Page 4 of Off Side
SAM
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the familiar driveway and looking at the opulent white house I spent so much time growing up in but haven’t visited in over a year. Knowing my grandpa passed away here sends my heart into my throat and makes my eyes burn. I need to face this and get through it in one piece.
The driveway has been recently paved, and it seems like the horses are doing well, too. All four of them are in the field and lift their heads to see who has arrived before going back to their grazing. A small furry body pokes his head out of the barn and bolts for the fence.
EEEAWW, EEEAWW
I laugh out loud as Jack, the donkey, comes running out as the official greeter. Who needs a doorbell when you own a loud donkey? Fanny, his best friend, also trots over, but she lets him make all the noise as she watches with her big brown eyes. I get out of my truck and walk over to them. Jack is like an overgrown dog and swishes his tail the closer I get, recognizing me, which makes me happy.
“Hey there, Jack. How are you, buddy? I’ve missed you.” I scratch him behind the ears, and he gives a honky sigh. Fanny slides over for the same treatment, and I spend a few minutes loving on them.
Grandpa actually bought the donkeys without me knowing and kept them at a friend’s farm for a few months to surprise me when I passed my Level IV officiating exam. That designation opened the travelling doors and had me leaving the safety of Grandpa’s place and on to Minnesota, where I could officiate high level games to gain more experience and attend university at the same time. It is where I spent the best of times and worst of times of my young life. Back then, I left a pair of cuddly asses on a farm to meet a whole whack of actual asses. It wasn’t a great trade off.
“Jack, it’s time for me to go and face the hard shit inside. I will come see you later. I won’t be going anywhere for a while now, buddy.” He lets out a final honk like he understands and walks back out to the pasture with Fanny close behind. They are a close pair, and I envy them. How sad is that? I am wishing for a partnership like my donkeys have.
God, I think I’m losing my mind. I turn and head back to the house, stopping to grab a small suitcase out of my truck. I’ll get the rest later. I take a deep breath and bring out my keys to open the door, my hands shaking as they unlock it, and I enter.
My first shock is that it has been freshly cleaned, and the smell of a hospital isn’t lingering. My second shock is that it appeared someone has been here recently, and there is a crock pot of stew simmering in the kitchen. The lawyer didn’t say anyone was staying here, so who is planning on coming back for dinner?
I walk over to the pot and lift the lid. Damn, it smells delicious, and I haven’t eaten a home cooked meal in a very long time. There is also a fresh loaf of bread on top of the stove. Who the heck do I owe for this welcome? I wonder. Before I get too far with facing all the crap waiting for me, I’m going to dig in. I locate the bowls where they have always been and scoop a giant dish of steaming beef stew. I cut off two large chunks of the bread, smothering them with butter. My mouth is watering already. I bring it all over to the table and rummage through the fridge for my favourite alcoholic cooler. Grandpa always kept three for me in the fridge, just in case, as he would say. It also looks like someone has stocked the fridge for me.
God bless the close-knit friends of my grandpa for doing this for me. It gives me more space to breathe and settle in, knowing what will be coming. I cracked the tab of my cooler and dug into the stew. I moan after the first spoonful. God, it is so tender and delicious. The meat melts in my mouth. And the bread…wow. I devour the bowl and bread and chug the cooler. Comfort food is totally what I needed to get on with this. One of the church ladies who was sweet on Grandpa probably snuck in to do all this. I will have to find out and make sure I thank her. Maybe even hire her to do this periodically, too. God knows I can’t cook worth a shit, and I will struggle to keep a house this big clean.
I put the bowl in the sink, grab my suitcase and make a beeline up the stairs to my old room, which is also freshly cleaned. I can smell the spring rain scented fabric softener coming from the bedding, and I smile. Throwing my suitcase onto the bed, I strip out of my travel clothes and walk to the ensuite bathroom. It is sparkling, and the shower still has my usual strawberry shampoo and soaps in it. I let the water run to heat the bathroom and feel the comfort of simply being here again. This house holds so many significant memories. The donkeys, the horses, it all combines to make me feel like I am wrapping myself in a large blanket of love.
I step under the hot spray and wash away my travel grime. When Grandpa passed away a mere two weeks ago, it threw my life into an even bigger upheaval. He told no one in the family about his cancer until it forced him into hospice care and he became bedridden. He didn’t want anyone to be sad or fussing over him. I talked to him every Sunday like clockwork for years. Not once did I suspect anything was wrong. He mentioned doctor appointments and feeling tired and stuff like that, but nothing that sounded serious. Because he was protecting me.
Always my protector. I wish he had told me when he found out. I would have dropped everything to be here and help him. After everything he did for me over the years, I would have gladly put my life on hold to be there in his last days. He had only been home four short days before he was gone. My dad, Mom, and my uncle came as soon as they could and stayed. Grandpa didn’t want a funeral. He had it all prearranged. He was cremated and, in the spring, he is going to be interred in the cemetery where my grandmother is. No pomp or circumstance. That was it.
