Page 7 of On Ice

Evan

Alzheimer’s is a vile disease. It’s the cruelest thief. It doesn’t just steal memories—it robs dignity, personality, the very essence of a person.

As I approach the entrance to The Laurel Gardens Memory Care Center, I brace myself for whatever version of Mom I’ll meet today. As the disease progresses, she changes until I don’t recognize her any more than she does me. She used to be a woman who would light up every room she entered. She was funny and articulate. Every year for my birthday, she made the best carrot cake with real cream cheese frosting. Now, some days, she can’t even distinguish pudding from Jello.

I pay an obscene amount of money to keep her at the memory center. But she raised me, cared for me, and now it’s my turn. Dad and Matt can’t begin to afford this place for her, and regular insurance wouldn’t cover even a quarter of the cost. Paying for her care is partly why I live in a crappy apartment, when I could technically afford better. But I’d live in a cardboard box before I’d take her out of this beautiful facility.

I’m happy I can give her the best possible housing situation, but I wish I could save her from what we all know is coming. But I can’t. Even she knows I can’t. The worst part is the fear I see in her eyes when she’s having a rough day. With every stumble and inability to find the memory she’s seeking, the realization she’s losing all the memories glitters in her eyes. No amount of money can stop the merciless erosion of her mind.

The Laurel Gardens Memory Care Center sits on five manicured acres, its modern architecture softened by flowering dogwoods and carefully tended gardens. I scan my keycard at the secure entrance, nodding to Marcus at the front desk. He’s been here since I moved Mom in two years ago, always remembering residents’ birthdays and their families’ names.

“She’s having a pretty good day, Mr. Riley,” he tells me, typing in my visitor code. “They’re finishing up morning yoga in the sunroom.”

The facility smells like lavender, chamomile, and coffee, not the antiseptic tang I associate with hospitals. Classical music plays softly in the background. A team of nurses in sea blue scrubs moves efficiently between rooms, checking medications and vital signs. Every time I see the staff-to-resident ratio, I know the money I pay is worth it.

I find Mom in the sunroom, hair swept back in a loose French twist that shows off her high cheekbones. She’s still beautiful at sixty-three, trim from the facility’s exercise programs, dressed in a pale blue sweatpants set I don’t recognize. Someone’s applied light makeup, probably Karen, her favorite caregiver. Mom always loved her cosmetics.

“Look who’s here, Catherine,” Karen says, helping Mom from her yoga mat. “Your son Evan came to visit.”

Mom’s green eyes, mirror images of my own, focus on me with polite interest. I can see her searching her brain for memories that are just out of reach. “It’s so nice of you to come see me.”

I smile. “Of course. I love visiting you, Mom.”

“Yes.” Something must click into place because her eyes suddenly warm. “Evan, gosh, it’s good to see you, honey.”

“It’s great to see you, Mom.” I lean in to kiss her cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5. She’s worn the same perfume my whole life. That sweet scent conjures up the happiest of times and the worst of times. “Did you enjoy yoga?”

“Kind of. The instructor loves torturing us.” She laughs.

“Well, at least you’re getting results. You look great, Mom.” I know her moment of clarity won’t last, but I’m just happy to have any of these moments.

She smiles. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” She pats my arm. “Karen, is it okay if…” She pauses, looking at me with sudden uncertainty.

“Evan,” I supply quietly.

“If Evan stays for lunch?” She looks embarrassed, but almost like she’s not sure why.

“Absolutely.” Karen catches my eye with silent sympathy. “We’re having your favorite today, Catherine. The poached salmon with dill sauce.”

“Oh, lovely.” Mom nods, running a hand over her hair. “I worked up quite an appetite.”

We settle at one of the small tables overlooking the garden. The dining room balances elegance with practicality: fine china weighted to prevent dropping, specialized utensils designed to look like regular silverware, and tables spaced to accommodate wheelchairs while maintaining a restaurant-like atmosphere.

“You look tired, honey.” Mom studies me while placing her napkin on her lap. “Are your teachers giving you too much homework?”

I smile but my face feels stiff. “I’m not in school anymore, Mom. Remember?”

“Oh, that’s right.” She blinks at me. “Are… are they working you too hard at the office? You work in a bank, right? I remember now.”

