The kids shuffle along the ice with their hockey sticks, banging into each other and falling.
“Move your legs! Move your legs!” Mark yells from the stands. He smacks the glass so hard it rattles, urging his son, Connor, to skate harder. “C’mon, Connor!” When Mark was seven, he was already skating with the nine-year-olds, terrorizing them with swift feints and a deft scoring touch. “Mark’s a natural,” Coach St. Clair used to say. “He can go as far as he wants to take it.”
As Mark shouts, he looks down the row of seats to a blonde in a powder blue jacket, knit hat with pompom, and snow boots. His ex-wife, Kendra, glares at him with an ice-melting stare because he’s hectoring their son and Mark has drifted within 50 feet of her, a violation of his restraining order.
Randi, Kendra’s friend in a puffy down parka and ski hat, gets up and approaches Mark. “Hi, Mark. I guess you didn’t see Kendra’s text message.”
Mark grabs his phone from his jacket pocket. “Nope. I was too busy watching practice.”
“Kendra asked me to ask you to tone it down. She thinks you’re putting too much pressure on Connor.”
“Well, Randi, tell Kendra this—” He flashes his middle finger at her.
“Look, Mark.” Randi lets out a long sigh. “I’m just the messenger.”
“I know. That’s for Kendra. If she’d stop coddling Connor, he’d be skating at least one level up by now.” Mark turns and watches the kids collide like bumper cars. “He needs a little push.” Mark never needed any prodding; his dad had to drag him off the ice crying. Then, there were the broken shingles on the garage from pucks hitting the wall. His dad was always building protection for the house to keep pucks and sticks from damaging it. When he was 11, he hip-checked his father into the wall, leaving a divot in the sheetrock. His father was so proud of him he didn’t complain about having to patch the hole.
“Got it,” says Randi. She trundles back to Kendra and sits beside her, their heads bobbing in conversation.
Mark pounds the glass again when Connor falls chasing a puck in the corner but remembers Kendra so he jams his hands in his jacket pockets as if they are handcuffs. This is such bullshit.
***
Mark turns the key in his office door with a small plastic sign indicating Assistant Rink Manager. It’s bigger than a broom closet with no windows and papers scattered on the desk. Tacked to a corkboard on the wall is a calendar of hockey and figure skating events scribbled on it. Hockey gear hangs from a wooden coat rack, and his skates perch on a boot dryer in the corner.
He bends over to tie his shoes and feels the titanium screws holding his ankle together. His minor league career and a chance at the NHL were gone faster than a speeding puck. Mark pulls a warm beer from deep in the back of the desk drawer, locks the office door, and yanks the tab. The office is Mark’s tiny cave, where he can unwind, relive his glory days, or space out. He rubs the palms of his hands over his face, from the stubble on his chin to the thickened patch of scar tissue on his forehead, as if it will scrub away the memories.
***
It was over in a millisecond, and Mark knew it was bad when he crashed into the boards. The trainer and his winger, Donny, helped him off the ice as he hung like damp laundry between their shoulders, teetering on one leg. Both teams tapped their sticks on the ice and boards, acknowledging Mark. The rink door to the dark corridor leading to the locker room boomed shut with finality. Bye-bye, dream. Hello, Toradol painkiller nightmare.
The surgery was bad enough, but the rehab trying to get back to where he’d been was brutal. Doctors prescribed those little white pills by the fistful and he didn’t know how he would have gotten by without them. It was an open secret: a Toradol, maybe with a beer chaser and you’d be back on the ice.
***
The beer tastes so good Mark downs two more in short order, crushing the cans and hiding them in his hockey bag. He makes his way to the Zamboni and fires it up to resurface the ice now that the last league game is over. It’s his favorite time of day: a deserted rink with only a few overhead lights on. The ‘Zam’ roars onto the ice and Mark sets another beer in the temporary cup holder he’s rigged. He loves the sheen the Zam lays down, each crack filling with hot water, freezing, and melding into a seamless surface, and the reflection of his face on the Plexiglas as he zips by. He sees fans in the seats cheering for him, and then they are gone, the gray seats upright and empty. As he rounds the corners, his thoughts return to Connor’s hockey practice, and Kendra’s admonition not to push the kid. Total bullshit! His foot presses down on the accelerator.And that restraining order—So embarrassing.