My dad and his brother went to the lawyer about the estate, and Grandpa made it all very easy for them. There is a second part of the will which pertains to me, though I still haven’t learned all the terms and conditions. We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow to go over everything. What I do know from the lawyer is that it was Grandpa’s wish for me to take over the junior hockey team he owned, the Nickel City Bandits, as the coach. Mr. Burns, the lawyer, made that very clear. Apparently, I need to finish the year as the head coach before any decisions dealing with the team are made. Grandpa owned the team, but he took a hands-on approach and never appointed a head coach. He had two assistants who usually ran things behind the bench, and Grandpa kept his hand in it as a coach from afar. He never actually worked the bench. It was a very non-standard approach, but it worked. The assistants worked well with the arrangement, and the players also seemed to like it. Grandpa was a larger-than-life figure when he was involved with hockey. I’m guessing putting me as head coach is his way of staying involved even after his death and to prove some kind of point. I suppose Mr. Burns will clarify it all for me tomorrow.
Why Grandpa believed I can coach a junior team is beyond me. But I won’t deny that man anything, even now that he’s gone. I loved him too much to let him down.
I finally finish my shower and wrap up my hair in a towel and dig out some clean clothes. I will need to get all my other things in from the truck tonight, and then I can start settling in. It’s only mid-September, and the season is about to start, so I’m going to be staying for a while. I put on a pair of comfy leggings and my favorite old T-shirt. It has a picture of a giant piece of cheese and says, That’s what cheese head, on it. I laugh every time I wear it. Wisconsin and Minnesota have a huge football rivalry. Even though I lived on the Minnesota side, I was a total Green Bay fan and wore my cheese head with pride
Pulling my hair into a messy bun to prevent my shirt from getting soaked, I head to the stairs, but I stop when I notice the spare room door is open and a light is on. Weird, I would have noticed if it was on when I came up here. I peek inside in time to hear the water in the ensuite bathroom turn off. Who the hell is here and showering? Looking around the room, I can see they have lived it in for a while. The bed is unmade, and there are clothes on the floor. Lots of pictures in frames line up across the top of the dresser. A little boy, maybe ten-years-old, beaming and holding a hockey trophy. Another one is of the same boy with someone who appears to be a teammate. In another one, the cute boy is much older with a horse and…my grandpa? Who the hell is this kid? He doesn’t look familiar to me at all. I walk over to the desk and find a laptop with a sticky note on it. Written in big block letters is my name with a question mark beside it. What the hell is this all about?
DREW
I park close to the barn and flash the truck lights. Four gigantic bodies move quickly to the barn, and I can hear the whinnies, which makes me smile. I’ve never been as attached to anything as I am these four horses. These animals helped me get through a very dark time. Tom was the one who helped me discover my love of horses.
When I was seventeen, I crashed hard into the boards right here in this town’s rink during a rather rough hockey game. It looked innocent enough, but I hit the boards at an awkward angle and went down in a heap, completely knocked out. I had a dislocated shoulder and the worst thing…a hip fracture. I was seventeen-years-old, a top prospect for the upcoming draft, and I had fractured my hip. I still can’t wrap my mind around how that could happen. After six months of healing and intense therapy, I was given the news by our doctor. I had two choices, try to play again and risk a reinjury that could leave me barely able to walk let alone skate, which would also leave me in pain for the rest of my life, or I could give up hockey and contact sports, most likely allowing me to live a life free of any long-term effects. A bit of arthritis would be likely with the second option, but that is it for the most part. Talk about a life altering decision. I had no other plans except the NHL. Anything else was not a possibility. It was my dream since I was six-years-old.
When my parents heard the doctor’s choices, my mother immediately said no more hockey, it wasn’t worth the risk. My dad was not as considerate in regards to his only son. He demanded I take the risk and keep playing hockey. He had his own future dreams that included me being a million-dollar star in his eyes, and he didn’t want to see that vanish. To say he was not overly fatherly would be a gross understatement.
Against my mother’s wishes, he pulled me out of bed at 4:00 A.M. once they cleared me to skate and had me doing every damn drill under the sun to catch back up, and hopefully, still be selected in the next draft. It was on one of those mornings when I was having a bad day. Dad had pushed me too hard, and I could feel my hip aching without even taking a hit. He was apoplectic, yelling at me at how I was weak and no good and if I didn’t try harder, I’d go nowhere and be a nothing.
It was at this low point in my existence that I met Tom. He owned the rink and the junior team that played there. He was watching most of those mornings, unbeknownst to me. When dad blew his gasket, Tom decided he needed to step in, and I was grateful. Still am.
“Excuse me, Mr. Morgan,” Tom says, “but you need to stop.”
“What the hell do you know about it, Tom?” my dad sneers. “This boy needs to work on his conditioning and get back in the game if he wants any sort of future.”
“Mr. Morgan, he won’t be having much of a future if you make it to where he can’t walk. Lay off and let the boy rest.” Tom shifts his gaze from my dad to me, and I can see the sympathy in his eyes when he asks, “How much is it hurting, son?”
My father did not want me to reveal anything that Tom might disclose to scouts. He shouts at me, spit flying out of his mouth, “Don’t you dare say a fucking word, Drew. This man will not protect your best interests. If you even hint at any pain, he’s going to tell those scouts your rehab wasn’t successful and that you aren’t worthy. Don’t say a thing.”
Tom is still looking at me, waiting for my response. I can see understanding, compassion, and something more on his face. It is like he truly wants to help me. To him, this is not about a bottom line. This is about him stepping in when it is necessary.