My body still aches from our brutal morning practice, but I don’t want to embarrass her by correcting her again. She used to cheer at my games and keep elaborate scrapbooks of every news clipping. Now she thinks I work in a bank. But it’s fine. That’s okay. “Work’s good, Mom. Just busy.”

“Hard work is good work, right? It’s important to keep busy.” She sips her water. “Have you met any nice girls? I can’t wait forever for grandkids, you little rat.”

My chest tightens. She doesn’t remember I came out to her at seventeen. Doesn’t remember how she hugged me and said she’d always known, and would always love me. Doesn’t remember meeting any of my boyfriends.

“Nobody special right now.” At least that’s not a lie.

Silence falls because it’s hard to keep up a conversation with someone who doesn’t remember anything about your life or their own.

When a sparrow lands on the feeder outside our window, Mom watches it with a little smile. “Did I ever tell you about the bird that built a nest in your father’s old hockey skates?” she asks suddenly.

My breath catches. She rarely mentions Dad anymore, and when she does, the details are usually confused with a TV show she just watched. But this story, this one’s real. I remember it. I was ten, and Dad had left his skates out to dry. A chickadee made a home in them.

“Tell me the story again,” I say softly, wanting to share something with her that’s real. That we both know is real.

She smiles and launches into her story. Her voice is animated as she describes Dad’s mock outrage and how he insisted on leaving the skates there until the babies fledged. The story is perfect in every detail. For a moment, she’s fully my mom again, the one who remembered all the things, big or small.

I laugh as she finishes her story and she looks pleased.

“My youngest son, Evan, was fascinated by those little birds,” she says, her cheeks flushed from laughing. “He wanted to keep them as pets.” She laughs again, looking lost in memories.

My stomach sinks, but I force a smile. “I’m Evan, Mom. I’m your son.”

She blinks at me and then nods. “Oh, I… I know.” She drops her gaze. “I know you’re my son.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “I’m sorry. My stupid brain keeps goofing up. I’m sorry Evan. Of course I know who you are.”

“It’s okay.” I squeeze her hand. Her fingers are cool and smooth, and she still wearing her wedding ring. I don’t let go of her hand right away, cherishing the familiar feel of my mother’s hand in mine. “We all have bad days.”

“Yes.” She seems happy to grab onto that thought. “We all have bad days.”

An awkward silence falls and she slowly pulls her hand from mine.

I clear my throat. “Uh, I got a new boss at work.” I obviously won’t tell her any of the details, but at least it’s something to talk about. “I don’t like him though. He’s a jerk.”

She lifts her brows. “Oh, no. That’s not good.”

“I’m hoping he won’t stick around long.” That is certainly the truth. I’d give anything to figure out a way to get rid of Luca from my life.

“What don’t you like about him?” She sounds concerned.

“He’s not a good person.” In the past, I would’ve gone to Mom for advice, but I know she can’t help me now. She’s too fragile. If I told her what was really going on, she’d only get agitated, and that would ruin the rest of our visit. Instead, I give her the edited version. “He doesn’t care about our team.”

She nods. “That’s a shame. It’s hard to work for someone you don’t like.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll leave.” I know that won’t actually happen, and I’ve been stressed for days trying to find a way out. I feel trapped. I can’t image throwing games for Luca, but I’m terrified of what he’ll do if I disobey him. But sabotaging my own team is unthinkable.

She leans toward me, her expression earnest. “Whatever you do, don’t let him change you. You do your best to change him instead, okay? If he’s not good, change him.”

I smile, wishing it were that easy. But you can’t change a wolf into a lamb, no matter how hard you try. “I’ll do my best, Mom.”

She stares out the window at the garden. Her expression is blank now and she looks tired. “The salmon is really good here,” she murmurs.

“It’s one of their best dishes.”

She flicks her vacant gaze to mine. “You should stay for lunch. I’m sure whoever you’re visiting would be thrilled to have some company. You seem like such a nice young man.”

I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Maybe I will stay for lunch.”

She nods.

I clear my throat. “Do… do you mind if I eat lunch with you?”

She gives a polite smile. “Oh, I don’t mind at all. In fact, you remind me of my son, Evan.”

“That’s great,” I say, trying not to choke on the huge lump in my throat. “He’s a lucky guy to have you as his mother.”

And I mean it too. Maybe she doesn’t know who I am half the time anymore, but she was still the best mother I could have asked for. She loved me with the fierceness of a lioness, and I’ll protect her to my last dying breath.

