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Lola

“I’m sorry. I decided to come after we talked this morning.”

The words come out sprung together and compact. There is only thirty seconds left of the count down and I refuse to be the reason Byron gets in trouble.

Byron places his gloved hand on the glass and mine goes to mirror his instinctively. I’m desperate to touch him, to tell him I’m not leaving his side.

“Thank you.”

Two words is all he has time to say before he skates away with a soft sad smile.

When we talked this morning I was so proud of him deciding to play today. That his dad encouraged him to play knowing his son would need the extra push to leave his mom’s side.

I woke up to a text this morning from Byron saying It happened . Even though we were all expecting it, it still was like a kick to the gut. In the few short months I’ve gotten to know Arie I’ve grown to really care for him.

I was thankful when Byron answered my call.

He’s been understandably quiet over the last few days.

The call lasted long enough for me to tell him I’m sorry and that whatever he and his mom need I’ll be there to help with.

His voice was sad when he told him he was thankful for what I had already done.

That’s my Byron even when he has every right to wade in the depths of grief, he finds time to make those around him feel special.

If I learned anything over the last year, either loving Byron or hating him, it’s that he always wants to do better. Be better. That’s why I knew I had dig in when he did everything to try and rip the roots out we worked so hard to replant.

Our relationship was built on trust. Knowing that one of us will put in the effort when the other isn’t capable of doing so.

He did it at the beginning of the year when I was too blinded by hurt to see I had a role in our fall out.

He did everything on my stupid list without complaint. He just wanted to be with me.

Now it’s my turn to be the anchor as Byron wades through his grief.

I’m happy to do it because we both finally found the person that’s willing to fight for us after years of thinking we were not worthy of it.

1-1

That’s what the scoreboard reads with three minutes left in the third period. Nobody told me that you should find a boyfriend that plays a different sport than your brother. Or at least on a different team.

My heart doesn’t have a second to relax.

If the puck isn’t in the defensive end of the rink with pressure on Oliver to keep the score even.

It’s at the opposite end where I have to watch Byron and Dalton’s revived rivalry.

I don’t even want to know what Dalton had said to Byron during this game.

I know Byron can hold his own when it comes to the shit talk.

His witty one-liners will have you laughing before you realize that he’s making fun of you.

It’s no secret that Byron’s fuse has been short lately and with it being not even twenty-four hours since his dad’s death, I’m nervous that he’s not going to be able to control himself enough to stay on the ice. They need him in this game today.

Oliver saves a slapshot that came off Dalton’s stick.

The puck goes out to Marcus who brings it up the ice.

He looks up to see a clock that tells him only forty-five seconds remain in regulated play time.

The puck moves in an arc around the goal.

All five players touch it, passing it on when they realize that there isn’t a clear shot.

With ten seconds left the puck is back with Byron.

Dalton is glued to him, ready to live up to his reputation of aggressive play.

Byron skates forward and when Dalton moves forward ready to create some contact Byron pulls back dodging Dalton and getting a clean shot on goal. Time seems to stop as I watch the puck fly through the air. It slides into the top right corner like a bullet, right past Hamilton’s goalie’s helmet.

The sound of the crowd moves time back to reality and I don’t try to hide my tears.

They flow freely as I watch Byron fall to the ice as he points to the sky, pointing to his guardian angel who without a doubt in my mind helped his son keep his cool today.

He definitely had a front row seat to watch his son score the game winning goal.