Page 81 of Pucked Up

His eyes lit up, and then he shook his head. “But if another team?—”

“Ford.” He went quiet. “I will hear any and every offer that comes through. But I want to stay near you too. This is my home. It might not last forever. I’ll probably get traded, but for now, it’s a good start.”

“So the offer was good?”

I felt elation rising in my chest, and I tried to stamp it down because nothing was official and wouldn’t be for a while. But I couldn’t help myself. The offer was for me—because of me. Because of my skills and my talent. Not because my father pulled some strings. Not because Hugo called in some favor.

I grinned. “The offer was good.”

Ford jumped up and clapped his hands once. “Amazing. Okay. Protein. Non-dick-related protein.”

“Please just go.”

He turned on his heel, and I sagged back in my chair with a heavy breath. As I sat there, I noticed a few people staring. It probably had everything to do with my father, and that became obvious when he finally made his way to my table.

“Mon fils.”

I hated when he called me that. “My son,” like he was some Mafia don inviting me to kiss his ring. I had a fucking name.

“Papa. Sorry I was late.”

He took Ford’s abandoned chair and started speaking as he looked away from me. I didn’t catch up until he turned back to me and said, “…too busy to realize. But I’m glad you made it.”

Ah, yes. Of course. Too busy for me, like always.

It was the thought of a petulant adolescent who had just realized that his very existence was a disappointment to his father. And no amount of therapy would ever cure me of those feelings. I could only let myself have them, breathe through it, and move on.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

“Mm? Oh, I will in a bit. Ford’s getting me something.”

He nodded, shifting uncomfortably. I knew being around so many people with so many very visible disabilities was a struggle for him. It was a reminder that we existed—that we were demanding space in the world of pro sports. And that for all the hard work he’d done to create a hockey legacy, I had come out like this.

Different than him and very much myself.

“Well, I can’t stay long,” he started, because of course. “I just wanted to talk to a couple of people. I have some numbers for you, actually. If you want me to pass them along, I’m sure they’d be willing to talk contracts.”

“I’m good for now.”

“Boden, crisse, can you just?—”

“I have three offers,” I told him. “Three good ones.”

His eyes lit up. “Anyone I know?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “None of them mentioned you. But we can talk about that later. I know you’re busy. Someone over there is trying to get your attention.”

He straightened and looked behind him, his eyes lighting up. “Ah, Franco. Yes. Of course. See you soon.” He stood up, bent over slightly, hesitated, then clapped me on the shoulder before making his way across the room.

I fought the urge to take out my hearing aids just to add some physical silence to the metaphorical one that was threatening to suffocate me. I wanted to get up and go after him. To demand to know why he couldn’t just accept me for who I was, but we’d had that fight before.

I would accuse, he would deny.

And I knew for a fact that even setting my sled on PPHL ice, that wouldn’t change. It would never be enough. There wasn’t a resolution to be had. There would never be a lightbulb moment where he realized that I was a whole person who existed, happy and content in the body I was given.

Even if I hoisted the cup over my shoulders, I would be doing it sat on my ass, not on my feet.

So there was no point in bothering to try and change his mind. I would always care, but as my therapist said, I needed to move through it, not get stuck, and it was time to start following her advice.

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