Page 81 of An Irresistible Force (Vancouver Vice)

“No, she’s Irish, well, her mother was.”

He added milk and sugar. “I never thought our moms would have anything in common. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks—practically right next to the tracks.”

It was odd that he would want to discuss families when it was clear that something big was troubling him. But Chris deflected personal questions, so hearing him share anything was unusual.

“You grew up in Winnipeg, right?”

He nodded. He picked up a cookie, raised it to his mouth, and then lowered it without taking a bite. “Yeah. I grew up in Transcona. My parents are still there. I offered to buy them a new house, but they didn’t want that. So, I got them a cabin instead. My dad likes to go out in the boat and fish on weekends.”

“That’s nice of you.” My comment sounded lame, but this conversation was so weird.

“Not really. My parents made a ton of sacrifices so that I could play hockey. My dad worked for the railway, and it wasn’t like we had lots of money.” He looked around the room, and the comparison in his mind was clear. “I wish I could do more for them, but my dad’s a stubborn guy.”

I nodded. “That’s something else we have in common.” Or had. Sometimes it seemed like my father’s personality was so strong that he still existed—if not in body then in spirit.

I sipped my tea. Tea always tasted better at home, made in the lovely old china teapot. Chris was quiet again, for so long that it became awkward. His masculine presence filled the room. I felt a tension deep inside me—something nobody else had ever stirred. Like everything boiled down to this elemental male/female dynamic.

“So,” I began. “You were near here?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I went to visit Millionaires’ Mansion—after this dinner event.”

A terrible idea struck me. “Not Noah?”

Chris’s eyes met mine. He looked older and tired. “Yeah. I went to see him, and he was—gone.”

There was so much pain in his voice that I instinctively jumped up, sat beside him, and wrapped my arms around him. “Oh no. No.”

He buried his head into my shoulder. Now the words came pouring out. “It’s so wrong. So stupid. He’s only fifteen years old. The kid was incredible.” Chris clung to me and kept talking. “It just happened this afternoon. I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t notice. He’d been getting more and more tired, and when I came to see him, he was usually asleep. But he’s just a kid. I thought he could get better....”

I hugged him and stroked his hair. The familiar scent of him and the solid feel of his body filled me with longing, but my empathy trumped all that. “I know. It’s so tragic when it’s a child.”

He pulled away and pushed a hand through his thick hair again. “You’re going to think I’m an idiot, but—”

I interrupted him; I hated his self-deprecation. “No. I never think you’re an idiot.”

He waved me off. “I mean, I know it’s a hospice and that means the kids are terminal. I’ve been going there for years, but it was always during the season. We’d all go there, distribute some gifts, and get our photos taken. Then we’d get back to hockey—maybe a road trip or maybe just the regular grind. Next time we’d go, most of the kids would be different. But I knew that they sometimes came here for treatments and then went home. Just like you don’t expect to see the same kids every time you go to the B.C. Children’s Hospital. And that’s what’s stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” I repeated. “You were busy, and it wasn’t something you thought through.”

“But I should have. I got to see the kids when they were happy. We were a big deal. I should have known that there was this whole other side. It wasn’t until this fall, when I started going regularly that I understood more how stuff worked.”

He took a deep breath in. Even with the slack expression on his face, he was still so handsome. But tonight, he seemed completely vulnerable and open. His easy confidence was tossed aside, and I could see the real Chris.

“I figured that now that I was in Vancouver all the time, I could do more to help out. But I can see I’ll become a has-been soon. The young kids can’t watch me on TV anymore, so I’ve got a year or two to make a difference.”

I shook my head. “That’s so untrue. I’m nobody and I’ve helped kids. When I was teaching, it never mattered who I was—only that I care and I have knowledge to pass on.”

He smiled faintly. “But you have knowledge to pass on.”

“Who could know more than you about hockey?”

“Hockey’s not important to kids trying to keep walking. Anyway, this shit doesn’t matter. I’ll help out this year and next year, then I’ll do something else.” His mouth settled into a straight line. “But Noah was different. He was older. Kid had an attitude. He told me, ‘I’m not a cute kid anymore. Not your leukemia poster boy. If you wanna raise money, don’t put me in the ad.’“ When Chris quoted Noah, his expression lightened a little. “He knew hockey and knew me. He used to play before he got sick. It’s stupid but when we talked, it mattered that I was me. We joked that we were both retired from the game.”

He fell silent and clasped his hands together. I put my hand on top of both of his and felt the unexpected softness of his skin.

Finally, Chris began talking again. “I used to encourage his parents to take a break when I got there. They weren’t from Vancouver, so they didn’t have a ton of friends or family here. At first, I just shot the shit with Noah. But later—once he got that he could trust me—he told me stuff he couldn’t tell his mom and dad.”

“Like what?” I sensed that Chris wanted to get these things out.

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