The ice glistens and Mark heads toward the open rink doors where the Zam is garaged. He’s moving too fast and not aligned with the opening. There are no brakes on a Zam and his only recourse is to lift his foot off the pedal. Too late! The Zam crashes into the doors, snapping the hinges off, cracking a sheet of Plexiglas, and mashing the front of the Zam. Mark is thrown forward on the top of the Zam and lies spread-eagle on the hood.
***
Roger, the rink manager, calls Mark into his office. “Looks like you took the exit ramp too fast last night.” He moves his coffee cup to the side of the paper desktop calendar blotter and sloshes coffee on it. “Dammit. Today keeps getting worse. Anything you want to share about last night’s shit show?”
“I guess I let my mind wander while I was driving,” Mark says.
“Did this have anything to do with it?” Roger holds up an empty beer can. “I found it wedged on the Zam floor after the crash.”
Mark was so distraught after the Zam, he forgot about the can. This was getting ugly. He was tired of screwing up. Last time, he wound up in Intimate Partner Violence counseling, aka IPV, after pinning Kendra to their apartment wall by her neck.
***
The IPV group had seven people sitting in a circle on plastic chairs. Mark looked at the firefighter, carpenter, school teacher, and others—including one woman. None of them seemed like they’d beat their spouses. They were probably looking at him wondering the same thing. He listened to several of their stories, initially thinking it all seemed so contrived. As their tales unspooled about prioritizing their needs and maintaining power and control of the relationship, Mark had an uncomfortable feeling they were describing him. He tried to ignore the rock in his stomach weighing him down as he fought the notion he was like these people with no self-control.
Their therapist, a Hispanic guy named Martin, turned to Mark, “How about you? Anything you’d like to add?”
Mark shifted in his chair. “This is all a bit new to me so I’m not sure where to start.”
“Wherever you feel comfortable,” Martin said.
“In hockey,” Mark said, “the coaches always preached, “‘Don’t do anything dumb when the game is on the line. Well, I did something stupid, and now I’m sitting here.”
The firefighter looked at Mark and said, “Hey, you’re that hockey player, right? I knew you looked familiar. I used to watch you play. You were amazing.”
“Thanks. Hockey was easy—.” Mark shakes his head. “It’s life that’s complicated.” Mark wondered if he was capable of keeping his shit together outside the rink. As soon as Kendra dialed 911 and told the dispatcher, “My husband choked me,” it was game over.
Two police cars with flashing blue lights screamed down the street. The cops knew Mark—the town’s local hero—but they couldn’t resist teasing him: “Looks like you’re headed to the penalty box until we get this sorted out.” The neighbors watched as handcuffs snapped on Mark’s wrists and he was shoved into the police car smelling like someone puked in it an hour ago. He was embarrassed and frightened by this bizarre demon who unpredictably emerged from a dark cave. Mark never intended to get physical with Kendra. Was it the Toradol or alcohol? Or scariest of all: was he a selfish asshole? Mark’s manacled hands brushed a tear away on the way to the station.
***
“I guess this isn’t the only beer you had last night.” Roger tosses the can in the garbage with a loud Thunk! and sighs.
Mark purses his lips and nods his head.
“Thought so,” Roger says. “In the old days, you’d be out on your ass looking for work. I chatted with HR, and you’re getting suspended for 30 days and I have to put you on a performance improvement plan. HR’s got a bullseye on you now, so I’d keep your nose clean. One more thing.” Roger slides a piece of paper to Mark and hands him a pen. “You’re gonna need to sign this.”
“Anger and alcohol counseling or I lose my job?”
“No performance improvement, no job—at least not here.”
Mark adds his signature at the end of the page. Has he hit bottom? If it isn’t, he’s really screwed.
***
The gray concrete steps lead to the church basement where Mark’s AA meeting is held. There are more folding chairs in the circle than in his IPV sessions, and the room is lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs. You’d think they would have switched to LEDs by now. Mark would change them if they paid for the bulbs. A coffee urn as large as a fire hydrant hums in the corner near the sink, next to a column of foam cups.
