Most Vulnerable Player
“Spencer! Mrs. Smith!” Ryan shouted as he realized he had left his spare key inside the house, and his father had already left for the night. But it was no use, the car was already halfway down the street.
The snowfall was heavy that night, the night sky illuminated by a blanket of crystalline snowflakes. It was freezing, no, it was probably below freezing now. It was only November 1st, but usually this kind of weather wouldn’t be around until about a week from now, if that.
He sighed and took a seat on his front steps -the stone was freezing underneath him- but he didn’t really have any other option at this point.
He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. He attempted to turn it on, but the screen remained black. After holding the power button, the flashing empty battery image showed up on the screen. What the fuck? It had been at 16% when he was in the car with Spencer. The freezing cold must have drained his battery. Fuck.
In his mind, he had two options: sit and wait for his dad to come home, that was, if his dad came home at all, or find someone’s house to crash at. He decided to go with the latter. Who would he go to though? Spencer lived a twenty minute walk away, and he had no idea where Jon lived. Tom was about three blocks up the street, but after the Halloween party two days ago? No way in hell was Ryan going to let himself be alone with Tom.
He felt defeated, and decided he would attempt to make it to Spencer’s house. He left his hockey bag in the shed in his backyard, and then began to make the trek across Etobicoke.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a red brick house that he knew he had seen before. He hadn’t had to walk to Spencer’s house in years, but he wondered what about that house stood out to his brain in particular. He had seen the beaten up GM truck sitting in the driveway before. He had definitely, at some point in his life, walked through the brown french-style doors. He knew this house. But he didn’t know why.
His eyes fell on the address marking, and instantly, he knew why exactly he had recognized the house. The Uries hung over the garage door with the number “252” in large script underneath.
The last time he had walked through those doors was for a play date with Urie when the two of them were just little kids. Ryan couldn't really remember much of it, except that Brendon's mom was a really good cook.
Did Ryan really have the nerve to seek refuge at Brendon's house? Especially after Brendon had seen him in such a compromising position, and had never responded to him. Ryan let his laziness win over his pride, and walked up the steps to Urie’s front door.
He rang the doorbell, which played an annoying electronic melody. He was expecting and half hoping that the door would go unanswered, but alas, after a few moments he heard heavy footsteps and the door swung open.
Boyd Urie stood at the door frame, eyeing Ryan warily. He looked almost exactly the same as he had all of those years ago, except now there were small wrinkles around his frown lines and forehead. He had a lot less hair as well.
“May I help you?” he asked, looking confused. Maybe Boyd didn't remember him? It had been a very long time and Ryan certainly looked different.
“Hi, uh, I'm Ryan Ross,” he started. Boyd's eyes widened, and his face went from one of confusion to a smile.
“Oh, Ryan! I haven't seen you since you were this big!” he laughed, making a little motion at knee level. “What can I do for you?”
Shit. Ryan hadn't thought of that. No way was he going to admit what had actually happened. That was embarrassing as fuck.
“I, uh, Brendon and I have a French project due tomorrow, so we, uh, we were planning on pulling an all nighter to finish it?” Ryan lied. That was probably believable. He hoped so at least.
“Hmm, Brendon didn’t tell me,” Mr. Urie responded frowning, then turned around and shouted “Brendon! Ryan’s here for you!”
“Who?” Ryan heard Brendon yell. Oh shit! There was no way in hell that he was gonna get on board with this shitty plan. Ryan heard footsteps running down stairs.
“Ryan Ross,” Brendon’s dad called out.
Urie appeared within Ryan’s field of vision. His blue flannel covered arm ran through his bedhead. He looked as though he had just gotten out of bed, his normal ripped skinny jeans had been exchanged for a pair of salt-and-pepper Roots sweatpants. It was 9pm and Urie was already sleeping? What a hoser.
“What the f-” he began, but then corrected himself, likely because of his father’s presence. “What exactly are you doing here?” he asked, eyes wide and confused.
“I'm here to work on our French project?” Ryan said, trying to make himself believe what he had just told Urie.
“Oh, okay,” Urie replied. Ryan did a double take. What was Urie doing? Was he actually trying to help? What the fuck.
