Chapter 18 – The Heart of the Matter

That night's practice went even better than the morning practice. Like always, Ted observed them all individually and how they all worked together. He noticed Adam had switched to playing with his left wrist rather than his right – either Rick and Cole were still harassing him and threatening him, or he hadn't followed Ted's advice about keeping that wrist wrapped up. Ted made a mental note to confront him about that tomorrow morning and to remind him to wrap that wrist up because the kid would not heal properly if he didn't do as he was told.

But then again, Charlie told him Adam was resilient regarding injuries. And very stubborn. He hid his stress fracture during the Goodwill Games for days until Bombay finally pulled his head out of his ass.

He also observed Adam and Charlie working together, helping Goldberg and Fulton with some agility drills. That was good. Fulton and Goldberg needed that; they were still nervous skaters, and Charlie and Adam sensed that. Perhaps Banks would make a good alternate captain should Ted promote Charlie and give him back that "C."

However, while Charlie helped Fulton, who kept looking at him for approval, Ted watched Charlie. He noticed the boy looked significantly thinner, and while the smile was there, it didn't quite reach his eyes. In fact, Ted recalled the last beaming smile he'd seen on Charlie's face had been after Gordon convinced the board to reinstate the team's scholarships.

If that had been the last time he'd seen the kid look genuinely happy over something, Ted had his reasons for concern. He could still remember how the kid cried in the cemetery over the father he never knew, a father who was never coming back.

Even during the scrimmage, while everyone was having fun, Charlie's heart didn't seem in it. Yes, he was focused. But that was about it.

That was why Ted barred Charlie from going to the locker room with the others. He held his arm up in front of the gate before closing it.

"Coach, what –?"

"Laps," Ted said simply.

"How many?"

"I don't recall saying."

Charlie shot him a dirty look but otherwise did it. Ted set the pace, skating right alongside him slowly, trying to think of the best question to start with, all the while observing Charlie even closer. Yes, weight loss was noticeable, but then he recalled the kid's bruised knuckle; it made him wonder if Charlie was wailing on a heavy bag without any protective covering like gloves or hand wraps, and that was what he'd been doing instead of attending his classes during the time he'd been ditching.

Ted was no stranger to that; he'd done just that shortly after learning his daughter would potentially never walk again. He'd hit the gym and take his anger and hurt out on the heavy bag until his knuckles were raw and bleeding and bruised, which was no better than going out and getting drunk at bars and coming home wasted. He still remembered how upset Bella had been when she'd seen his bruised knuckles, how she'd cleaned them up herself and sternly told him to start wrapping his hands, that punishing himself for the accident wouldn't make their little girl walk again.

Just like how Charlie hurting himself wouldn't bring his father back.

They remained quiet for the first lap until, finally, Ted asked, "Your dad teach you how to skate?"

He knew this question would provoke the kid, but he needed to start somewhere. He watched as Charlie's face darkened considerably, his blue eyes dimming as his expression shifted into something unreadable: the kid was clearly trying to hold back his anger and upset, but his voice sounded strained when he answered. To Ted, the kid was like a volcano on the verge of eruption – Charlie was filled with so much rage, umbrage, anguish, and desolation that Ted was surprised the boy hadn't blown up much sooner; he supposed the worst he'd seen of it had been when Charlie called him a washed-up pro, or when the kid broke his stick against the goalpost, feeling vexed over that ref's horrible call after that Blake Bears player tripped him.

"He's dead," Charlie finally said after several painfully silent moments.

Ted nodded.

"I didn't know," Charlie whispered, and Ted could hear how the kid's voice wavered slightly, wobbling with repressed emotion that he'd been holding in. "I found out the day before we were given our scholarships." He laughed mirthlessly. "Some birthday gift that was."

Ted winced at the bitterness in the boy's voice; it came out so roughly, cuttingly. He couldn't bear to imagine it: the kid finding out the father he never knew was dead, finding that out on his birthday, and then suddenly Gordon announcing he'd be leaving for California. There was no mystery why Charlie was carrying such a massive chip on his shoulder, but instead of using that to step his game up, he was using it to fuel his anger and took it out on anyone who tried critiquing him.

"It's whatever," the kid continued, trying to sound nonchalant, but even Ted could hear that the boy was near tears. "I don't care. Mom taught me anyway. At least until Coach did."

"That must've been tough, you and your mom being on your own," Ted commented.

"I said I don't care," Charlie gritted out, anger flashing on his face, but Ted could see the boy's eyes brimming with tears. He looked down, suddenly interested in what the ice looked like underneath his skates. "But Mom remarried at one point."

Ted nodded gently, listening as Charlie whispered, "But he bailed . . . Or rather, Mom dumped him. It was before I received my scholarship to Eden Hall." He sniffled slightly, and Ted saw the tears rolling down the boy's face. "I begged Mom to wait for Coach, that she'd be better off marrying him, but she remarried when he was playing for the minors . . . After only three months; when she falls for people, she falls fast, too fast." He laughed slightly, though Ted thought it sounded more like a sob. "I guess she and I both have that in common. And Mom . . . sometime after she left my stepdad, she . . ." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, tears leaking from behind them. "She found out she's pregnant. And she decided that she'd keep the baby. So, my baby brother or sister is gonna grow up not knowing their dad."

