Page 9

Leo

The game is in the second period by the time I arrive. I flew from Montreal to meet the team in Minnesota. The schedule is brutal, but I’m making it work.

The score is tied at one, and the teams are playing with urgency, as if it’s the final seconds of the game. Everyone is giving it their all.

Coach nods, and I maneuver down the bench, closer to Benz. He’s pumping up the third line as they prepare to take their shift. Benz has taken on a leadership role for the team’s morale, and I would bet he’s unaware. It’s difficult not to stare at the way his smile and humor inspire everyone.

“How are they doing?” I ask Caleb.

“They’re playing better than the score says. We got this.” He cheers for a great defensive play, then faces me. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Since I don’t have a response, I focus on helping. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m all good.” He hip-checks me to get by, and my body comes alive. To prevent my attraction from becoming public, I turn to the game.

The first line tumbles over the wall onto the bench, and Benz is there with the support staff, making sure they have water and fist-bumping them. Then he turns his attention to the second line and points out weaknesses in Minnesota’s defense that they can take advantage of.

Once Mason’s over the wall, my eyes track his every move. He’s fast, and his passes are crisp, on the mark. King’s shot is deflected, and Mace can’t get his stick on it before the defender scoops it up and clears it.

The second period ends in a tie, and the team needs the break.

During the intermission, I wonder what my purpose is here. Ari doesn’t expect me to fly from my games in Montreal to the Enforcers’ games, but I still booked a flight knowing I’d miss half the game.

Being here makes no sense unless I acknowledge the part of me I locked away. And I won’t, since it wants Caleb.

The team is rejuvenated for the third period. Drake wins the face-off and races down the ice, passing back and forth to Lucky and Ace. Their speed has taken the defense off guard, and Ace goes top shelf, scoring over the goalie’s shoulder.

Minnesota scores in the next minute, tying the game again. It’s a strange feeling to not be in control of the outcome. This isn’t my team, but I have the same desire for them to win for my son. And for Caleb, who paces, giving praise and checking on his guys.

Mason scores but is slow to get up. I hold my breath, watching his leg as he skates to the bench.

He and Grayson argue, and he reluctantly takes off his skates and nods his head. I resist the urge to barge over there. He’s an adult and doesn’t need me.

“He’s tough,” Benz says, standing next to me.

“I’ve never worried before,” I say, and he nods as if he understands and lays a comforting hand on my shoulder, but the implications are terrible. I haven’t seen him get hurt or witnessed the pain on his face. The highlights show his best, and I never questioned if he struggled while doing it.

Minnesota takes advantage of one of our defenders shielding Liska’s sightlines and scores again.

Benz clenches his jaw. “That’s not on Liska.”

“No, it’s not,” I agree.

“We have to fix that.” He stalks away a few steps to make sure morale is high.

Despite Benz’s best efforts to keep everyone hyped up, the defense breaks down again and the Enforcers lose the game.

Mason’s in the training room for longer than I expect. Most of the team’s showered and ready to board the bus.

I knock on the door, and Mason’s face falls when he sees me. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m checking in to see if it’s anything serious.” I watch as Grayson manipulates his leg.

“No, I mean, why are you in Minnesota?” He winces, and Gray changes the pressure.

“I work with the team,” I say. The anger in his voice confuses me.

Grayson gives Mace instructions for the night, and they set up a physical therapy session. Then Gray ducks out and closes the door behind him, undoubtedly feeling the tension between us.

“Everything is about a job to you, isn’t it?” Mason sneers.

“Not everything,” I say, but he keeps talking.

“It’s amazing how you found time because it’s your job, but last year—my rookie season, when I started—you couldn’t find the time to come to one goddamn game. Not one.” He snatches his pads off the floor.

“You said you understood,” I reply lamely because I don’t have an excuse except I didn’t think Mason wanted me to come, which, in hindsight, means I put the blame on him.

“Just like I understood all the other times. You missed my entire life, and now you show up for a job and I’m supposed to act like everything is okay. Well, I’m not okay with it. The press won’t shut up about you. Now you’re ruining the one thing I had for myself.”

Each word hits me harder. Every time I’d ignored his disappointment when he said it was fine I couldn’t make it to an event.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask.

“What would you say if Grandpa said he couldn’t go to your game? I’ll never beg you for attention you’re not willing to give. I was a kid who just wanted his dad to show up one fucking time, and you never did. So what are you doing here now, acting like you care?” He storms out.