“You boys can go and work in Brendon’s room. We’ll talk about this later Brendon,” Boyd said, and then disappeared into the kitchen. “I don’t want this happening again if I don’t know.”
Urie looked Ryan up and down again, raising an eyebrow. Then he spun on his heel, and began to walk in the opposite direction. Ryan assumed he was supposed to follow. He couldn’t help but notice that Urie ass. It was a really nice ass. His dad probably made him work out constantly.
As they walked up the stairs, Ryan was surprised. The Urie home didn’t seem like one which belonged to a former NHLer and coach. It was a pretty typical single family home, they even had several pictures of the family hanging on the wall beside their staircase.
There was a baby picture of Urie, where he had food all over his face. Ryan would definitely give him shit about that later. There was one that must’ve been Urie’s first day of kindergarten, he was smiling so widely that it looked as though the muscles in his neck were about to snap apart. He had on some pretty fucking ugly clothes on, some blue t-shirt with a white long sleeve underneath, and jeans that were way too big for him. Funny how things had changed.
As they climbed the stairs, Ryan noticed a trend. The further up they got, the older the kids were. It seemed to have ended around age six or seven for most of Urie’s siblings, and Ryan expected it to be about the same for Urie. Ryan almost stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the picture perpendicular to the top step.
It was a candid picture, probably taken by Urie’s mother, of Urie as a young child, sipping on a brownish slushie with the majority of his equipment still on. And who was he looking at? Who was sitting on the bench beside him, slurping on a neon blue slushie? None other than a young Ryan Ross, in a matching hockey jersey and skates. They were both wearing gold medals around their necks, with smiles wider than Ryan had ever remembered smiling. That must’ve been their Timbits Christmas tournament. Ryan barely even remembered it even more, except that he had scored one goal that day, but of course Urie had to have one-upped him and scored a hattrick. Why were they friends back then? Ryan didn’t know. Why hadn’t Urie demanded that picture be taken down? Ryan also didn’t know.
“You coming Ross?” Ryan heard Urie say, and then snapped out of his daze. Ryan looked up to see a very impatient looking Urie standing in the door frame of what must have been his room. Ryan didn’t realize how long he had been staring.
“Uh, yeah,” Ryan replied, and attempted to climb up the last stair, but instead, tripped over his own feet and caught himself on his hands. His mind certainly wasn’t all there.
Urie was laughing his ass off, hands on his knees, crouched into a squat. Apparently someone tripping a little bit was prime humor. Of course, that did make sense, Urie was rather barbaric.
Ryan regained his balance and walked towards where Urie was standing.
“You’re such a fucking klutz, holy fucking shit, Ross. How’d you manage that one?” Urie cackled.
“Haha, very funny,” Ross rolled his eyes, before walking into Urie’s room.
It was themed to match the colours of the Ottawa Senators, with several posters and jerseys around it. Ew. Why the fuck would Urie be a Sens fan? He certainly had no reason to be, his father had won a Stanley Cup with the Penguins, then coached the Oilers. Both were at least decently respectable teams. But the Senators ? Fucking disgusting. In that moment, Ryan hated him just about as much as he hated Stephen Harper.
“What?” Urie asked, looking at the sour expression on Ryan’s face.
“Fucking figures,” Ryan snarled. “A shit team for a shit person.”
Not his best insult, but it was better than some of the chirps Urie flew.
“Am I really that shitty, considering I opened my home to you in one of the worst fucking blizzards of the year? Trust me, I'm not stupid Ross. I know we don't have a French project due tomorrow, and even if we did, you would've just written the whole thing again and made me fucking insult myself,” Urie glared at him. He had his hands crossed over his chest, and had this look of rage in his eyes. Ryan felt a pang of guilt explode in his stomach. Urie knew what Ryan had done. That wasn't his intention.
“So, Mr. Hot-Shot Ross, what are you really here for? To beg me not to tell anyone about you and Oakes’ sexcapades?” Urie said through gritted teeth. His face looked angry, but also kind of sad? Why the fuck was Urie upset that Ryan was hooking up with Tom? Was he some kind of homophobe or something?
“No,” Ryan replied. Urie’s expression shifted, the disappointment in his face had disappeared.