Whether she knows who I am or not.

****

Luca has summoned me to his office.

I’d love to tell him to go fuck himself, but I don’t dare. I’ve managed to avoid him since our little run-in in the janitor’s closet, but I knew I couldn’t avoid him forever. As I walk toward his office, construction noise echoes through the halls. Luca has kept his promise to begin renovations. Still, as loud as the jackhammers and drills are, the blood pounding through my veins seems louder.

I’m dreading this meeting because I’m sure I know what it’s about. Tomorrow night is our game against Chicago. I know in my gut the bastard is going to want me to throw the game. We just came off a four game losing streak and have one win under our belt. We need more wins before we lose another game or our chances of being in the playoffs will be lost. I need to talk him out of this somehow, but I have no clue how.

His door is open, but I knock anyway. “Come in.” Luca stands at the window overlooking the practice rink, hands clasped behind his back. His reflection watches me in the glass. “Close the door.”

I do, noting the new furniture, and the lingering smell of paint. The previous owner’s office is undergoing a metamorphosis. The familiar floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, offering a commanding view of the practice rink below, but he’s replaced the pine desk that was there with a massive, dark walnut monstrosity.

A vintage bar cart holds crystal decanters of what I’m sure is top-shelf liquor, while construction supplies clutter one corner. The old trophy case still displays team memorabilia, though now it shares space with an intricate bronze wolf statue that looks like an antique. I frown at that odd addition, wondering why it’s there and what it’s supposed to symbolize.

There’s a big oil painting of Italy on the far wall, and directly to the side of it the wall is stripped bare to the studs, wires hanging loose like veins. A ladder leans against a corner where a crew must’ve been working on a light fixture before knocking off for the day. The carpet’s been ripped up, exposing raw concrete, and there’s a faint smell of sawdust in the air.

I’m surprised to see an old Ice Hawks jersey draped over the back of his chair. It’s not new merchandise, it’s vintage, the kind of thing a true fan wouldn’t part with easily. The fabric is faded, the team’s logo a little cracked from age. Is that jersey his or was it left behind by the old owners? As disinterested as Luca is with our team, I decide it must be the old owners property, until I spot a hockey playbook half-hidden under a blueprint for what looks like a bar renovation. Is Luca actually interested in hockey?

He turns and notices I’m staring at the hockey playbook. “Research,” he says brusquely.

I scowl. “Why would you need a playbook? You gonna start calling plays for us? You replacing Coach Baker?”

He sighs and walks toward me. “There’s nothing wrong with understanding the sport.”

“Why would you need to understand anything? We’re the ones doing all the work.”

“Because, Evan.” His tone is like something you’d use on a toddler who’s throwing a temper tantrum. “Then I have a better idea of what you’re doing out there on the ice. If I don’t understand the plays, you could lie to me too easily.”

“You’re the only liar in the room,” I say coldly.

His cheek twitches, but instead of coming back at me harshly, he says, “We need to discuss the game against Chicago.”

“What’s to discuss? We’re going to go out and play our asses off like we always do.” I life my chin, challenging him to dispute what I just said.

He studies me, his eyes dark and unfriendly. “I don’t know why you think you’re the one calling the shots. You’re not.”

“I’m the one playing hockey, so if you want to lose the game, get suited up, grab a stick, and throw the fucking game yourself because I ain’t doing it.”

His jaw clenches. “So I guess you’ve decided Noah is expendable?”

A chill goes through me as I hold his gaze. “No, of course not. But I don’t think you’re going to actually murder one of the most valuable players on our team. That could hurt our chances of winning games you want us to win.”

“Maybe I’ll just worry about that later. I want you to lose against Chicago anyway, so not having Noah around will just make that easier.” He moves closer, and my heart rate inches up.

“We play to win,” I say through gritted teeth. “Don’t you understand? It’s in our blood. We don’t lose on purpose, Luca. We’re not built like that.”

“I don’t give a fuck about how you’re built,” he growls. “Two goals. That’s the spread we’d prefer. A regulation loss by at least two goals.”

“No.” I wince at the furious glare he throws at me. He inches even closer and I feel sweat beading on my forehead. “Let us throw some other game, not this one. This game is important, Luca.”