The group is a cross-section of his town: young kids with multi-colored tats, lonely-looking drifters, and upstanding community members. He sits next to the ex-mayor, who dresses like he’s running for re-election, and across from an attorney with a pocket square handkerchief. If it weren’t for his mandated counseling, Mark isn’t sure why he’s even at the meeting; compared with these hard-core boozers, he’s a mere tippler. It’s a room full of future liver transplants.
Their stories of self-immolation, despair, and grief go far beyond Mark’s experience. An alphabet of societal ills: abandonment, child abuse, fatal car accidents, rape, and suicide. He can’t believe what he hears. The tears. The self-recrimination. The anger. There’s this crazy world out there, waves crashing, and Mark’s bobbing not far from land. He knows all those emotions and is thankful he hasn’t drifted farther out to sea.
His sponsor is Carol, a fifty-ish accountant with gray hair fixed by a clip who developed a fondness for vodka at breakfast after her son died in a jet ski accident. They’re an odd couple but they click. She calls him a few times a week for quick check-in’s and they’ve chatted over cheap coffee at Denny’s. Carol’s calm, soothing manner makes it easy to open up about hockey, Kendra, and Connor in a way he hasn’t yet done in the larger group setting.
He eases into the AA routine and picks up a skating client from a guy who wants to improve his beer league hockey skills. After the first eight weeks, Mark sees the value of the meetings; he’s less judgmental and starting to understand why these strangers were regulars at the liquor store. Still, it’s a long road ahead.
***
Mark drops Connor off at Kendra’s after his every-other-weekend custody. This part-time Daddyhood isn’t cutting it. He pulls into Kendra’s driveway, stopping at the red wooden stake she’s pounded into the ground marking his 50-foot limit, and dials her cell phone.
“I’m here with Connor.”
Kendra opens the apartment door and Connor jumps out of the car and races to her.
“Hey, Con, you forgot your backpack,” Mark says.
Connor sprints back, grabs his pack, and disappears inside the apartment.
“I heard about your little ‘incident’ at the rink,” Kendra says.
“Yeah, not one of my better moments.” Mark peers out the windshield at Kendra in the doorway.
“Have there been any good ones lately?”
There she goes again, riding his ass. She has no idea how difficult this is for him—losing his dream. After the injury, he’d lost a step—even worse—his confidence. Either of those is a career killer; the slightest gap between ability and performance is a growing chasm with each level you move up. Imperceptible to most, but obvious to anyone who plays the game. And it’s more than a game at this point. It’s a day-in, day-out, dog-eat-dog competition: skate fast, hit hard, and blast a smoking slapshot on net. Show no mercy. Choke down the pain. “This hasn’t been easy for me either.”
“So now you’re a victim?” Kendra asks. “You know what you are?” Before he can answer, she lets loose. “You’re a narcissist, a coddled athlete, who’s been riding on his reputation.” Kendra appears worked up now. “Guess what! You’re a Neanderthal, a Cro-Magnon Man. No, wait. You’re Zamboni Man, an early, primitive form of Homo sapiens.”
Each word slams Mark harder than a crushing check into the boards.
“I’m sick of hockey. Hockey! Hockey! Hockey!” Kendra says. “One more incident and I’m going to pull Connor from hockey and take him to ballet lessons.”
Marks sits back in his seat, horrified with the image of Connor in a tutu. “Jesus.”
“Don’t push me.” She turns to tell Connor it’s okay to turn on the TV. “So, what did you and Connor do this weekend?” Kendra asks Mark.
“Got a pizza, played some video games, watched the Bruins play,” Mark says. “They crushed Montreal.”
“I don’t want Connor playing Call of Duty or Grand Theft Auto. He’s too young.”
“Alright, we’ll watch Nature on PBS or something. I might shop for his ballet shoes,” Mark says defiantly.
“I mean it, Mark. Find age-appropriate stuff.” Kendra, anger rising again, edges a step closer to the door threshold. “He likes LEGOs—you should buy him some.”
“Why can’t he bring over the LEGOs from your place?” Mark asks.
“We’re not gonna start schlepping LEGO sets from apartment to apartment, are we?” Kendra asks. “I’m already packing hockey gear, clothes, his backpack, and school stuff.”
