Page 20 of Strange Love

“You know I understand, Mom. I have a lot of hockey games,” I reassure her.

“But I still hate it,” she insists, her voice heavy with emotion. “You’ve worked so hard to get where you are, Corey. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I smile.

“I know you didn’t want to move here at first, but it’s turned out to be the right decision,” she says with conviction.

“Yeah, definitely,” I agree. “I was being stubborn.”

Tears well up in my mother’s eyes as she leans in and rests her head on my shoulder. “You’re so grown up now,” she whispers with pride.

Corey, Age 14 - 1984

My Mom may have been right about a few things. I’ve gotten used to this new town, although it’s not much different from the one we left. The biggest difference is the year-round NHL-sized ice rink and the new home of a Division 1 junior hockey program. That was worth the move here, and I take full advantage by spending most of my free time at the rink. I spend five days a week there, before and after school, skating and practicing like my life depends on it.

Coach Dupree has taken notice of my dedication and skills. I aim to be recruited for the tier-one program as soon as I’m eligible. I have time to make myself impossible for him to ignore, and I plan to do that. Only a select few high school players make it to college hockey, let alone the NHL, but I’m determined to be one of them.

Thankfully, I already have the height advantage at 5’11.“ Who knows how tall I’ll be, but it’s a good sign for now. My speed on the ice is unmatched, and my passing and stickhandling skills constantly improve. Coach has challenged me to work on checking, and I gladly accept the challenge. I often channel my frustration and aggression into controlled hits on the ice. It feels natural and helps me play with an edge.

As I walked through the halls of my new school on the first day, heads turned to stare at me. My hockey gear was still slung over my shoulder from an early morning practice, and whispers of “new kid!” and “hockey hottie!” followed me. None of it fazed me; I was used to being the center of attention on the ice. And now, at this new school, it was no different.

Even though we’re still underclassmen, there’s been no shortage of girls hovering around us at every turn, giggling and flirting whenever we’re around. Our coach had warned us about getting too close to any of them, reminding us that “passion is for the ice.”

I’m indifferent to everything like I’ve always been, and ironically, that seems to make people even more interested in me. I keep my head down and focus on hockey as much as possible, doing whatever is asked of me on the ice and in school.

My grades are fine since we are expected to maintain a 3.4 grade point average, but they could be better if I applied myself more. The way I see it, a few Bs or Cs won’t stop me from pursuing my dream of playing hockey professionally. I simply have to do well enough to stay under the radar and remain eligible to play. My English teacher remarked at my last parent-teacher conference that if I spent as much time studying as I did trying to get out of studying, I’d have straight A’s. I’d say that’s accurate.

I know that no matter what my future holds, I never want to work at any of Alan’s car dealerships. My mom works at the dealership in town part-time as a secretary. She prefers it to waiting tables, so I’m happy for her. I like that she’s home earlier in the evenings now, and there’s always an abundance of snacks and food in the kitchen. We eat dinner together every evening. It’s still something I’m trying to get used to since this whole “family dynamic” thing is foreign to me.

As we sit at the table every evening, Alan wearing a crisp button-up shirt with the dealership’s logo embroidered on it and me in my old Gretzky jersey, my most prized possession, it’s obvious how different we are. He talks nonstop about his latest sales tactics and the newest models on the lot. Mom listens intently, but I find myself zoning out most of the time out of sheer boredom. I wish Alan shared my love for hockey or even a passion for anything other than selling cars.

It would be nice to have something in common with him, considering he and my mom got married shortly after moving here. The wedding was hella boring, and I sat there, dressed in a stupid suit and tie, listening to Metallica on my Walkman every chance I got. Occasionally, my mom would glare at me with a tight scowl, reminding me that I needed to be gracious and grateful.

Alan’s brother, Ron, and his family live in the same neighborhood, so I technically have some “relatives” nearby. Ron has a daughter named Sarah, who is in the same grade as me, but we don’t talk much, so it’s weird having her as a “cousin” by association. We mostly nod when we pass one another in the halls. It’s a good reminder that sometimes family is just a word— nothing that means anything. My mom is my family, and even though I don’t dislike Alan, that hasn’t changed.

Yet, even I can’t deny that Alan has provided us with a better life, like my mom said. I don’t need to get a job now and can focus solely on hockey, and the cost of new equipment is no longer a burden to my mom. I appreciate it; I do. However, I can’t shake the feeling of being indebted to Alan; it never sits right with me.

Chapter 13

“Don’t You (Forget About Me)”

Ivy - Age 18, 1988

Another Monday morning and the second week of school. Today, Nat has opted to dress me in a pair of Guess acid-wash jeans and a sweater that hangs off one shoulder. My hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and as I scan myself in the mirror, I’m happy with my outfit.

Natalie is still trying to turn me into her human-sized Barbie doll, but she’s given up on the blush and blue mascara, at least for now. I’m grateful to her for trying to help me however she can. My outlook is slightly different after my short conversation with Corey Delacour at work the other night, and I can’t help but feel mildly optimistic about the day ahead and the possibility of seeing him at school. My new (used) car is sitting in the driveway, but I’m not yet verified on my parent’s car insurance, so I can’t drive to school. I don’t walk anywhere alone or take the bus, so Dad is driving me again.

He drops me off right on time this week, and I can’t help but scan the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of Corey and his friends. Just like the rest of the groupies, I think to myself. My heart races as I spot some hockey guys, but no sign of Corey or his trusty sidekick, Taz.

During lunch, Sascha walks towards me with another girl in tow. The girl sets an instrument case against her chair as they sit down.

“Hey,” Sascha says, “this is my friend Sarah. She plays the clarinet in our school band.”

Sarah smiles shyly and adjusts her glasses. We break into easy conversation about what it’s like playing at football games on Friday nights, and I find out that Sarah and Sascha have been friends since middle school. Added to this, my new alternative-music-loving friend is also in the band. She neglected to mention it last week and when I give her a wide-eyed look of surprise, she threatens to throw a ketchup-covered french fry at me if I laugh, which I would never do. I think it’s amazing. I wish I could’ve learned to play an instrument when I was younger.

“Oh yeah,” she teases, “Sarah here happens to be related to your hockey boyfriend.”

I almost choke on the Cheeto I’ve popped into my mouth. Once my coughing subsides, I clear my throat and respond to her, “You’re ridiculous.”