My dad drowned his sorrows in vodka for as long as I can remember. Those sorrows included losing his wife and my mother to cancer when I was just three years old and Cam was eight, as well as not being good enough to make it into the NHL. He floundered around the minors for a few years before he was released from his contract. That was about the time good old Dad decided Cameron and I were going to be professional hockey players.

Fortunately for Cameron—yes, fortunately—he had no natural talent, and after playing only one season, he was promptly forgotten and Dad turned all his attention on me.

Beyond getting my dad a ticket to the game, the other obligation I had to fulfill was meeting him for dinner. I could have come up with some excuse or another to bag out on him, but I made myself go. I made myself suffer his presence for an hour, so I could remind myself why I would never let him completely into my life again.

Dinner started off as well as could be expected. We talked about his part-time job delivering newspapers, which was okay for about five minutes. Then that turned into a bitch-fest, during which he sucked down a double vodka tonic. This led to him complaining that I wasn’t sending enough money to live on, despite the fact that I pretty much pay all of his bills. His part-time job was to buy his liquor, because I wasn’t about to support that habit. I held firm in my refusal to send him some extra cash each month, which made him angry and caused him to suck down another double shot.

By the time our food and his third drink arrived, we got down to brass tacks and talked about the game.

“Your ‘C’ cuts are looking sloppy,” he told me, his words clear and sure. He wouldn’t start slurring until about the sixth drink, and hopefully we’d be done with dinner before then.

“Duly noted,” I said, because it didn’t do any good to argue with him.

“And your wrist shot is weak. You’re not transferring your weight quick enough.”

“That’s exactly what my coach said,” I agree, even though Coach said no such thing. My wrist shot is f**king perfect. Got me a hat trick tonight as a matter of fact, but I didn’t bother pointing that out either.

“Stop humoring me,” my dad growled. “Fucking man up and admit your weaknesses.”

I watched my dad for a moment as he glared at me. Red spider veins shone angry against the pale skin of his nose, his cheeks flushed cherry from the vodka and his temper. He was a f**king alcoholic who was angry at the world and angry with me because he wants what I have.

These meetings between my dad and me never ended well, because there would always come a point where I would get tired of his harassment and let him have it.

Leaning across the table, I spoke quietly for only his ears. “You want me to man up, Dad? How about this—I’m f**king tired of you taking out your woes on me.”

“What?” my dad sputtered. “I’m not taking my woes out on you. I’m making you a great player. I made you what you are today.”

“Yeah, Dad,” I said urgently, leaning in a little farther. “You did make me what I am today. A f**king professional hockey player who f**king hates playing hockey. But imagine what you could have created if you’d given a little bit of praise…a little bit of affirmation. You made me hate this game. You and you alone.”

“You love the game as much as I do,” my dad scoffed, slurping heavily on his fourth double vodka.

“No, Dad, I don’t. You made me despise it, the way I despise sitting here listening to your drunken shit.”

My dad had never been one to take criticism. His already red cheeks blistered hotter and he seethed, “You should be thanking me for all I’ve done. You’d be nothing without me.”

I looked at my dad and tried to find an ounce of sympathy for him, but my heart was black with bitterness and rage. Standing from the table, I threw a couple hundred-dollar bills down. “I am nothing, Dad. And that’s solely because of you.”

***

When I make it back to my hotel room, I strip down to my boxers and crawl on top of the bed. Our flight to Montreal leaves early and I’m exhausted. Not from the game, not from the beer and a half I had, but from dealing with my dad. He takes it out of me like nothing else can.

Reaching over to the nightstand, I grab my iPhone where I had left it charging prior to the game. Turning it on, I see there’s already a voice mail from my dad. I hit the “Play” button and listen.

He definitely must have had his sixth drink before calling because his voice is slurred and almost unintelligible. But I’ve had years of listening to drunk John Crossman, so I was able to translate.

Alex…buddy. I’m sorry. I tried the best I could. You know that, right? I only wanted you to be the best. And you could be, if you just tighten up a little bit. Put more hours in—

I hit the delete button without listening to the rest. That zebra will never change his stripes. My dad was never good enough, no matter how hard he tried or how much he practiced. Now he’s projected that on to me. I’ll never be good enough for my dad’s expectations, but that’s his cross to bear, not mine. I just wish Dad realized I was good enough.

I mean, hello…NHL career here.

Flipping over to my texts, my heart starts hammering when I see one from Sutton. It’s actually a series of three texts.

I just learned what a hat trick was. Congrats!

Just for good measure, I ran into my bedroom, grabbed my Durham Bulls baseball hat, and threw it at the TV.

You were amazing tonight.