Page 22 of The Best Parts of Him
When the parents and guardians arrived, Dabbs spent time speaking with them and taking yet more photos. When one of his childhood friends greeted him with a hug, her son gaped at her with eyes the size of serving plates.
“Mom. You know Kyle Dabbs?”
Hailey pretended to dust lint off her shoulders. “You just gave me cool status in my son’s eyes,” she told Dabbs. “Thanks for that.”
“I’m here to serve.”
Later, once everyone had left, Dabbs wandered the halls of the arena, nostalgia hitting him square in the chest. He’d had good times here as well as bad. At the time, it had felt like the bad outweighed the good, and it was only because of Pete that he’d kept going.
He stopped at a display showcasing years’ worth of trophies, medals, and team photos behind a glass partition. Among the pictures was a team photo with a placard that read Silver Medalists, with the year listed underneath. And there, in the second row of that photo, was Dabbs.
He wasn’t smiling. Silver medalist, yet he hadn’t had anything to smile about, not after his dad had swung his hockey stick against the side of the building—repeatedly—after the tournament, reducing it to nothing but tinder.
“Silver,” Dad had growled, red-faced and panting. “Silver? Why am I paying for you to play hockey if you can’t make the cost worth it by winning gold?”
“That was a good game.” Pete stepped up beside him, jerking Dabbs out of the past, and nodded at the picture. “You scored the only goal with seconds left in the third.”
“I remember,” Dabbs said.
He remembered all of it, almost too vividly. Remembered that they’d been losing 2–0, and he hadn’t wanted to lose without at least putting up one goal for his team. Remembered, clearly, making the decision to shoot, even though his angle was terrible. Remembered the shock that the puck had actually made it past the goalie, the euphoria that had made him dizzy, the mingled disappointment and pride that they’d won second place.
Remembered, too, his dad marching him outside—still in his skates—and destroying his hockey stick as he railed at him.
And then, two days later, his mom packing him and his sisters up and moving them into her parents’ place.
Dabbs hadn’t had much contact with his dad after that, but ten years living with the man had made him acutely aware of the power of words.
He looked at Pete and said, “I would’ve quit after that game if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Nah.”
“Yes. I came by with my mom a few days after the spring tournament. Remember? I was going to tell you that I wanted to withdraw from the summer program. But before I could, you told me that you were proud of me. That I’d played a great game and that the other players looked up to me because I was so dedicated.” Dabbs swallowed past the inconvenient lump in his throat. “You told me that you were looking forward to seeing me in your summer program.”
It had been everything he’d hoped to hear from his parents. But after his dad’s tantrum, his mom had never had the chance to comment on his second-place win, not until he’d told her he was quitting.
The look on her face . . . it was like he’d physically punched her. She’d tried to talk him out of it—“Are you sure, sweetheart? You’re so good, and you love it so much.”—but in the way of pre-teens everywhere, he hadn’t believed a word she’d said.
Until his coach had told him he was proud of him.
“Then you gave my mom a pamphlet. Mental health resources for youth, you said. And without those resources, without being assigned a therapist, I never would’ve had the confidence to keep going, or to try to go pro.” He bumped Pete’s shoulder with his own. “So when I tell you I wouldn’t be here without you, I mean it.”
“Well, I . . . ” Eyes glassy, Pete cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. “I like to think that I treat my players the way I’d treat my own kids if I had any. But don’t discount yourself, either. I may have played a part, but you’re the reason you got to where you are today.”
“That’s only half true, but I’ll let you believe that if that’s what you need.”
Pete chuckled. “What are you going to do with the cup now?”
“I’m taking it home for the rest of the day. Join us. My sister texted to say they have pizza and wine.”
“Nah. You enjoy your family time.” Pete clapped Dabbs on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind another sip of 7Up from it before you leave, though.”
Laughing, Dabbs led him down the hall.
“Take a picture of me pretending to climb into the cup.” Penny, Dabbs’ youngest sister, handed their stepdad her phone. “Okay, okay. Now take a picture of me pretending to be the cup.” She stood next to it, hands by her sides, staring straight ahead.
“You’re a dumbass,” was Nicole’s opinion on that. As the middle sibling, she took her job as blunt truth-teller very seriously. “Kyle, get over here.” She grabbed him by the wrist, hauling him up from the living room couch, and, much like the North Bay Nugget reporter, posed him next to the cup. She snuggled into his side and took a selfie of the three of them—him, her, and the trophy.
Then she opened Instagram.