“Then what the fuck, Ross?” Urie asked angrily. He looked very confused.
“Okay, um, so, I kind of- I got locked out of my house,” Ryan admitted. How fucking embarrassing. Urie broke out into hysterical laughter again. Good job, Ross. Tell the fucking tool the real reason you showed up to his house. Smart.
“Oh, man, you’re a real fucking piece of work, aren’t you?” Urie chuckled. He wasn’t wrong, but Ryan still shot him an ugly look.
After what felt like forever, Brendon’s laughter died down and the two were standing face to face, expressionless. Someone would explode soon, Ryan could feel it.
“Why didn’t you just go to Spencer’s house?” Brendon asked, finally breaking the strange silence.
“Because Spencer lives way too far,” Ryan replied dryly.
“How exactly did you know where I lived? Are you stalking me Ross?” Urie teased. Ryan certainly didn’t care enough about Urie to stalk him. Okay, maybe he scrolled through his Twitter all the way back to 2011, but that didn’t count as stalking. It was more like knowing thy enemy than anything else.
“No,” Ryan returned firmly. He didn’t dare tell Urie that he had recognized the home. That would’ve been a suicidal statement. “My phone’s dead, can I borrow a charger?”
“No,” Urie replied cold. Well that was shit. He’d definitely be stuck there all night. That sucked.
They were back to that awkward silence.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Urie announced, and then left the room.
Ryan was glad he was gone. He wasn’t in the mood for that tension. Ryan noticed that Urie had a white trophy case in the far right corner of his room. It was mostly empty. He made his way over to investigate; he felt the need to know what Urie’s greatest triumphs were. They were probably few, as the Hurricanes had the worst GTHL track record.
Ryan was surprised at the number of things Urie had actually won. Most of them were from American tournaments. No surprise, Americans were shittier at hockey than the Hurricanes. There were some trophies from those, the Uries probably kept them considering they had the most involvement in the team and the Hurricanes trophy case never cycled in new accomplishments. Ryan had looked at it a couple of times, and it looked like something out of the 90s.
There were quite a few team MVP awards. Go figure, coach’s kid. Well, Urie wasn’t that bad of a player, comparatively to the rest of his team, he was pretty good. But that didn’t change the fact that he was a coach’s kid and probably got treated with ridiculous amounts of favoritism.
There was one medal that only had a ribbon. The actual medallion was missing.
“Checking out my hardware, Ross?” Urie reentered the room and snickered.
“It’s not that impressive,” Ryan shrugged.
Urie frowned. He seemed disappointed that Ryan wasn’t impressed with his small collection.
“Why doesn’t that one have a medallion?” Ryan pointed out. Brendon’s eyes went extremely wide.
“I dunno,” he grumbled, looking at his feet. “It’s from Timbits or something.”
Wait, was that the medal? The one that Ryan had given Brendon part of after they had scored that goal together? Urie had kept it after all of those years? No fucking way.
Ryan didn’t plan on mentioning it, because mentioning would mean Urie would know he had remembered. He remembered giving Urie part of that medal, he remembered getting slushies after and how Urie used to mix all of the slushie colours together. He remembered his secret handshake with Urie. He could still probably do it today if asked.
Urie probably didn’t remember that. He probably didn’t remember Ryan’s goal. He probably didn’t remember how he used to almost take his father’s eyes out every time he had his skates laced up. He probably didn’t remember Ryan’s mother telling Coach Boyd about Ryan’s father. And there was no way in hell that he remembered inviting Ryan to his birthday party.
* * *
“You fucking piece of shit!” Ryan’s mother screamed. Ryan’s tiny head was pounding, as he lay curled up in a ball on top of his Montreal Canadiens sheets.
“If I’m such a piece of shit, why haven’t you left me yet?” Ryan’s dad bellowed back. Ryan hated this. He just wanted his parents to get along, was that so much to ask?
“Maybe I fucking will!” Ryan’s mom yelled back. He heard loud, angry footsteps running up the stairs, and the door to his parents room slamming.
“Danielle! Que c'est tu crisses, tabarnak?!” his father yelled up the stairs. Ryan covered his ears and attempted to ignore the situation.
