We enter the rink, our glasses fogging immediately as cold parking lot meets warm lobby. I ignore it, bump my way along the corridor with my hockey bag slung over my shoulder but I know, even if I can't see him, that Dad has taken out his handkerchief (who carries a handkerchief?) and he is rubbing his glasses in small, meticulous circles until all the fog has been removed.
I kick at the dressing room door, squeeze past the goalies spread eagle on the floor having their pads strapped on. "Watch it" someone yells. I'm looking through a pin hole of clearing in my right lens. "Who plans a practice for Christmas Eve?"another yells across the room. "Our coaches aren't even here."
I drop my bag, push my way on to the bench and try to concentrate on getting ready. I can hear my Dad outside the room. He is laughing with someone, maybe one of the other volunteers. I imagine him standing with his hands on his hips, pants tucked inside galoshes.
A fresh sheet of ice, still glistening with water in the corners from the Zamboni, is something of a holy thing. That first step, the glide, the cold air in your lungs and on this day, the strange sound of Christmas carols playing as I glide behind the net. My legs feel good and strong. The puck feels like it's glued to my stick. I gain speed as I begin my second lap. It's on my third tour around, now skating backward, that I see him heading towards the door.
He is making his way towards the ice. He's wearing his tweed cap, dress pants and a wool car coat. He's wearing the leather gloves mom put in his stocking last year. She gave me my first stick. She taught me how to skate. She came to every game. He gave me glasses.
He is jostled by my teammates as they spill on to the ice. He smiles at them and I can feel my face starting to burn. They are on the ice now. I hear the clicking of pucks on sticks and the stop starts of them getting ready to practice.
"Hey, who's the old man?" one says as he glides past me. I concentrate on my stick handling. "Jesus, he can't even skate." says another. I grip the stick tighter, the puck squirts off and I lose it. I power past him. He's made his way from the door to the corner, his right hand rests on the dasher board and his left is on his hip. His ankles are buckled in towards each other, the blades of his skates at impossible angles.
Jerry, our star, is skating laps at the end where Dad is clinging to the boards. Jerry is looping, swooping past him. He's crossing over and spinning faster and faster near him. His circles are getting smaller and tighter. I stop behind the other net and begin to examine it for not existent holes, watching my Dad being corralled by Jerry's circles. I look up again, just as Jerry hockey stops in front of Dad, spraying him with snow, covering his dress pants. Snow fills one of his lenses. I look down again, my fingers poking through the mesh, my cheeks burning. I look up.
Jerry has a grin on his face. He taps the ice with his stick, says something to Dad over his shoulder as he skates away. Some metallic Christmas carol is playing and I watch Dad try to clear his glasses without letting go of the boards. I want to sprint down the end of the ice. I want to ram my shoulder into Jerry's chest. I want him to get off the ice.
I finish checking the net for holes and slowly skate to centre where I "take a knee" with my teammates. One of the other father's has blown the whistle. He's wearing the latest Under Armour pants, good skates that have been well used and he has a stick that has been expertly taped. I can see my Dad trying to make his way from the boards to centre ice where we are. He gets as far as the face-off dot before we are told to split up for warm ups. My group heads to the other end and I skate backwards to watch Dad surrounded and then passed by Jerry and his boys.
The drill begins, each of us receiving a puck from the corner and then cutting in on the goalie. As I finish my shot and make the turn towards the other end I can see that he has retreated to just behind the net, over to the right, just below the red line.
Jerry receives a puck from the corner. He rushes the net and raises his back foot, placing all of his weight into the shot. It's wide but on target, slamming into the boards just to the right of my Dad. I slow down, gliding towards his end. They're all doing it. Pucks slam left and right of my Dad. He is trying to smile and hold on to the boards and I can see that his right lens is fogged. He's breathing hard. I move towards them but just glide. I don't skate or pounce or hit. I just move towards them, though them and slowly past them to where he is pinned behind the red line. A final puck knifes between us, banging against the boards, causing us both to flinch.
Very slowly I hold out my arm and Dad, older than he has ever been, rests his hand in the crux of my elbow. With one good push we both glide towards the door, past the players lined up for the drill, past the Dad with his expertly taped stick.
When we pull into the driveway, the tires make a crunching noise on the cold snow. The Christmas lights he has put up, droop from the eaves trough. One of them is burnt out. He goes in ahead of me, leaving me in the passenger seat as winter begins to reclaim the space. I see my breath on every exhale. My cheeks are wet and beginning to freeze.
I open the car door and see him through the kitchen window trying to figure out how to make hot chocolate. I place my hand on the door, pushing towards him just as he moves towards me, trying to fill the space that she has left.