It’s true; the kid shuttle requires a lot of planning and God forbid he forgets an item or activity. He keeps a list and Connor’s calendar tacked to his fridge with magnets so he doesn’t fuck up.
“Don’t be so cheap—you can afford LEGOs. Lay off the beer for a week and you could buy out the whole store of LEGOs.”
Mark gets out of the car and stops at the red stake. “I’m not drinking anymore and I don’t appreciate that comment. Goddamn it, I’m trying.”
“What?” Kendra asks. “When did that start?
“A couple months ago.” It feels good to put Kendra back on her heels for a change. The counseling causes a new equilibrium in him. Before, Mark sensed he was teetering back and forth like a bubble in a carpenter’s level. “I’m back in F-ing counseling—see—I’m even working to get the cursing under control.” At first, trying to manage all the counseling strategies was a huge load on him, akin to training with a weight vest on, and simultaneously learning a foreign language.
“I’m sorry.” Kendra admits. “You should be proud of yourself.”
“Yeah, but are you proud of me?”
“Yes, I am, Mark. I really am.” Kendra says.
***
Mark shovels the driveway in front of his apartment when Connor emerges in his boots, snow jacket, and pants. “I want to shovel too,” Connor says.
“This is a bit big for you so why don’t you help me push the shovel,” Mark suggests. Together, they plow a path around the car, and along the sidewalk. “You keep this up and I’ll get you a shovel.”
“My hands are cold,” Connor holds up his hands in surrender.
“Let me feel them.” Mark pulls off Connor’s mittens and his hands are blocks of ice. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier—your fingers are popsicles.” He slips the mittens back on.
“I wanted to shovel with you.”
“Okay, but promise you’ll let me know sooner next time.”
“Promise.”
“Tell you what,” Mark says. “You go inside and I’ll be there in five minutes. I have a bit more to finish up out here and then we’ll make some hot chocolate.” Mark shovels a few scoops and leans on the shovel. His dad died shoveling snow while Mark was away playing hockey. If he had been home, his dad might still be alive. Mark’s thoughts shift to Connor’s age. He and his buddies skated on ponds until they got chilled and pulled out large green thermoses of hot chocolate their moms packed for them. The skating ended after the puck disappeared in the winter gloom or the hot chocolate ran out.
Connor is playing a game on an iPad when Mark kicks off his snow boots in the entry and sets the kettle on the stove.
“Dad?” Connor asks.
“What?”
“Are you and Mom friends?” Connor asks while he taps the iPad screen.
Okay, this is where I get to tell a white lie. “We’re friends but we had an argument.”
“About me?”
“Don’t be silly.” Mark ruffles Connor’s hair. “Why would we be fighting about you when we both love you so much?” The kid’s right; there is no end to the bickering with Kendra. Connor’s no dummy—he’s picked up on it. A sinking feeling engulfs Mark, realizing his son feels guilty for his dad’s sins.
“You always fight with Mom about where I’m staying.”
“Hey, can you set that down for a minute?” Mark reaches for the iPad. “Look at me.” He locks in on Connor’s blue eyes. “I’m gonna do better with Mom. I promise. Okay?” He—and Kendra—need to pull together, even if it’s just for Connor’s sake. All the tension and walking on egg shells sucks. Nobody wants to walk around raw as road rash. It makes him feel like shit and can’t be good for Kendra either.
The kettle whistles and Mark pours two cups of cocoa and drops a few tiny marshmallows into Connor’s cup. They plop on the faded Craigslist loveseat, tap mugs, and Mark says, “Not bad, eh?”
***
Mark is at his buddy Nate’s place with a bunch of the guys watching the Bruins game. The doorbell rings, and Nate jumps from the sofa and grabs three large pizzas from the delivery person. A coffee table is littered with empty beer bottles. Mark was careful to tell his friends he’d only come if he could bring his drinks, and they didn’t try to coerce him into downing real beers. Nate said, “I don’t give a shit what you drink. Get your ass over here.”
During a commercial, Mark walks into the kitchen to get another slice, and Nate sidles up to him.
“So, uh, I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while,” Nate says.