“Je pars! I’m leaving, like you said!” she replied. He heard drawers opening and closing. She must’ve been packing. This was just another false alarm, Ryan thought. They did this all of the time. They would make up, and his mom would be home. It would be okay. Everything would be okay.
“Where are you gonna fucking go, huh?” Ryan’s dad asked.
“Anywhere but here!” she yelled back, drawers still sliding, feet still dancing across the wooden floors preparing for her permanent departure from Ryan’s life. She wouldn’t go. Ryan wouldn’t let her.
“And what exactly do you plan on doing with Ryan, huh?” Ryan’s father asked. Ryan dreaded the answer. Tears pooled in his eyes, the only thing he could hope for was that his mother would come to his senses and stay.
“I gave birth to him! He’s the only reason I’ve fucking stayed here all this time! He’s going to come with me!” she replied. Ryan wasn’t going anywhere, and he hoped that his peaceful protest of sitting cross-legged on his twin-sized mattress, ignoring his parents, would prove effective.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake Danielle! You’re not actually going to fucking leave! You do this all of the fucking time!” he shouted. Ryan hoped his father was right, for once.
“I am! You’re not ruining my life any fucking longer!” and Ryan heard a suitcase rolling against the wood floor. The door to his room quietly squeaked open.
“Ryan, c’mon. You and I are gonna go for a little bit,” his mother said softly. Ryan’s eyes pooled with tears, his vision going blurry.
She walked closer to Ryan, taking a seat beside him on the bed. Her face was puffy and her eyes were red, she had definitely been crying. That was a bad sign for Ryan, she never cried.
“Ryan,” she sighed, brushing a stray piece of hair out of his face. Ryan stayed silent and stoic; he wouldn’t leave. That way his mother couldn’t leave.
“Ryan, we need to go, now, “ she pleaded with him. Ryan shook his head and let out a tiny sob. She pulled his little body into hers. Ryan could still remember exactly how her heartbeat felt.
“Ryan, please, I don’t want to leave without you,” she breathed. Ryan felt a teardrop fall onto his head.
“Don’t leave,” Ryan sniffled.
“I have to, Ryan.”
“Danielle, crisse-moi pas là!” Ryan’s father yelled. His mother flinched. He hated seeing them fight like this.
“I need to go now, Ryan. Either you come with me today or you stay with your father,” she said. In his young ignorance, Ryan figured that there was no possible way that his mother could leave without him, that she would have to stay, that everything would be okay again.
She stood up and looked back at Ryan with a pained expression. She rolled the suitcase out the door of his room then ran down the stairs and out the door.
“Not gonna take your precious fucking son with you?” Ryan’s father yelled out the door.
The door slammed. Car ignition started. His mother was gone. She would come back though. She had to. She couldn’t leave Ryan alone with his father. She wouldn’t. She loved him too much.
He ignored the sound of the liquor cabinet rattling open. He ignored the fact that his mother was gone, and stood up off of the bed to retrieve a book out of his bookcase.
The Roy McGregor book was almost enough to ignore his father cursing in French, almost enough to forget about his mom.
An hour had passed. He had finished the book, and there was still no sign of his mother. His father was still drinking. He was beginning to get anxious. He was too young to handle his mother leaving. He wouldn’t live alone with his father. That wasn’t an option for him.
So he ran away. Not far of course. His father probably never noticed the quiet footsteps falling down the stairs or the front door squeaking open and closed. He wondered where he could go.
The first thought that came to his mind was the park. He thought he remembered how to get there from the few times he had driven there with his mother previously.
He was wrong, after about five minutes of wandering up and down the streets of Etobicoke, he found himself lost. He sat on the sidewalk in tears. He had never wanted his mother more in his whole life. He wanted someone to take him in, to take him away from his father. Anyone.
He wondered why his mother had left. He never would’ve expected her to be so selfish that she wouldn’t stay for Ryan.
When Ryan looked back at it, he was the one being selfish. He should’ve gone with her. It would be better to be with his mother than his father, and she needed him far more. From time to time, he still wondered where his mother had gone that night. He would probably never know.
