Page 34 of Forbidden Hockey
A whole bunch of times, maybe.
No. Hell fucking no.
Dash is such a cool, easy-going kid, he’d probably cheer us on and help us plan the wedding. But I can’t let my morals hinge on what my son is okay with. I’m not okay with it.
There’s always the other option: stay far, far away from him.
Yeah, that’s never happening. Think I’m a wreck now? I’d be twice the wreck. Wondering what he’s up to. Who he’s up to stuff with. I might take up a stalking hobby. My hands clench just thinking about him gone. Away from me. When he goes away for the season, that’s hard enough, but at least I know he’s coming back.
The pencil in my hand snaps, one half of it flies across the room, landing by the door. I slam the other half down on the desk. Fuck that pencil. The only reason I have pencils in the first place is because Dirk said if I wasn’t gonna use the “World’s Best Dad” mug Dash got me for drinking coffee, it should have something in it. The pencils were kind of a joke, because I don’t use those either, and I won’t have to replace them. It’s just a shrine. Something I look at when I want to assure myself I’m not the worst father in existence.
For some reason, Dash thinks I’m great, and that’s all that really matters. I’m … I’m his hero. That’s not a self-proclamation; he’s said that. Multiple times. But I must have the worst case of imposter syndrome on the planet, because every time he does, I feel like I’ve pulled off the greatest con in history. Dash means it with all his heart, and I don’t feel worthy of the title Dad, let alone hero.
My dad wasn’t great either, so I’ve been doing the best I can to conjure up dad-like energy and wisdom. But I have no barometer. Sure, my dad fed me and kept a roof over my head, but he worked me to the bone. We lived on a farm until he lost it, so I was up at the ass crack of dawn, before school, feeding animals while he slept in. I had little time for doing homework after school, because there were more chores. I was thirteen when we moved to the trailer park that had seen better days, but you could still feel the grit of survival threaded into every dull blade of grass in the place. People hung string lights at Christmas and invited sorry kids like me over for hot meals. Some of my favorite memories are of me sitting around an illegal bonfire, drinking hot apple cider to keep my hands warm, listening to music drifting from Mrs. Novak’s old radio out of the window of her metal-walled trailer. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I’m there, studying the cracks and the pattern of caked-on mud with Frank Sinatra singing in the background.
In addition to finding ways to earn money so I could support dad’s drinking habit, I offered my services to the elderly folk who’d lost their mobility, patching holes, cooking them meals.
But “finding work” led me to the biker brotherhood I eventually became a full-fledged member of. A mostly petty crime organization, but crime is crime. That was the beginning of the end for me. Did I ever stand a fucking chance?
The door opens without a knock. I jolt. Dirk was the only one in the restaurant last I checked. The prep cooks aren’t even here yet. I should be out there helping him, but I’m pretending to do “important office work”.
“Coffee delivery,” Dash says. He sets the paper cup on one of the “I love Dad” coasters he got me for Father’s Day a couple of years back. Supposed to go with the mug. My desk has long been destroyed, and a coaster ain’t helping it at his point, but his thoughtfulness brings me a homey sort of joy. I hate how little time we had together before he became old enough to move out, but I love that he’s healed well enough to have a successful adulthood.
Dash was taken by his mother’s boyfriend just after she died. I didn’t save him. All my resources, all my connections didn’t do shit. He had to save himself. No therapy in existence is gonna heal that wound for me—believe me, I’ve tried. I fucked up by not being there, and he had to pay for it. I’ll never forgive myself for that.
“Perfect timing. Was just finishing this cup,” I say, swiping up the still-full mug Dirk gave me and opening my throat to chug it all in one go. Fuck that burns, but no way am I letting Dashie down, even if it’s from the simple disappointment that I already had a cup of coffee on the go.
Dash beams. “You’re welcome, Dad. Sorry Stace and I are a few minutes late.”
My eyes flick to the time. He’s twenty minutes past the time he said he’d be here. He could have been two hours late, and I would have said the same thing.
“You look right on time to me, bud.”
He laughs. “Thank you, nepotism.” He makes himself comfortable in the leather chair on the other side of the desk, taking a sip of his coffee. “So, you ready for your trip to see your friends?”
I take a trip every summer up north on my bike. Only they’re not just friends, they’re “brothers” from the club. Guys I keep far away from Dash. But they like to keep an eye on me, and I like tokeep an eye on them, so it’s understood—expected—that I spend time up there once a year.
It usually ends up being a good time with only a few bumps and bruises—literal bruises—along the way. Dash doesn’t know they’re actively involved in criminal activity. It’s better that way.
Safer.
And the odd time I’ve needed a dire favor, it’s nice to have them in my back pocket.
A mandatory “one-time per year” visit was the best deal I could manage. You don’t get out of a biker family unless you’re dead. The shit I had to do to arrange the deal I have now… I’m lucky. I keep my promise, and they keep theirs to leave me and my son be.
“Yep. You know I’m a light packer.”
He nods, sipping more coffee. “And I really can’t come with you?”
Some summers Dash asks to come with me, some he doesn’t. Either way, it means more than he lets on. Having to leave before I can figure it out only twists the knife of guilt—he needs me, and I’m leaving.
But staying isn’t an option. They let me off the hook one summer, the first one I got Dash back after the Robin incident, but that was a special consideration I had to get permission for. I don’t ask unless it’s critical. Thank god for Stacey Alderchuck. He’ll take good care of my boy until I get back.
“Only if you’re okay with adult stuff,” I say, using a suggestive tone on the word adult to imply that it means I’ll be having all kinds of sex. It’s the best way I know to put him off wanting to come.
“Ew, okay. Nope.”
See? Easy.