“Go for it.” Mark drops the pizza on the paper plate and grabs a napkin.
“Well, this might seem a little crazy, but I was thinking about asking Kendra out.” Nate gathers the plastic bag strings in the garbage, yanks the full bag out, and puts it on the back porch. “What do you think?”
“Seriously?” The first pinprick of brotherly betrayal stabs him. He sees Nate step back, unsure of what Mark may say or do.
“Hey, I don’t want to cause problems,” Nate says. “I mean, you guys are officially split, and Kendra and I have always gotten along—strictly as friends,” Nate adds. “I figure, why not, right?”
“Whoa. I didn’t see that coming.” Mark says. He always thinks one pass ahead in hockey, but in life, he is always puck-chasing. How do women do it? They seem to know things and see stuff he just doesn’t get.
“I thought I should kind of ask—I don’t want you to find out through the grapevine. After all, we go back a long way.”
Back to Peewee hockey camp a million years ago. They’re kind of a yin and yang brotherhood. “Damn it, Nate.” Mark says. “I feel like I’m getting knifed in the back. If you know what I mean. Just seeing you with her is gonna kill me and wreck us.” He chucks the pizza slice in the sink. “Fuck it. I’m outta here.” Mark slams the door on the way out.
He was clueless about Nate’s interest in Kendra and questions spring up about other social cues he’s missing. Poor observational power? Lousy emotional intelligence? Self-absorbed? Is he really this dense?
***
Storming into his apartment, Mark grabs a five-gallon bucket of hockey pucks and his stick, tosses them in the back of his Subaru, and heads to a local park. He places the bucket on the concrete apron of the basketball court, unleashing shot after shot at a wooden wall. A blister rises on one hand, and he ignores it, pouring everything into making a six-ounce rubber disk Boom! as it collides with plywood. The pucks carom in all directions and all Mark sees is Nate and Kendra together as he leans into another slapshot.
A few cars arrive and a bunch of young guys with basketballs show up and start shooting baskets at the far end of the court. One guy in a tattered Red Sox hoodie says, “Hey, Pops, how about you heading to the rink so we can play full-court.”
“Who are you calling Pops?” Mark leans on his hockey stick. “I might be older than you, but I can still kick your ass,” Mark says.
“Say what, old-timer?
Mark can’t belief he’s being called old at age 32. He grabs a puck from the bucket, drops it on the concrete, and whistles a wrist shot just missing the guy’s knee cap.
“Jesus, fuck!” The guy shouts. “This dude is crazy.” Three of his friends huddle around him but keep their distance.
Mark gathers the scattered pucks, drops them in the bucket, and yells, “The court’s all yours. Why don’t you learn a real game—like hockey!” He’s sweat-soaked, spent, and saddened his best buddy wants to join Team Kendra.
***
Mark scrolls through Facebook in his apartment when a message pops up. It’s from an old hockey teammate: “Check out this vid I found of you on YouTube. You were killing it!”
He clicks the link and a grainy video shows Mark flying up the ice, stealing pucks, ramming people, and scoring goals. In a way, it’s painful to watch. Despite his injury, he’s much better than any of the local players so he doesn’t enjoy playing much anymore. Now and then a guy shows up at the rink who thinks he’s hot shit: The former Boston University wing, or the minor league drifter wearing a Quebec Aces jersey. Mark always wants to play against them, to test if he’s better, and so far, there’s never a doubt. Leaning back on the loveseat, Mark squints at the overhead light throwing gray shadows into the corners of his apartment. He was so close to the bright lights of the National Hockey League and now Mark huddles in his cramped apartment, trying to make sense of the pile of self-help books on his nightstand. Disgusted, he flicks one of the books, Be Your Best Self, onto the floor.
***
The toy section stretches on forever and takes up a whole side of the department store. Mark walks down the aisle, marveling at the selection. No wonder kids are so spoiled these days.
Everything requires batteries or chargers. He only needed hockey and other sports gear since he spent his childhood outdoors. He picks up a toy, examines it more out of curiosity than interest, and continues his search. There they are! Stacked up on three different shelves are LEGO boxes of all sizes and descriptions. He learns you can make anything out of those multi-colored blocks. Mark remembers LEGOs as thick, simple blocks you stacked up to make forts or rudimentary cars. Now, there are intricate parts, special pieces, new shapes, people, and objects transforming from planes to cars or rockets to skyscrapers. The range of choice immobilizes him, and unable to make up his mind, he dumps three boxes into the basket he’s carrying.