He was cold, it was still April, and it was still snowy outside. His running shoes were torn up; his feet were beginning to lose feeling. All that there was to cover his little body was a long sleeved shirt and a pair of roots sweatpants. He should’ve put on a sweater, or a jacket, but he no longer had a mother to remind him of that. She’d come find him sitting cold in the streets. She had to. What kind of mother wouldn’t?
There were no stars in the dark sky to guide him home. He was alone, and he didn’t know his way back to his grey stone house. It wasn’t home. He couldn’t call it that back then, he still couldn’t call it that now.
Luckily for him, a couple walking their dog was walking up the street. Even more luckily for him, it was Boyd and Grace Urie. That was perfect! Ryan could go and live with Brendon and everything would be okay. He’d never have to go back to his father ever again.
If there was ever a time in his life where he actually considered being Catholic like his parents, it was then.
“Ryan?” Mr. Urie asked him.
“Yes!” Ryan replied excitedly, jumping up from the seated position he had previously assumed on the sidewalk.
“What are you doing out here, sweetheart?” Mrs. Urie asked. She had some kind of an accent but Ryan wasn’t sure what it was. Ryan didn’t answer.
The Urie dog, who was probably close to the size of Ryan, started sniffing him and he recoiled back. He then went back and to pet the dog. Ryan had always loved dogs, and sort of resented his father for not allowing him to get one.
“Ryan, are you alright?” Mr. Urie asked. Ryan didn’t answer again. He just kept petting the dog.
He heard Brendon’s parents whispering about something, Brendon’s mother wore an extremely concerned look on her face.
“Sweetheart, you must be freezing,” she sighed. Ryan nodded.
“Here, come with us,” Boyd extended a hand for Ryan. He thought momentarily about all of the stranger danger lessons they had been taught in school, but at this point, Boyd wasn’t a stranger, and he was far too cold to think about anything other than getting into some form of shelter.
Ryan took his hand, and they started walking somewhere, Ryan didn’t know where. He hoped he was going to the Urie’s house, he figured that would be where they were taking him. How cool would it be to live with your best friend? And have a former NHL player as a dad? That would probably be the best. He hoped it would happen.
They walked up the and down the streets, Ryan probably would’ve recognized the location if there was anything other than dimly lit streetlights to guide him. He ensured that as he was walking, he stepped on every single crack in the sidewalk.
He froze in his tracks when he saw his house. Why had they taken him there? Brendon’s dad knew what was happening in Ryan’s family, why, why, why would they ever take him back there?
No. This wasn’t real. Ryan was dreaming. He would wake up the next morning to the sound of his mother’s voice. He had to be dreaming. He couldn’t be living this nightmare.
He didn’t cause a scene or put up a fight when the Uries dragged him up his front steps and rang the doorbell. He certainly couldn’t believe that everything was real when even after noticing Ryan’s father was drunk, they left him there and didn’t even attempt to help. There was a quick explanation of how Boyd had found Ryan, and then they were gone.
No. No, no, no. They couldn’t do this to Ryan. They wouldn’t.
When Ryan awoke the next morning, he frowned at light streaming in through his opened curtains. His mother would always close them before he went to sleep but she hadn’t last night. She had left him. He couldn’t believe that everything was real. He couldn’t hear his mother singing in the shower. His father was still snoring in the next room over. Ryan never wanted to leave his room again.
The red glow of his digital Canadiens themed alarm clock read 10:38 . Brendon’s birthday party had started almost ten minutes ago. Ryan had no way of getting there, and certainly no intent of seeing Brendon’s parents again.
He rolled over and hoped that he could fall back asleep, but it was really no use. He just laid in his bed in a ball, fighting any tears, any kind of emotion.
He heard the phone ringing. Maybe, just maybe, it was his mother telling him that she was coming home, so he bolted out of his bed and ran downstairs, trying hard not to trip over his red flannel pyjama pants which he definitely hadn’t grown into quite yet.
They didn’t have call display, so Ryan just picked up the phone.
“Is Ryan coming today?” Brendon’s voice sounded different on the phone. Ryan stood in still silence for a moment.
“Hello? This is Ryan’s house right?” Brendon asked. Ryan hung up the phone and retreated to his room, which he seldom left until hockey season the next year.