Thin Ice

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

© 2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CHAPTER ONE

          “Just because you’re the coach of one of the best teams in the country doesn’t mean you have to bring home your troubles every night!”

          “That team puts food on our table every night, Chelsea,” my father replied evenly. He never raised his voice in arguments with her. He knew better then to fire her up. Her temper was already dangerous, and when provoked, she had the control of a wild boar.

          “And that “team” also puts a work-obsessed hockey coach at our dinner table every night!” my mother returned. I could almost see the fume exploding from her head from my position on the couch. Our living room provided a fine view of the kitchen, almost like a Broadway show. The large rooms allowed voices to travel to almost anywhere in the house. No matter where I decided to hide, I would hear their voices arguing.

          “I can’t just drop everything when I get home. You know that,” he reasoned, “I have a team to maintain, things to edit, players to focus on. We just got new players – I need to figure out what they’re all about.” My dad started stacking up his papers on the table, neatening the kitchen up. Clutter always seemed to throw my mother in a state of disarray and he was trying to alleviate all distress.

          “Well as long as you’re going to be a psycho-maniac, I hope you enjoy your stay at a hotel. I can’t deal with you muttering constantly underneath your breath while Gerianna and I try to eat. We talk to you and you don’t even pay attention.”

          Her argument was valid; sometimes my father was in another world while he tried to arrange his thoughts. I didn’t have a problem with his work ethic, however. I knew how important his career was to him and to us financially, and I didn’t want to mettle by voicing my sometimes negative opinions.

          My father threw his hands up in the air, stalking out of the kitchen and away from my mother.  Sometimes it’s best to walk away from the problem when it comes to your mother, he used to tell me. He caught my eye as he exited the kitchen confines. An apology was evident in his gaze and he beckoned with a twitch of his head for me to follow him up the stairs.  

          His long legs jogged up the staircase and I followed quietly. My mother was still in the kitchen – fuming – and I could hear the shattering of glass. There goes another fine china piece.

          “Geri, I’m going to do as your mom says until she cools down. Stay out of the line of fire until she relaxes. You’re welcome to come with me, but I advise against it considering her anger with me right now,” he finally told me once we were in the confines of their bedroom. 

          “I really don’t want to listen to her right now,” I replied quietly, tucking a strand piece of hair behind my ear. I watched in silent dismay as my father packed up his clothes in a duffel bag. His dark brown hair fell into his eyes, covering the slight creases in his forehead that he had developed in the last couple of years. Despite the stress of his job, his hair didn’t display an obvious portion of grays.

          “Hey, I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he smiled, zipping his fingers across his lips, “But if you were to pack your things now and jump into my car with me, hey, that’s your choice. Your mother can’t be any more upset with me.” His eyes sparkled, almost like his was an adventure.

While my father didn’t make the best of decisions, I loved him for his wild, childlike spirit and his ability to deal with problems like they were nothing. I admired him for it, even, and he had a spirit about him that made me smile.