***
Mark pulls into Kendra’s driveway to get Connor. Since he has to stay 50 feet away, he calls from the car, and they talk on the phone. “Can we put the phones down and talk like normal people?”
Kendra opens the door and Mark gets out of the car. Connor dashes out and latches on to his dad’s leg, and Mark bends down to hug him. “Can you wait in the car, buddy?” Mark buckles Connor in and shuts the door. “For once, can I go past this darned stake so I don’t have to shout and have the whole neighborhood hear us?”
“Alright,” Kendra says.
Mark stops 30 feet away. “Can I get closer?” He pulls his hands out of the jacket pockets, palms outward, where she can see them.
Kendra pauses for a moment. “Yeah, okay.”
Mark moves closer. “I promise I’ll be good.” I have been good. Not perfect but making strides. It’s as if they’re playing a weird adult version of red light/green light.
At 20 feet, Kendra says, “That’s close enough. What’s all this about?”
“I need a few minutes of normal conversation with my son’s mother,” Mark says.
“Okay, but no bullshit.”
“I brought something for you. A letter.” Mark rubs his hand over a knuckle slightly displaced from a hockey fight.
“If you think we’re getting back together, it’s not happening.” Mark sees Kendra subconsciously reach for her neck where he grabbed her until she almost passed out. She told a medical examiner it took a week to be able to swallow properly. “Second chances are fine for some things but you don’t get them for choking your wife. There’s a line you cross, and that’s it.”
Flustered, Mark returns to the stake, pulls an envelope from his pocket, and sets it on the ground.
“Is that the letter?” Kendra asks.
“Yup.” Mark gets back in the car and sits in the driveway momentarily.
From the backseat, Connor says, “Dad, are we leaving?”
“Yeah, Con, we are,” Mark says and puts the car in gear. As he pulls away and looks in his rearview mirror, he sees Kendra open the envelope: Dear Kendra, I know I can’t undo all the terrible things I’ve done and said to you, so I’m just going to say I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.
***
Mark’s pauses outside Sweeney’s tavern, fingering his car keys. He wants a drink so badly and struggles with the mental tumult of crossing the bar’s entrance—more nasty shit from Kendra about having no self-control. Maybe losing Connor. The last thing Mark needs right now is to keep punching holes in the life raft he’s patched together with his son. He pushes the door open and the warm, dank smell of beer, pretzels, and greasy hot dogs waft past him. The place is dim but he can make out a few familiar faces: Mikey, a high school gym teacher, and Nico, the lumberyard guy.
Mikey spots him and says, “Hey Mark, I saved a seat for you.” He pats a stool at the bar.
Mark waves weakly at them. “Hold on a sec.” He pulls out his cell phone and dials Carol. “Can you pick me up outside Sweeney’s?” Mark is suddenly woozy; the crosswind of bar stimuli and conflicting emotions founders him. “I don’t think I can drive.”
“Oh my God, Mark. You fell off the wagon?”
“Not quite. But close. Real close.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes. I just did my nails so you’re lucky they’re dry.” Carol pauses. “Just don’t go back into Sweeney’s. Keep walking if you get tempted, and I’ll find you.”
Good old Carol. Sometimes you stumble on friends in the oddest places.
***
Carol’s tan Corolla pulls up to the curb and Mark flops in.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Carol says.
“The Ghost of Mark’s Fucked Up Past,” Mark volunteers.
“Don’t say that.” Carol ticks on the blinker, waits for a passing car, and edges on to the street. “You’re way too hard on yourself.”
Marks sees her glance over and study him for a moment. “Maybe.”
The Denny’s is busy so Mark and Carol have to wait a few minutes while an overworked waitress bustles by with platters of meat loaf, chicken sticks, and cheeseburgers. The host, a thin guy with his belt cinched tight, sits them at a back table.
“So, tell me what happened,” Carol says.
