Page 120 of Stick It
Closing my eyes, I work to do the same now. He might no longer be out on the ice but that doesn’t mean he can’t still be here with me. That he wasn’t watching his team from the sidelines, a spectator much like myself.
My father and hockey are synonymous. I used to believe you couldn’t have one without the other. Without my father, there could be no hockey. But now, hockey is the only tether I have left to him. Not just playing hockey, but watching it, talking about it. It’s how I keep the memory of him alive, especially because I’ve worked so hard to separate myself from his legacy. I can’t talk about him directly for fear that it will raise unwanted questions, but I can talk about the thing he loved most in the world—after me and my mother.
I snap my eyes open at the sound of the door opening. Alittle girl comes running in, wearing a Timberwolves jersey, and her dark hair neatly styled in pigtails. She rushes straight over to the sinks, stretching onto her tiptoes to reach the tap before sticking a stuffed wolf toy under the stream of water.
“Oh, I don’t know if he’s supposed to get wet.” I cringe as the water seeps into the toy’s fur. I have the same stuffed animal in my bedroom at my parents’ house, so I know they are cheaply made, mass-produced, and I have no idea how they hold up against water.
Seemingly unbothered, the little girl looks up at me through the mirror. Still drowning her wolf beneath the water, she grins at me. “Hi.”
The door flies open behind us, bouncing off the tiled walls with a crack as a red-haired woman marches in, wearing the same jersey as the little girl. “Aurora,” she says in exasperation. “What have I told you about running off.”
“But, Mommy,” the little girl argues. “Wolfie got sticky. He needed a bath.”
“And you should have waited for me to come with you, not gone off on your own.” The woman approaches her daughter, grimacing when she spots the soaking wet soft toy before taking it from her daughter’s hand and attempting to salvage the situation.
Aurora immediately turns her attention to me. “Are you a Timb-a-wolves fan?” I smile at her inability to say Timberwolves. I’m guessing she’s maybe four or five and hasn’t quite figured out how to get her mouth around the word yet.
“I am.” I gesture toward her jersey. “I’m guessing you are too.”
She nods emphatically. “My daddy is on the team.” She turns around so I can see the name Astor written across the back.
“Your dad is Logan Astor?”
She practically beams with pride. “Yup. Well, one of them, but my other two daddies don’t play hockey.”
“Oh.” I honestly don’t know what to say to that. Is this little girl telling me she’s got three dads? I mean, obviously, biologically, she doesn’t. Is one of them her biological dad, and then the other two are…what, exactly?
My gaze slides to her mother.
“Really, Aurora,” the woman sighs. “This poor woman doesn’t want to know the complicated state of our family.”
Except, if it’s what I think it might be—that this woman iswiththree different men—I really,reallydo.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, before holding out my hand toward her. “I’m Dylan.”
Her returning smile is friendly. “I’m Riley, and this is Aurora.”
“My daddy really is Logan,” Aurora interjects, her bottom lip pushing out in a pout. “People don’t believe me sometimes when I tell them.”
I crouch down in front of the little girl. “Well, I believe you. My daddy used to be a Timberwolf too.”
Her eyes go wide. “He did?”
“Yup. In fact, he played alongside your daddy. I even remember meeting your dad after one of their games. He seemed like a pretty cool guy.”
“He is. He’s the best,” she says with such love and enthusiasm. “But not more than my other daddies. They areallthe best.”
I chuckle. “I bet they are.”
She tilts her head to one side, thoughtful. “Your daddy doesn’t play anymore?”
My responding smile is soft. Sad. “Not anymore. He, uh, retired.”
Glancing up at her mother, she asks, “What does that mean?”
When I follow her gaze, I find Riley watching me, before a knowing look enters her eyes. “Your dad was Patrick?”
I swallow before nodding. “He was.”
