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JACK | APRIL

When it comes to being an asshole, it takes one to know one.

This guy definitely was one.

He’d been yelling at what I assumed was his wife and son for about three minutes over why they both neglected to bring hockey tape. It was a tense scene in the dank hallway of my kids’ rink, their poorly-managed stinky gear giving even this nice rink that signature hockey smell.

With this dad yelling, every other parent was doing the “try not to look but I’m for sure looking” thing.

I didn’t pretend not to look. I was staring this guy down, hoping he’d get the hint to fuck off.

“Bryce, I just forgot to get more,” his wife objected, wincing as she balanced a baby on her hip. She looked to be in the kind of mood where she wasn’t sure if she was going to cry or find a way to get him whacked in the head with a frozen puck.

I would have gladly fired the puck at this guy. Losing a tooth or ten might’ve done him some good. He was being a goon-ass fuckwad.

Which again: takes one to know one.

Maybe I’m like Robin Hood for regulating assholes. Or like those murderers who go after other murderers.

To be clear, I was not a murderer. Just a pro hockey player in my dwindling years of play, a happily single dad, and as mentioned before, an asshole.

“Aspen, why didn’t you tell us you ran out of tape?” the guy yelled.

I turned to my daughter, Harper. “Is that your buddy from school?”

She mumbled out a quiet, “Yes.”

“That’s not his responsibility. We all forgot to get more. I’m sure your socks will stay up—” the wife tried.

“They won’t!” the dad barked. “I’m going to see if the pro shop is open.”

The asshole stormed off toward the pro shop and the kids’ coach popped out into the lobby, calling the kids in to play. That sweet little boy’s eyes watered as his mom helped him to his feet and ushered him to stand with the rest of the team.

I couldn’t take it anymore. “Introduce me to your friend,” I said to Harper. Harper wobbled over in her skates and massive Junior Princes gear with me hot on her heels.

“Aspen, this is my daddy!” Harper announced.

I knelt in front of him because time was not on our side, and the poor kid didn’t need any more attention called to him. “Hey, buddy. I’m Jack. I heard you might need some tape?”

The kid nodded, his helmet already on and his face so tiny behind the cage.

“Here, prop your foot up on me,” I said, slapping my thigh. “Let’s tape you up.”

I worked quickly, taping first one, then the other sock over his shin pads. “Looks like somebody laced your skates good, eh?”

The kid beamed. “My daddy used to play hockey.”

“You don’t say,” I said, smashing my gum between my molars.

Look, I don’t pretend to be some mamby pamby warm and fuzzy hockey dad. But I’m not as bad as guys like this kid’s dad. Did I perhaps expect too much of my daughter when she was on the ice? Maybe, but it was born from excitement. I loved seeing the sport anew through her eyes, and my son was just learning to skate.

What I’d never do is bitch out my wife and kid, not even my goblin of an ex-wife, for something as silly as forgetting a roll of tape. That’s a flavor of hockey parent I was determined never to be. I knew the hurt that kind of attitude brought, the pressure to do more than your shit for shit dad did, lest you disappoint the entire family. I’d never wish that on my kids.

Or any kid.

I felt watched, and flicked my gaze up to see Aspen’s mom eyeing us with knit brows and red cheeks. Her overgrown red bangs dangled into her blue eyes, but there was no hiding the shame and sadness that lurked there. She looked like a punk rock girl who grew up and went corporate, worn down by life and well, probably her piece of shit husband, if I had to guess. My attention snapped back to Aspen as I ripped the tape, stood, and patted his shoulder. “There you go, kid. Have a good game.”

The kids shuffled into the rink and the parents lurched behind them, headed to watch from the bleachers. I got a tap on my shoulder, expecting it to be Sorrento or Romelski. Their kids were in the same Learn to Play program and we often spent practices shoulder to shoulder with our arms crossed, watching the kids from along the goal line.

But it wasn’t Sorrento or Romelski. It was that douche nozzle who melted down over a roll of tape. All traces of the rage in his face were gone, now replaced with some overzealous smile.

“Hey, aren’t you Jack Leroy?”

“Far as I know,” I grumbled.

He stuck his hand out, which I stared at before giving it a reluctant shake. “Bryce Canton. I’m a big fan. I’ll admit I’m a little starstruck seeing you and Sorrento and Rome here every week.”

“Okay,” I said.

He fumbled over his words. “And thanks for taping Aspen. That really came in clutch.”

I turned, ready to give him my full attention and probably cuss him out too. My Nickelback-fueled rage demon told me to punch him right between the eyes.

But I saw his wife holding his other kid in the bleachers and decided for her sake, I needed to let it slide. She didn’t need any more shit than she’d already taken, and if I did what I wanted to do, he’d probably take it home with him and blame it on her somehow.

I rolled my lips between my teeth, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “It’s just tape.”