All the small things plaguing my mind explode to the forefront.

I’ve known all along I missed important events in my son’s life, but I felt justified because he understood I was building a legacy.

But a legacy is worthless if it’s all I have.

Mason doesn’t care about my hockey stats or career saves.

He cares that his dad couldn’t be bothered to show up.

My stubbornness prevented me from realizing my mistake. I missed his high school graduation ceremony but showed up for the party, yet I can’t remember what was so important to keep me from his monumental milestone.

An assistant coach yells that the bus is leaving for the hotel in five minutes, and I find my way to my rental car.

First thing, I should quit this consulting job and watch games as Mason’s dad. He’s right, if I can attend games for a job, I can watch my son play.

With determination, I decide to make a concerted effort to listen to Mason and what he wants. That’s been my problem. I’ve dictated our relationship and dismissed any signs he hasn’t been happy with my decisions.

The bus lumbers toward the hotel, and I follow; the lobby is empty since they arrived yesterday.

Ari Dimon’s in the hotel bar with a few executives. Any decisions I make require his approval. After getting checked into my room, I wheel my overnight bag toward his table. The lights are low, and the seats are faux leather, emulating an upscale club.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but when you’re available, I’d like to speak to you. Should I ask Wes to schedule an appointment?” I ask.

“Have a seat. We’re wrapping up and licking our wounds. We could use an outside perspective.” He motions to the empty seat at the table.

I greet the others but don’t offer my opinion until they ask.

“You’re our goalie expert. What do you think of Liska’s performance?”

I review the defense’s breakdowns. “Your goalie isn’t your issue.” I don’t shy away from Ari’s displeased stare.

Ari raps the wooden table with his knuckles. “That’s a fair assessment. The right defender will provide an improvement, but I haven’t found someone who fits the team dynamic. We sent players back down to the AHL for a reason.”

We make small talk for a few more minutes before the others leave.

Ari reclines in his seat and runs a finger along the rim of his whiskey glass. “Why do I have the feeling you have bad news for me?”

He’s excellent at reading people.

“I’ve made a mistake in joining the team as a consultant. It’s not the team, but it’s hurting my attempt to reconcile with my son,” I confess.

“I see,” he says and waits for me to continue.

It’s hard to admit my failings as a father, but I owe Ari an explanation for backing out of our deal.

He listens attentively, then steeples his fingers.

“I won’t argue with your logic.” He pauses, and I brace for what he has to say next.

“But the gossip sites and online press in New York are relentless. Even if you do an interview and reveal your reasons for taking the job and then leaving it with your heart on your sleeve—which is not your style—people will dig into your past.” He goes on to explain all the negative outcomes of leaving.

I deflate as oxygen leaves my body in a whoosh. The media’s reaction never occurred to me.

“I suggest talking to Mason and figuring out what will work best. I don’t mind not paying your consultant fee while allowing you to keep your team credentials.” He grins with a raised eyebrow.

“I owe you my assessment before we negotiate a zero fee.” I fold my hands and lean forward.

“Benz has unique skills, which are the opposite of mine. He plays on instinct and intuition, whereas I studied patterns and used players’ statistical probabilities for shots.

He’s important in your locker room for emotional support.

Liska keeps to himself,” I say honestly.

Ari remains silent, thinking. Caleb’s been flourishing with his new routine, and I secretly enjoy the messages he sends for accountability. I don’t reply but like his texts.

“He can compartmentalize and play at the level you need.” Benz deserves my professional opinion.

“Do you think he can withstand the pressure of becoming the starter and carrying the team?” He’s leaned in, so we’re speaking quietly, inches apart.

“There are no guarantees with anyone. We’ve both seen men who were bred to be NHL players choke and fizzle out while the least likely rise to the top. Benz is a solid bet. I believe he’s capable.” I hold eye contact so he understands I’m staking my reputation on my words.

Ari leans back and takes a sip of his drink. “Time will tell.”

It will. I’m not a man who lets emotion guide his decisions, and I hope I haven’t miscalculated by doing it now. It would devastate Mason if Caleb got traded. And Caleb. My emotions surrounding him are a tangled mess, best left hidden since he’s off-limits.

However, the part I’ve pushed aside rejoices over potentially having more interaction with Caleb.