Instead of reaching out for her, I loop a finger through my father’s Stanley Cup ring and take a steadying breath. My teammates think I wear it to honor him. Like a talisman or a good luck charm. I get why they think that. My dad killed it on the ice. Stanley Cup winner. NHL Hall-of-Famer. But that’s not why I wear it. I wear it to remind me of everything I don’t want to be. To remember the damage he caused so I’m never tempted to do the same thing.