“First, I screw things up with Kendra. Now, I barely see Nate. We text occasionally but it’s awkward. He’s like a brother to me and I miss hanging out with him.” Mark shuffles a fork back and forth on the table; he’s the one who put Nate on an ice flow and pushed it away. “Work is going better, but when I get home, I guess I’m kind of lonely. If it wasn’t for Connor, I don’t know what I’d do. By the way, nice nails. What color is that anyway?”
Carol holds the back of her hands to show Mark her electric pink nails. “It’s called ’Bam!’ I need more color in my life.”
“That’s a real nail polish name?”
“Yup.” Carol reaches across the table and grabs Mark’s hand. With her other hand she blots a tear with a tissue.
“Why are you crying?” Mark asks. “I’m the one who should be sobbing since I came this close—” he holds his fingers almost together— “to screwing up.”
“I’ve already lost a son.” Carol says. “I don’t want to see you lose yours.”
***
Mark’s boss, Roger, is filling in for the rink’s skate-sharpening guy and sparks fly off a blade. He gestures to Mark. “Stop by my office in five minutes.”
Mark is not sure exactly what the discussion with Roger will cover, although it’s been several months since his suspension ended. He’s held up his end of the mandated alcohol and anger counseling and gotten used to the routine and the fellowship. Most of his life revolved around hockey people and it’s refreshing to branch out, although AA wouldn’t be his first networking choice.
Roger’s door is open and Mark knocks on the door frame.
“Hey, Mark, c’mon in,” Roger says. He pulls a file out of a drawer. “I guess it’s time to discuss your performance improvement plan.”
“Okay.”
“When we set this plan up, I wasn’t sure you’d make it work. I know you’ve had troubles and seemed like there was a dark cloud hovering over you.” Roger slips papers out of the file and scratches his initials on them. “If you initial in the spots with the ‘X,’ sign and date this, you’re in the clear.”
The sword dangling over his head is removed. None of it was painless, although he had always been good at putting his head down and taking a task straight on. In some ways, it was easier than the mental challenge and the physical wear and tear of competing at a high level. This time, Kendra and Connor were a new wrinkle to deal with—along with the biweekly payroll deduction totaling 962 dollars for new rink door hinges and a sheet of Plexiglass. Fortunately, the Zam’s fender was fixed in the city shop. He initials the pages and hands them back. “Thanks, Roger, I appreciate your support. It means a lot to me.” Mark also learned to say ‘thank you,’ two new words in his vocabulary.
They shake hands and Roger says, “I’m glad you’re still with us. You need a rink in your life, and we’ve got the best ice guy we’ve ever had.”
***
Mark is in bed reading books his counselor recommended about male anger: Anger Management Workbook for Men complete with a cover of matches in a matchbook, and Rage with its blood-red cover. There are times when Mark is ready to touch off a few fires. He’s highlighted a few sections and put sticky tabs in other parts of the books to practice the tips. Mark watches ten minutes of YouTube anger management videos.
As he turns his iPad off, a vision of his last encounter with Kendra appears, hands on her hips and defiant. Any chance of a comeback with her is long gone. Months earlier, he might have gotten pissed off, but there’s no putting Humpty Dumpty together again. It’s a long way from ideal but this could work: Nate’s a solid guy, and maybe he can get Kendra to dial it back a bit and stop busting Mark’s balls. Not that he hadn’t given Kendra a bullet list of fuckups to work with: choking, drinking, drugs, anger. Anything chilling Kendra will spill over to him in a positive way. Mark’s brain skips far ahead and he wonders if Nate and Kendra get married, he’d be raising Connor with both of them. Could be worse. Definitely better than the single parent Nate had.
***
“Can you tell me where the light bulbs are?” Mark asks.
The hardware store salesman points down a corridor, “Aisle 18.”
The flickering bulbs in the church basement are driving Mark nuts, and he is surprised nobody else in the AA group hasn’t mentioned it. The church is reimbursing him for the LED bulbs, and he’s planning to rewire the fixtures and install new bulbs. “Thanks,” Mark says. Never a church-goer, he didn’t think he’d be doing maintenance at one.
