Sasquatch to the Moon

39: Talking With Dad

just realized that Rocket should've been 24 this entire time and not 23 because his birthday (august) would not have lined up with him being 18 during the draft (june). so he should've been 24 turning 25 during the summer not 23 turning 24 during the summer which would put him a year and a half younger than Håkon instead of 2 and a half. 

also this is like INSANELY long whoops

ROCKET:

"So." Rey smacks her hands together, bowls empty, small talk mostly exhausted, tension a little high. "I'm going to leave, go upstairs, leave you two here where I expect you to not skirt around that discussion that needs to happen."

I glance at my Dad who seems to be just about as nervous as I am about the simple prospect of this.

I give her a thumbs up.

She points between us. "I don't know you as well, Milo, but Dad you gotta talk about this. I know you wanna be goofy and avoid it."

I lean back in the chair, letting it squeak a little.

"I will come back in a half hour and redirect if needed." Rey says. "Enjoy." And then she disappears up the stairs, leaving me alone with my Dad.

I glance sideways at him, averting my eyes when I catch him looking back. It's a little too much for my exhausted and overstressed brain and I can't quite stifle a giggle.

He lets out a little laugh a couple seconds after me. Then we're fucking hopeless laughing.

"She's exactly like mom." I wheeze, hand over my chest. "I expect you two to talk seriously about the situation at hand." I say, putting on a false voice. "C'mon who does she think I am?"

He bursts out laughing.

"Focus on the task at hand." I hold up a hand, trying to gain my breath to say something else. "Like, Rey, focus isn't even in my vocabulary, much less my ability. I've got two settings, space cadet and holy-shit-I'm-about-to-die. We've got Neptune and shootout and that's it." I look up at him and start laughing again.

"How are shootouts? I know this is off topic but I can't imagine they're fun." He asks, suddenly interested.

"Awful," I respond, running a hand through my hair. "Takes a couple months off my life every time I have to be in for one. Just you and the shooter and 20,000 people watching and the whole game is on your shoulders, most of the time I go home and lay on the floor for a couple hours wondering why in god's name I decided to go pro with this."

"So you really like hockey, don't you?" He's trying to get me to talk and I bite.

"Yeah," I sigh. "Well, okay, no, here's the thing. I got to Canada and I didn't speak english so understandably the only thing I had in common with Canadian kids was hockey, so I absolutely dove into it. I was awful at school because I was an ESL student, english as a second language, and I didn't know the half of what was going on. So hockey was what everyone said I was good at, and I was, and I love it, except I don't think I gave myself time to think about what I would do if I wasn't doing hockey. One day I'm 13 and we're winning province championships because I came out of nowhere and was insanely good compared to them, and the next I'm standing on the stage at the draft, pulling on the Boston jersey and I'm thinking to myself, was I supposed to be doing something else? I love it, don't get me wrong, I adore hockey and the playing and the rush and all of that, but sometimes I get so exhausted and overwhelmed by the amount of traveling and full-day practices and I wonder, what would I be doing if I stayed here? Would I be like you and go into engineering? Would I be an artist? Would I have done something other than hockey?"