“I have millions riding on this.” Despite his enraged expression, his voice stays eerily calm. “A decisive Chicago win won’t raise any flags. They’re first in the conference, we’re barely holding onto ninth place.”

“We’re three points out of a playoff spot,” I grate out. “Every game matters now.”

“I’ll decide whether you make the playoffs or not,” he says softly.

“We won’t get there if you make us lose against Chicago.”

“Who are you kidding?” he sneers. “Odds are Chicago’s going to beat you guys anyway. They’re first in the conference, with a 62% win rate this season. Their top line’s been unstoppable, and their power play is the best in the league. Let’s face it, it’s a no-brainer that they’re going to crush you guys. All I need you to do is let it happen.”

I clench my fists, refusing to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. “And yet we’ve beaten better teams before,” I say tightly. “We’re barely holding on to ninth place, sure, but we’ve got a shot. We’re only two points out of eighth, and if we win this game, we’re that much closer to playoffs. Throwing a game now screws us completely.”

Luca snorts, unimpressed. “Your shot is a pipe dream, and you know it. Chicago’s won six straight, and their goalie has a .920 save percentage. Meanwhile, your team barely scraped by with a win against the Bay City Blazers, and they’re twelfth in the standings. Do you really think you’ve got a chance?”

I open my mouth to respond when it hits me that Luca has been discussing hockey like he actually knows what he’s talking about. He knows the stats of the other teams. For someone who supposedly bought this team to use us as pawns, Luca sure knows a hell of a lot about hockey. It’s unsettling, honestly.

“How do you know so much about all the teams?” I ask gruffly.

His jaw tenses, but he just shrugs. “I own a hockey team now. I’ve been brushing up.”

“You memorized all the NHL team’s stats in a fucking week?” I say, watching him suspiciously. “I’m not buying it.”

“It’s not illegal to know something about hockey, Evan.” His laugh is raspy.

“Okay, so you know more about hockey than you let on. No idea why you hid that, but that means you realize that if we manage to win against Chicago, we truly do have a shot at the playoffs.”

“You won’t win,” he snarls. “This is a perfect game to throw. No one will have any reason to suspect you threw the game. No one but you thinks you’ll win.”

“And I say we have a shot so long as you let us really play. Let us wait to lose some games. Bet on us to win, and with the odds the way they are, you’ll make a lot of money,” I say hoarsely. “If we clinch a playoff spot, we’re guaranteed to compete in the postseason. That’s good or you too, Luca. It’s way better than if we don’t make the playoffs. The payoff for you will be bigger if we’re in the playoffs, you must know that.”

He doesn’t respond but he also doesn’t look anywhere near convinced.

I blow out a shaky breath. “Listen, just give us this shot. Once we have our spot, I’ll do what you ask. We’re so fucking close, Luca.”

His eyes flicker and I think for one moment I’ve gotten through, but then he says coldly, “You don’t tell me how to run my operation.”

My heart drops. “I’m not trying to tell you how to run anything. I’m asking you to work with me so that we can both get with we want.”

His lip curls. “I don’t need to work with you to get what I want.”

“No, I know, but—”

He’s next to me before I even realize he’s moved. He clamps his hand around my throat, and I gasp for air as he tightens his fingers around my windpipe. I struggle and try to kick him, but he took me completely by surprise. He pushes me off balance and walks me back until my ass bumps into his desk.

He pushes his face into mine, hissing, “We’re done talking. You will do as I say or I’ll slit Noah’s throat. You think I’m kidding?”

I look into his murky eyes and the violence and rage I see there makes ice run through my veins. There is no doubt in my mind he’ll kill Noah. If I say one more word about winning against Chicago, Noah will die. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

“Fine,” I whisper, stars appearing on the edge of my vision. He’s cutting off my oxygen and if he doesn’t let go soon, I’m going to pass out. “I’ll throw the fucking game,” I manage to choke out.

He lets go of me and I fall to my knees, coughing.

“Smart decision,” he says, flexing his fingers open and closed. “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

I stumble to my feet, so angry I can’t see straight. But I’m no match for Luca. I’m not a violent person by nature, and even if I was, he has an entire syndicate behind him. I leave his office, ashamed that I failed my teammates. They look up to me. They follow me and trust me to protect them and do what’s best for them.

Instead of fulfilling my duty as captain of the Ice Hawks, tomorrow night, I’m going to be the enemy. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.