, it was like he was no longer interested in being a dad. He was more like a grandpa...the kind that spends all day on the golf course with friends, but comes by for dinner and slips you a twenty-dollar bill as he pats you on the head on his way back out the door.”

He lets out ahumphthat’s half laugh, half contemplation. “I guess I just don’t have any experience with parents who are so rich they spend all day shopping and on the golf course. What did your parents do for work?”

“My mom’s family owned one of the largest department store chains in the Midwest, and my parents inherited it and then sold it for a fortune right before the advent of online shopping.” The whole company went bankrupt within a few years after the sale, but my parents and their shareholders made out like banditsbefore its demise. I’d like to think I get my business sense from my dad, who saw which way the wind was blowing and made a calculated decision.

“So they were what . . . retired by the time Nicholas was born?”

“I guess I’d say they were so independently wealthy that work wasn’t really a consideration. At that time, I was working hard to carve my own path. I probably should have taken over caring for him when I finished my MBA, but I was too focused on getting my foot in the door in hockey. I don’t know how I would have managed also being a mom to him.”

“Howdidyou end up making the switch from coaching a women’s college team to working in the NHL?”

I bite the inside of my cheek as I study his face, only a foot or so from mine. His voice is soft and coaxing, and it hits me that either he really doesn’t know, or he wants to know if the rumors are true. And suddenly knowing which one makes all the difference.

“What have you heard?” I whisper.

He presses his lips together, then twists them to the side like he’s deep in thought. I don’t know if it’s because he’s trying to remember, or trying to decide how—or what—to tell me.

“Only the shit Chet said when he was running his mouth.”

Fire runs through my blood at the thought of my ex-husband talking about me to his players. “Yeah? What did he say?”

“You were there.” He reaches over, resting his forearm along my breastbone as he cups the side of my face in his hand.

Ohhh, so that time in the hallway.

“He said a lot of shit that day.” I focus on my breathing, because it’s still hard not to be upset when I think about everything that happened—everything that changed—in those few minutes in that hallway.

“If I remember correctly, he said you slept your way into your position.”

“Ah, yes. One of his favorite lines.” I roll my eyes to hide how much that still hurts.

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