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David’s son can’t hold a cutlery knife, but can fire a whistling slapshot. Still needs David to tie his laces by the time Mites start tripping him where Zebras won’t see. By Pee Wee years, they’re gunning for his ankles. David knows what parents tell their children to do on-ice. Anything for an advantage.
That night: Yuna, asleep; David, vomiting. He knows hockey boys, what kind of men they become. But Shane’s so happy, and he’s—a prodigy, you know? Shouldn’t be soggy undershirts, hands pinning him down, open-mouthed, anticipating breaths, that eternal dread.
It'll be a New Hockey. Won't it?
*
The rookie’s stall nameplate is swapped out two weeks in because he’s got plush, pink lips and smiles too easy. Can’t take a hit. COCKSUCKER. David has the neatest handwriting, Captain says. You do it. It’s only David’s second year, so he writes steady when they put the marker in his hand. He’s seen the rookie choke on that same pen.
David stays behind only once, because rookie’s looking at him pitifully, asking, How long until it stops? And David doesn’t have the answer. Day after, Captain asks how the blowie was, forefinger pointedly shoved into his cheek, grinning wide.
*
He tells himself he didn’t have a choice: it’s taken from him when left-wing kisses him screwdriver-OJ-sweet and hesitant at a house party. David’s putrid insides rise up his throat. He swallows hard. Hands clenching. But then that boy says, Sorry, you’re always looking, so I thought, maybe—
and the bathroom door flies open. The vulture-eyed boys turn to David, expecting the verdict, which is easy to deliver when you tell yourself you only have one out. Dry-mouthed, say, He just fucking kissed me, shit! Left-wing’s a fucking homo.
Remember: thumb outside your fist when you swing. And that’s that.
*
Left-wing’s out. Coach, later: That guy’s no good in the room. Brings morale down, you know? And everyone in the room nods, and so does David, because he’s got the A, now. Captain slams David for losing his marker somehow. David, who’s got shaky hands these days.
But only shaky in the room. Not when he turns his palm over, Yuna’s finger tracing his calloused skin. She’s hockey all the time, too. Her eyes asking, Done talking? And he wears those eyes back to his stall. Coach’s voice, We’re done talking about it. David’s mouth split open, fish-like and useless.
*
Yuna’s hand clutching his: Has he asked about girls? David, palm up: He only asks about hockey.
And it’s not a conversation so much as David keeping fresh clothes in his trunk, pinching snot off with his fingers—what can I do, dad? Cortisone shot for a bumpy ankle, eight-hour drives at one a.m for tryouts.
She knows, of course. Like she knew when she fetched David from that party: knuckles bleeding, black-eyed, swell-lipped mouth tasting of pissy beer. His first exhausting cry. She didn’t ask him then, a quiet consideration, but has to now, because this is their son.
*
Their son, who is kissing a man.
He’s given Shane this: a fine-tuned washing routine for pungent shoulder pads; a body off the ice between Shane and prowling, snapping parents; Shane in his car, taut-lipped, asking, How long until it stops? Jersey in his lap, creamy stains, small body hunched over. David wonders where he failed him. Was it that first pair of skates? Or taking the marker? It hadn’t been enough back then to wipe blood from Shane’s chin—it should’ve been on David, too.
So, he gives Shane this, now: The charger wasn’t there, honey. I’ll go back tomorrow.