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CHAPTER NINE
A Happier Time
Logan
Arriving at the Farmhouse Grill, the host of the restaurant escorted Bradly and I to a table where we found Leon and someone who I assumed was his assistant, already waiting. Approaching their table, the old man moved to push to his feet. Seeing the exhaustion in the way he moved, I stopped him.
“No need to stand, Mr. Stark,” I offered, knowing he could probably use a break.
“You’re too kind,” he said, tipping his head in appreciation. “This is my son and mysous-chef, Ronnie,” he said, making introductions.
“Nice to meet you,” I replied, shaking each of their hands. “I’m Logan Petersen and this here is Bradley Donavon, the Knights' social media coordinator,” I said, making the introductions on our side.
“Welcome, both of you. Please, have a seat,” Leon said.
“Thank you for having us,” I said, taking up the empty seats.
“Your server will be over in just a minute,” the hostess said, before returning to her post at the front of the restaurant.
Settling in, I’ve barely had time to take a breath before our server arrives with a pen pressed against her order book.
“Can I get either of you something to drink before you order?” she asked, handing Bradly and I our menus.
From across the table, both Ronnie and Leon gave me the go ahead to order, already having their drinks.
Playing it safe for the interview, I opted for something simple. “Just water for me, please.”
Following my lead, it looked as if Bradly had changed his train of thought. “You know, I’ll have the same.”
“Two bottled waters,” our server repeated before exiting the table.
“So, Logan, my Ronnie is a fan of yours and has told me a great deal about you. I feel like I already know you,” Leon confesses, which causes Ronnie some discomfort, by the looks of him. “But tell us a little about yourself,” he pressed.
Feeling a sense of pride and a minor discomfort myself, this was the question I dreaded the most. Not knowing where to begin, you’d think it’d be easy for the captain of a hockey team to talk about himself, but that isn’t me. I didn’t get into hockey for fame; I got into it for the love of the sport. I stayed with the team all this time because of the brotherhood we’ve created over the years.
Straightening myself in my seat, I hoped it’d buy me some time to come up with an answer. “Well, I grew up in Toronto, Ontario,” I started before he shook his head.
“Don’t tell me what’s on your resume or in your book. Dig deeper.”
Sifting through the years, I wasn’t sure I had anything. Glancing at Bradly, then back to Leon and Ronnie, I felt like this entire dinner was riding on me. Shifting my weight, I reached for the tension in my neck. “Hockey wasn’t my first choice,” I began. “Originally, I wanted to play soccer,” I confessed. “My father was late picking me up for registration one day and by the time we made it to the rec center, we’d missed the soccer sign-ups,” I said, reliving the painful memories of that day. “So instead of soccer, I signed up for hockey on my way out.”
Recalling how annoyed my father was that afternoon, I felt like we couldn’t leave the rec center empty-handed. That’s when we stumbled across hockey sign-ups. Feeling pressured to make it up to him for wasting his time - his words, not mine - I registered for hockey instead.
Watching Leon’s body stiffen, I sensed my soured feelings towards my father were going to blow this opportunity.
Shaking my head, a huffed laugh escapes my throat. “I was six. I didn’t know what I wanted to play back then,” I chuckled, changing the tone of my voice.
Seeing Leon’s mood quickly lift, I had them both chuckling along with me.
“Before I knew it, both my father and I were eager to get up early every Saturday,” I said, recalling a time when my father and I got along. “We’d load up the car with my hockey gear, hit the Tim Hortons drive-thru for bagels and coffee, and be on our way to the arena,” I said, as our server returned with our drinks.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks, addressing the table.
Seeing as I hadn’t even had the chance to glance at the menu yet, I knew I needed more time. “I think we need a few more minutes,” I said, speaking for the table.
“Certainly,” she nodded.
Traveling into the past, I recalled the first incident that shocked our family. “Then my Oma passed, and my Opa became lost,” I said softly, recalling how broken he was. “Hockey brought us together,” I said. “Which leads to the kitchen,” I offered, finally gaining their interest. “My Opa was a firm believer in feeding the soul through food and starting the morning with a hearty breakfast. His specialty being bread and bacon dumplings,” I said, while memories of Opa cooking breakfast in our kitchen replays inside my head. “Every Sunday morning you’d find my Opa in our kitchen cooking breakfast and prepping family dinner,” I shared, recalling a happier time in my life. “I remember he’d share stories of the years he and my Oma spent together while he worked,” I smirked, picturing the years the two of them would cook for us during the holidays. “They fell in love through cooking,” I said, becoming lost in another memory.