He loads a stack of 48-inch bulbs into the cart and wheels toward checkout. On his way, he passes the snow shovel section and spies a red kid-size shovel. Mark tosses it into the cart and heads over to pick Connor up on a Wednesday night. Thanks to the AA attorney’s free legal help, he’s managed to change the custody arrangements. Mark now has Connor on Wednesday nights and every other weekend.
***
Mark pulls the tuna casserole out of the oven, proud of his developing cooking skills. It’s not gourmet. A few cans are opened, but it’s pretty healthy and filling. Lots of leftovers, too.
“Hey, Dad, I want to show you something,” Connor says from his bedroom.
Mark steps into the room. “What’s up?”
“Look.” Connor is holding a LEGO creation and hands it to Mark. “This is for you. It’s a Zamboni.”
Mark holds the tiny Zamboni replica Connor captured in amazing detail, all the way down to the miniature propane cylinders at the back which propel the Zam. “Wow! Impressive!” Mark fist-bumps his son. Connor might not be a star hockey player but he could be an architect or engineer. Mark swells with pride at the thought of his kid building cool adult stuff. “Who’s this dude in the back?” Mark touches the LEGO guy seated at the controls.
“That’s you, Dad. You’re Zamboni Man.”
***
Two weeks later, it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday morning and Mark figures he’ll beat the rush at the Safeway. As he enters the store, Nate and Kendra are finishing at the checkout right in front of him. They are too busy paying and gathering groceries to notice him. Mark does the math in his head: Nate probably slept with Kendra since he knows Connor had a sleepover at a friend’s house. He feels like he swallowed a hockey puck. It’s unsettling to see Nate with Kendra. A surge of anger wells up and Mark wants to making a quick-witted and cutting remark about the two of them together. He silently counts, gets to five, and the impulse passes.
Nate looks up after using his credit card and spots Mark. “Hey, look who’s here.”
Kendra turns around from putting bags in their cart. “Oh, hi, Mark.”
The restraining order was lifted two weeks earlier after they mutually petitioned the court. The AA attorney is a godsend and Mark is helping him with home repairs as payback. It’s not all lovey-dovey with Kendra but they can at least be in the same room together. Things are complicated with Nate although it’s easier with him present to add a bit of relationship triangulation.
“We should probably get going,” Kendra says.
“Yeah, sure,” Mark says. Pointing to his cart, “I’m just getting started.”
As they separate, Nate says, “We’re watching the Bruins on Saturday at my place. Coming over?”
He appreciates the extended olive branch. Until then, it didn’t dawn on Mark that Nate might miss him. As much as he’d like to watch the game with the Nate and the guys, it would be too weird. “Maybe next time,” Mark fibs. “I’ve got something going on that night.”
He glances at Kendra to see what she thinks of this brotherly truce. She has the cold, granitic face he’s seen many times and hopes Nate isn’t in trouble now.
***
Two months later, Mark is a half-hour from closing the rink for the night and gets a phone call. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He heads to the rink’s front door, where Kendra, Nate, and Connor wait. It’s way past Connor’s bedtime but they make an exception.
Nate and Kendra sit down at center ice while Mark escorts Connor to a far corner of the rink. Mark opens the door where the Zamboni awaits.
“Wanna go for a ride?” Mark asks. Connor’s face lights up brighter than the new LED lights at the church.
“Yeah!”
Mark helps Connor up the step to the Zamboni seat and puts him on his lap. He’s not supposed to have anyone ride with him but nobody’s around. “Let’s take this for a spin.” Mark places Connor’s hand over his on the controls and they roll onto the ice. Mark looks at the glass as they chug along, and all he sees is himself and Connor with enormous grins on their faces.
They pass Nate and Kendra, and Connor waves to them while Kendra gives a two-thumbs-up salute. Mark spins around the rink with his son, and while he may be going in circles, he’s moving in the right direction for the first time in a long while.
Originally from the suburbs of New Jersey, Ken worked for the Forest Service in Alaska for 40 years. During the long, dark winters, He writes short stories.
His fiction has appeared in descant, Cirque, Red Fez, Underwood Press, Poor Yorick, Woven Tale Press, and Kansas City Voices. His stories have been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and his collection of short stories, “Greyhound Cowboy and Other Stories,” is published by Cornerstone Press.