The Cocky Hockey Captain

Chapter 18 ● Slippery Road To Something

We managed the feat of not talking for several days. Even as the weekend arrived and the move to the house was official. I guessed it had something to do with the fact that poor Miguel had to act as intermediary, passing tidbits from one side to the other about how to orchestrate the whole thing. From dad's side what mostly came was instructions. Which room was mine. What to get at the store. And definitely no wifi password. What mostly went from my side to his was an assortment of curse words mixed in between complaints that I was sure Miguel was filtering.

The one silver lining about the whole ordeal was that I must have made him so tired that he didn't for a second think about giving me shit about playing hockey, even though he saw me traipse in and out of the new house with my duffel bag and stick. We even had our first home game the first week after the move, and where I expected a huge hullabaloo from him there was none. Just silence. I was clearly not one of those kids who dreamed about their dad coming to cheer for them at a game. If anything, his way of cheering for me was to stay out of it.

The second Saturday of October was the most frigid day I'd experienced in this god forsaken land so far. I was shaking uncontrollably and adding an extra bounce to each step in an effort to warm myself up while I made my way back from the store. I carried a plastic bag with cookies, milk, cereal and cheese, and I was sure the milk would turn to ice cream and the cheese to straight up ice. This all was going to have to last me until Monday when I'd have all of it for Canadian thanksgiving. By myself.

I heard the sound of a car go by on the road. I saw it stop just ahead and I froze on the spot.

"Nothing's wrong," I muttered, trying to reming myself that this was Canada and in Canada people didn't kidnap pedestrians in small towns. It was probably someone who had to stop for a second to check their phone for an address or an important call. Or maybe their car malfunctioned or they didn't feel that well or comfortable driving in the slushy snow. It had nothing to do with me.

Except it had everything to do with me.

The middle aged man called out, "Hey, you!"

I tried to walk faster, but it was hard with all the white shit on the ground that had turned slightly brown and very slippery.

"That was a great game last night," he said.

I slowly turned to him. The man was fully decked in Bears colors. I blinked and the fright started to sap out of my body. It was just a proud local.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're not too bad for a rookie. Your tackle to that Canary dude yesterday was one of the best I've seen. Keep it up!"

He gave me a thumbs up before driving away. I had to pick my jaw up from the floor. It was the cold, I told myself, what had me blinking my eyes rapidly. That was it. It wasn't that I suddenly wanted to cry, no sir.

I kept walking, now with a different bounce to my step. That little interaction had warmed me up considerably. Was this why Canadians were known as nice people? To stave off the cold with some nice human warmth?

I walked, or more like waddled, as I crossed a road that led to a clearing on the right. A glint caught my eye and I turned to see the sunlight shining off the smooth surface of Lake Mary. There wasn't a single ripple in the surface of the lake, and I realized it must have been because it had frozen solid. In the middle of fucking October. I sighed and my breath came out in a puff. Just as I was about to turn and keep heading to the house, another glint flashed and almost blinded me. I rubbed my eyes and set out in the direction of the lake.

The glint was coming from an intrepid skater.

I squinted. Not precisely a skater. Someone playing solo hockey. I recognized the moves now, even though I was fairly far. The motions someone made while carrying a puck with a stick. The frantic dashing towards the goal, in this case imaginary. The incredible footwork with as much fierceness as finess.