Page 53 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

mr. gunnersen

Zoya

Tyler pushes his lips out and his nostrils flare. It is a weird look; one I realize indicates he is not sure if he wants to trust me. I sit and wait, quietly, giving him time to decide.

My mama has often done that with Papa when he’s silent and she wants him to talk.

She always gets her way. She told me once that there are two reasons men are slower to communicate.

Sometimes it takes men a while to formulate their thoughts and decide if they wish to share them or not.

And sometimes, they are prideful and avoid sharing things until they trust in the person asking for answers.

My guess is it is the latter with Tyler. He knows my brother, not me.

I watch him as he wrestles with whatever is going on inside his mind. Finally, he starts talking and I listen—hanging onto his every word—laced in that accent of his which fascinates me.

“I grew up in Southie, that’s the slum area of Boston, right?

With a single mom so it was just the two of us.

My dad died when I was young, too young to really remember him clearly.

He had a work accident or something but it’s not anything my ma ever really shared with me in any great detail.

And what was the point anyway? Can’t mourn someone you don’t really know or even remember. ”

He scratches the stubble on his chin and blows out a big breath.

“There was a short time when things were kind of okay, like she had a decent job and stuff, but then I started to notice random guys over all the time. In and out of the house. Some of them left money after staying the night. Sex noises from her room and all that. And drugs. Lines of coke on the kitchen table. A haze of smoke throughout the house. All that nonsense. So, I was like eight or nine getting this life lesson about sex and crime and drugs, while making my own peanut butter sandwiches and putting myself on the school bus every day.”

“That must have been so hard.”

“I dunno. Shit, I didn’t know any different.

I knew I wanted to get to school, anything to be away from the whole mess.

Took the long way home every afternoon. But I also cleaned the house.

And went to the grocery store. I was like a little man, you know?

My ma called me the man of the house, so I was always real puffed up, like I was really takin’ care of shit. ”

Seeing this side of him makes me soften. I thought he was just a rowdy, privileged hockey boy but maybe there is more to him than I originally thought. It’s surprising me that he feels comfortable sharing this with me, and I wonder if he has had this conversation before?

He puts both hands on the back of his head and sits back, looking up at the sky.

“So, some of the guys who came around to get with my mom were rough with me. And then I started gettin’ rough with kids at school.

You know, the old abused becoming the abuser bullshit.

I had a gym teacher who was like, ‘whoa, kid, what the fuck?’ He told me I needed an outlet for my aggression.

Got me playing hockey. I didn’t have shit to pay for skates or pads, but he got it all figured out for me. ”

“Your gym teacher sounds like a good guy.” I try to imagine what he was like as a young boy living such an unsettled life and my heart cracks open for him. Whatever preconceived ideas I had about Tyler Lockhardt before today were only a small part of the story.

“He was. Mr. Gunnersen.” Tyler bobs his head up and down and swallows hard. “I should go back and see the old guy, huh? Thank him and shit. I joined a youth hockey team like two years later and got hooked. Wouldn’t have found any of this life I have now if not for him.”

“Maybe you should thank him, then. You have obviously done well.”

“I mean, I—I do send money to support the club I played for. I always send it anonymously, but in his honor. I hope maybe he knows someone cares about what he does—what he did for a lot of poor kids.”

“Well, you are lucky you found something you love.”

“Yeah. Yep. I started working in and around the rink to help pay for my ice time and equipment and shit. Hockey helped me channel all my angry energy and kept me out of that house. I traveled to games a lot when I played club hockey, so I got to stay in hotels and stuff. I felt like a fuckin’ king, you know?

And my skills on the ice got better and better, so when I was sixteen, I got picked for an all-star team and we played in a huge tournament.

Recruiters saw me and talked to me about playing for their college teams. I got offered a scholarship from Minnesota and took it because I wanted to get as far the fuck away from Boston as possible.

I could’ve played for Boston College but no way I was gonna play with the Richie Rich boys. Fuck that.”

“Well, it is good you could get away. So, what was this today? Your mother, I am guessing?”

He makes a face. “It was, indeed, my mother. Asking for money. Again. Guilting me. Using my siblings to get to me. Same shit, different day.”

“She asks you for money often?”

“Probably once every other month. And I’ve tried, Zoya.

I’ve tried getting her a good place to live, tried using connections to get her jobs, tried making sure there’s always money in the account.

And she’s just a user. You know? She doesn’t appreciate shit and she’s just like a money-sucking monster who doesn’t care about anything other than her next score or high or whatever.

But the kids are little, and I have no fucking clue if she’s doing to them what she did to me. It never ends.”

“I am so sorry, Tyler. It sounds like you have done your best to care for your family.”

“God, you’re so kind. So nice. I feel bad making you listen to this garbage.” He stands up and holds out a hand to help me up, as well. “I should probably go hold your sister’s hand like I said I would. Thanks for listening.”

“No problem, Tyler.”

We head inside and Tyler jogs to Irina’s side, apologizing and saying he got an unexpected call from his mother. He comments on the progress of her tattoo, which I have to admit does look really nice.

“Where did you go?” my sister asks me.

“I went out to get some air. Something about the sound of the buzzing and the blood made me a little woozy.” Sometimes it is an easy thing to lie to the ones you are the closest to. I just lied to my sister and I never do that.

Tyler gives me a relieved look and I know I did the right thing by not outing him for sharing something so personal.

He nods and I nod back, and in that moment, something shifts between us.

I catch his gaze and hold it, every ounce of me wanting him to know that it means something that he told me about his family, his childhood.

It makes him more real to me, more human. Not only a hockey player.

He still seems awkward, his lips set in a scowl as he does some sort of transaction on his phone with one hand while still holding on to Irina’s with the other. I want to ask if he is moving money around, sending his mother what she asked for, but I know it would embarrass him.

When the tattoo is finished, Irina is a little lightheaded, but happy with the final product. We finish up, thanking Erik for his time and his excellent work. As we are walking out, I can see the lines of stress on Tyler’s face even as he jokes about being hungry enough to eat his own arm.

“Well, we could all go out to celebrate Irina’s first tattoo,” I suggest.

Irina spins to look at me. “You want to go out?”

“Well, it is dinner time, right? It is Sunday, though, so I am not sure what else might be—”

“This is Vegas,” Tyler interrupts. “There’s always somewhere to go. I know just the place.”