The captain is the hard ass you’d expect him to be with a title like captain, bolstered by the fact that all his sons call him Captain, usually, or sir. My parents are so opposite, it’s hard to believe they’re a match sometimes. But man do they love each other. It’s an impossible standard to live up to, which was a contributing factor to me giving up after Rhett. If it wasn’t going to work with Rhett, it wasn’t going to work with anyone.
But maybe this was how it was supposed to be. I won’t get drafted this year either and I can crawl back to Rhett, beg him to take me back, and sell linen dolls on Etsy while I watch all the babies or something.
Blech.
Anyway.
The captain held me with his stern gaze. Man, he’s intimidating sometimes, and rumor has it he’s easiest on me because I’m the baby of the family. My brothers always say that. It’s hard to believe it’s true.
“We don’t want to be the parents who don’t support your dreams—you know we do support you—but we also want you to build a future for yourself.”
Okay, I guess thatwasnice now that I’ve had the space to think about it some more. He’s more direct with everyone else and he plain woulda said to them, “This hockey thing’s not panning out. You need to get your shit together before it’s too late.”
“I know, sir. You’ve been great.” My parents have never been very permissive, but they’re always supportive and generally awesome. I know I’ve been leeching off them for longer than I should be. Nicholas—older brother number one—likes to point that out. He’s not wrong and he’s worried that the captain will see fit to ship me off to the military like he did with Damien (older brother number two).
They’re twins.
He can’t make me of course, but I’d go because I’m way too much of a parent pleaser—especially the captain.
In the captain’s defense, Damien returned after his five-year commitment with purpose. He’s still him—you can’t train the mischief out of him—but less chaotic.
“This is the last year we’re going to fund your hockey career for your own good. This will be your sixth year past high school. You’d almost be a doctor by now—you had the grades for it, and I’ve certainly spent the same amount of money on living expenses and travel.”
I know that too. It’s been said. It was also clear that he felt guilty about pulling the plug—he wanted so bad for me to get drafted—but I get it, it’s a severe drain on the finances. He made good money, saved, and made some other wise investments when he was working, and he gets an okay Captain’s pension, but it’s far from Elkington rich. I can’t keep living off their retirement fund. I want to see them go on the trips they’d planned and finally get to do the things they couldn’t do while raising us.
“It’s not just the money, we want you to be set for life. We want you to build a life you’re proud of for your own self-worth and fulfillment. We don’t want you to miss the boat, son.”
I’m mature enough to know how reasonable they are saying something like that. My utter disappointment is in myself for failing. I’d come so close. Once upon a time, I was at the top of my game.
I’ve let the Rhett thing kill my spark. I’m lucky to still be on the team with how shitty my stats are.
Running my hands through my hair, I remind myself of the captain—he does it when he’s stressed too. Everyone calls me his mini-me, but I don’t deserve the title. He’s amazing. I was lucky enough to get his DNA and some of his mannerisms. I’ll never live up to the Leslie name.
“The fuck is your problem, Leslie?” Dirk says.
“Nothing. Are we there yet?”
“Not even close. Why don’t you go lay down? You’re killing the vibe.”
I might as well. There hasn’t been reception for the last twenty clicks and I’m tired of looking out of this window, feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I can masturbate and think of Mercy. He was the lay of a lifetime.
I usually forget them, but I can’t forget him.
I flinch when my phone pings with all the messages it missed while it couldn’t speak to the big phone in the sky. There are messages in the family group chat. Nothing spectacular, just wanting to make sure I’m alive.
And then there’s one from Rhett. My heart stutters. My skin prickles. I swear I smell the ghost of his Tom Ford cologne.
“It’s the beginning of the season and I’m thinking about you. Say you’ll be out there watching me.”
I finger the screen as if I can touch him from where I sit at the rinky-dink RV table in what passes for a kitchen. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to happen. I don’t get drafted, and I have to pick some other career anyway. If so, I might as well pick up a New York Eagles foam hand and finally tell Rhett that yes, I’ll be his stay-at-home husband.
It hurts more to stop loving him than it does to keep loving him, so I don’t bother trying to stop anymore.
But ooooh how I tried for a solid six months. Dad called me the angry caterpillar because I wrapped myself in a green blanket from head to foot and stayed that way, snapping at everyone. That phase only lasted two weeks because Other Dad, the one who will lovingly kick your ass, physically removed me from my cozy burrito and shoved me under a shower head streaming what I still swear were icicles. Haven’t a clue how he got the water so damn cold in July.
That was fine. It was time to get out of the house anyway. I got a Benduovr account. I wasn’t all that careful and it’s a miracle I’m not dead or riddled with STI’s. The captain knew I was spiraling so he instated a curfew that stuck for several weeks.
That was hell. When he finally trusted that I wasn’t going to drink myself into a gutter, he lifted the curfew, but he didn’t order a ceasefire on micromanaging my life, which everyone did until … well they haven’t stopped.
