Page 97 of From Ice to Home
A few seconds later, the screen goes black and I press the phone to my ear. I can hear my dad settle into the creaky kitchen chair he’s had for over a decade.
“Son,” he says, his voice more settled. “This is much better. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Just wanted to talk,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I was thinking that I’d send you and Noah a couple tickets for the final game.”
There’s a pause, like he’s bracing himself for the weight of my request.
“Everything here is busy,” he says finally, the usual excuse wrapped in a layer of discomfort. “We’re short-handed, as always.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Heavenly Father, please. Help me be patient. Help me handle this with grace. I know he loves us. I know he’s tired. I know he’s facing pride and disappointment and he’s human, which means he’s broken just like all of us. But please…help him meet me halfway.
“I get that, Dad. I really do. But this…this doesn’t happen all the time. We could win the Stanley Cup. It’s the first time in years the Rangers are in the finals.”
He exhales, slow and heavy. I decide to push a little more.
“Hannah’s family will be coming too. I want all of you to stay with us in Westchester, we’ve got more than enough room here at the house.”
There’s a few seconds of silence, and it’s like I can see what’s going through my dad’s mind. I’ve known him with my mom and I’ve known him without her. And after her death, it’s like his stubborn streak quadrupled. He wants to come. But he doesn’t want to say it.
“Maybe Noah could come up with them then,” he says, proving me right. “He’s been working hard. Might be good for him to get away. Besides, I know Pastor Mark will keep an eye on him over there.”
I sigh, rubbing my eyes. I lean back on the couch, staring at the ceiling for a beat, debating whether or not to give in or to keep pushing. To be honest with him.
“I want both of you,” I say, my voice a little tighter than before. “Please.”
He sighs but doesn’t say anything and I know it’s because he’s thinking again. Cal Walker is weighing and measuring, like he always does.
“I want you here. You and Noah. Not just for the game, but for everything. I want you to see what my life looks like up here, what it looks like with Hannah in it.”
The silence from the other end of the phone is deafening.
And then…
”I saw what your life looked like with her in it,” he mutters, his voice laced with anger. “For two years. Then I saw what it looked like when she left.”
I can’t ignore the sting of his words.
“I know you think she broke me after school,” I say, not trying to be defensive, just honest. “And maybe I was a bit broken for a while. But she didn’t make me leave, Dad. That was me. That was always me.”
He grunts before silence stretches between us. I know my dad. He doesn’t like being pushed. But sometimes if you just leave him some room, he’ll meet you halfway.
“It’s not easy, Luke,” he finally says. “Being proud and bitter at the same time. Watching you do good out there and still feeling like I’m losing something. Every time you skate onto that ice, I wonder if you’ll ever be back home again.”
I blink hard, still looking up at the ceiling. I didn’t think he watched me play at all.
“I will,” I promise. “Not yet, but one day I’ll be back. That’s always been my plan.”
He clears his throat, a deep, gravelly sound I’ve heard my whole life.
“I still don’t like the city. The people. The noise,” he says. “All the screaming is too much.”
I smile a little. “You’ll survive, Dad. Besides, out here it’s a lot quieter. A lot like home.”
Another sigh, but this time it sounds like something is loosening.
“I’ll think about it,” he finally says. “I’m not making any promises. But I’ll think about it.”
