HIS FROST BITE (A MICHAL MRÁZIK FAN FICTION)

Chapter 5: Way to her

Michal

The park bench was a silent witness to her turmoil, a travel bag resting beside her like a faithful companion. "Going somewhere?" I ventured, my voice laced with concern. She turned her head, her fingers brushing away the remnants of tears, a fragile smile trying to mask her sorrow. "Just getting some air," she murmured, her once vibrant demeanor now subdued, her shoulders curled inward as if to shield her heart from the world.

"Going to the bridge?" The words slipped out, a gentle probe into her intentions. Her gaze snapped to mine, eyes wide, a startled deer caught in the headlights of my unexpected insight. "That's the plan," she retorted, her tone edged with a sharpness that betrayed her inner turmoil. I could tell it was about her father; the little she had shared painted a picture of a man not unlike my own, a mirror reflecting the same relentless expectations.

"This morning, my dad... he just doesn't stop. I was out there on the ice, giving it my all, and all he could say was that I wasn't fast enough." I let out a hollow laugh, the sound of it more bitter than amused. "He didn't care to ask about anything else, not even a 'how are you?' It's like he's driving me away on purpose."

I paused, the weight of my own words settling in. "But is he really worth the agony of a night spent among the rats and the cold?" I quipped, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. To my relief, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, a reluctant admission that my joke had reached her.

"Was that a lame attempt at a joke?" she inquired, a spark of her usual fire dancing in her eyes. I was met with the sight of her smile, full and genuine, a rare gem that outshone the gloom of the day. God knew I needed that.

"Hey, I'm only a hockey player," I confessed, my hands raised in mock surrender, and her laughter filled the space between us, warm and inviting. She relaxed, her arms no longer a barrier but a support upon the backrest of the bench.

"Good. Stick to hockey. Because that was terrible," she teased, her fingers combing through the cascade of her red hair, a playful glint in her eyes.

"My bedroom doesn't sound so bad after all. The bridge doesn't have that bed comfort that I like," she mused, standing up with a newfound resolve. I offered her a ride home, and as I drove away, her laughter echoed in my mind, a reminder of the simple joy I had managed to bring her.

The familiar aroma of home cooking enveloped me as I stepped through the door, the scent weaving through the air like a welcoming embrace. My mother stood at the stove, her light brown hair catching the golden hues of the setting sun that filtered through the kitchen window. She turned, her face lighting up with the kind of smile that had eased a thousand childhood fears.

"I almost thought you were going to spend the night at Stassie's," she teased, her voice carrying the soft lilt of humor that had always been her way of smoothing over the rough edges of life.

I chuckled, the sound mingling with the clatter of utensils and the sizzle of the pan. "Don't worry, you're still the first woman I have loved and will always love," I said, the words heavy with truth and the unspoken gratitude for the sanctuary she had always provided.

We sat down to dinner, the table set with the simple elegance that was my mother's signature. The plates were filled with macaroni, the creamy cheese sauce perfectly enveloping each tender piece, punctuated by the sweetness of corn that burst with flavor. It was the meal I had craved during the long nights of study at university, the dish that tasted of home and the love that had been stirred into it.

As we ate, the conversation flowed easily, a gentle current that carried us away from the world outside. I savored each bite, the comfort of the familiar dish wrapping around me like a warm blanket. It was in these moments, with the laughter and stories shared around the dinner table, that I found an anchor in the storm of life.

But as the last light of day faded and the front door opened to announce my father's return, the atmosphere shifted. The weight of his presence was immediate, a palpable force that seemed to suck the air from the room. He hung his coat with a precision that mirrored the exacting standards he held for everything, including me.

He spoke of hockey, his words falling like hammer blows, shaping the future he envisioned for me-a future I never desired. "You should be focusing on it, practicing during all holidays," he insisted, his voice a mixture of command and expectation.

The words 'pro hockey' clanged in my ears, a relentless echo that had followed me through the years. I felt trapped, caged by a dream that belonged to him, not to me. The argument that erupted was fierce, our voices rising and falling in a tumultuous symphony of frustration and defiance. Mother tried, but she could not get us to stop.

I stood, my chair scraping back with a sound that was final, a line drawn. The macaroni, once a symbol of warmth and comfort, now lay cold on my plate, forgotten in the heat of the moment. I stormed out, the door slamming behind me with a resonance that marked the chasm between my father's wishes and my own heart's yearning.

Outside, the night air was cool against my flushed cheeks, the stars above indifferent to the turmoil within me. I was adrift, caught between the life I was expected to lead and the one I yearned to explore. In that moment of solitude, I longed for understanding, for the freedom to choose my own path. And as I drove through the city, the taste of home still lingering on my tongue. I drove until somehow I reached her street. I had no idea how but I did.

The residence belonged to Tara. Her home stood as a haven of tranquility amidst the bustling suburban landscape. I parked my car inconspicuously a few houses away and began my quiet approach. As I drew closer, a figure emerged in the window frame—it was Tara, lost in the contemplation of her own thoughts, her gaze captivated by the gentle whispers of the night, a sense of calm washed over me, muffling the clamor of my racing thoughts. In the soft glow of the window, Tara's silhouette stood like a serene masterpiece against the backdrop of the night. The moonlight played through her spicy ginger-red locks, casting a fiery halo around her contemplative face. Her eyes, distant yet radiant, were fixed on the mysteries of the evening sky, their allure a wordless testament to the depth of the universe they mirrored. In that tranquil scene, the turmoil within me found a temporary respite. Tara's presence, so poised and otherworldly, soothed the unrest in my soul.

Yet, as if compelled by an invisible force linking our souls, her gaze shifted towards my approaching figure. With a graceful movement, she opened the window and smiled. Her smile cut through the turmoil within me, a beacon of empathy that seemed to whisper, "I understand."