So, that was the reason for the kid's volatility. Ted didn't know how he hadn't seen it before; Casey Conway didn't look noticeably pregnant. Ted had to guess she was probably a month or two along, and her stomach remained hidden underneath her diner uniform. And Charlie might say he didn't care. But Ted could see that was what the kid was trying to convince himself, though he wasn't doing a very good job at it. He watched as Charlie stopped to lean against the wall, his gloved hands gripping tightly over it, determined to keep his back turned, but Ted moved until he was alongside him again, staring straight ahead, knowing Charlie wouldn't want anyone to see him cry. He was like Ted in that way. They both hated feeling weak, even in the face of something so devastating. They instead chose to hold everything in.

"And then I find out the day after I found my dad that Bombay would be packing up and leaving, that he'd be dumping us all in this stupid school!" Charlie's fist punched harshly at the dividing wall, smacking down so hard that it would only add further discoloration to his bruised knuckles. Ted watched as the boy threw his gloves down, and he could see the distinct discoloration that he'd failed to notice for weeks, probably because he'd been so caught up in his own disdain toward Charlie's attitude that he didn't see what should've been so noticeable.

He watched as Charlie moved to punch at the wall again, but his hand shot out to grip his fist, holding him back from doing so. But Charlie still wouldn't look at him.

"He didn't dump you anywhere," Ted said finally, causing Charlie to glance sharply at him as he let go of his hand. "And if you didn't want to be here, you didn't have to sign your contract. You had a choice."

"I couldn't leave the others behind," Charlie argued roughly. "Bombay may've left them, but I couldn't. And he fought so hard to get us those scholarships. Everything I'd done for the past four years was for him. So, without him around, who was I playing for? The alumni? The booster club?"

"I understand that. Yet, you left the team," Ted pointed out. "So, in turn, you did to them what your dad did to you because you felt Bombay was leaving you behind. You were making them all feel how you were made to feel by all the people who left you high and dry."

He could see the pure shame on Charlie's face as he glanced down, his face wet with tears at this point.

"I know you didn't mean it that way. And I'm not saying that to make you feel worse," Ted added quickly before saying, "But I won't lie to you either. I've been where you are before."

Charlie glanced up again, this time open-mouthed, confusion painted plainly on his face, but Ted held a hand up to refrain him from saying anything.

"You know the first thing I did after the accident?" he asked bluntly, knowing Charlie knew the reason why he left the North Stars – Charlie had seen his reason and why he did all that he did that morning after Hans's funeral. "I went out and got drunk. So drunk that I stumbled into a cab and made my way home. But when I came home, my wife screamed at me, asking me what I was thinking. I don't remember much, but I do remember her yelling something about how drinking wasn't going to fix anything. So, I stopped – I didn't stop drinking entirely, I didn't do it to run away again, but I did do something very stupid, and yeah, it may have made me feel better while I was doing it, but afterward? I was doing more damage than the guy who side-swept my family and me that night." He gestured to Charlie's knuckles to prove his point: varying shades of purple, blue, and green, some fading to yellow.

"What made you stop?" Charlie asked roughly.

"It was Jan," Ted said. "He gave me a blank check and told me I had to choose, that if I feared failure, the inevitable would happen. He told me I could either make it worse or better, that I never let a hurdle stop me from playing defense, so why should my family's situation be any different?"

Charlie nodded, tears streaming down his face. He finally seemed to get it.

"I also learned something else. Anger is exhausting. I'm not saying you're not allowed to feel mad over what's happened. But when you hold it in, others become collateral damage," he continued seriously. He gestured with his eyes toward Charlie's knuckles, the bruises standing out even darker to him now that he could see them clearly. "It does you no good, burning bridges. It also doesn't help seeing things one way because, like I said, you've got choices. And you can choose to control a lot of things even when you don't have control over your circumstances: you can control your attitude. You can choose to be happy. Or you can choose to be miserable. It's what you make of it. 'Cause remember what I said: It's not just about hockey. It's about real life, too. The question is: What are you going to choose to do?"

Charlie nodded quietly, swiping his hands over his cheeks to dry his tears away.

"And I know you said you don't care about your dad," Ted added. "But I don't buy that. Because part of you will always care about and wonder what he would've thought."

"I don't." The anger was there again, that defensiveness that Ted now recognized. Charlie was trying to deny that he cared. However, Ted knew deep down what it was like to both want someone's approval and resent the hell out of them, and he knew Charlie was so confused by this that he couldn't begin to understand how that was a possibility. The kid was fighting an internal war within himself as he processed this. The glare etching across Charlie's face as he stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest protectively instantly took Ted back to that early-morning scrimmage the Ducks had done to challenge the Varsity, how Charlie stood there holding on tightly to his emotions to keep them from exploding, and Ted could see that the kid was fighting so hard to contain his rage.

"You do. Otherwise, you wouldn't have been looking to me, or Bombay, or Hans, or even Jan for our approval – you're still seeking approval from others whether you realize it or not because you've never had anyone show you what it means to be a man until Bombay and Hans. And now you have a baby brother or sister to worry about because that baby is gonna end up down the same path as you, and you're scared of that," Ted said firmly.

Charlie glared at him, tears filling his eyes until the realization finally sank in. His shoulders seemed to sink with him as he slowly sat down on the ice at Ted's feet, slumped against the boards. Ted followed suit, sitting next to him.

"Don't seek his approval," Ted advised. "Because you don't need it. He left you. Not because of anything you did wrong. It was him. You weren't put on this earth to be punished. You do not owe anyone, especially him, anything. He made a choice. Whatever it was that put him in the grave, he chose that over you."

"Why?" It was the question Charlie had asked in the cemetery, though Ted wasn't about to tell him that he'd been eavesdropping on him. And he also couldn't answer that question because he didn't know why, either.

"I can't say because I don't know. But what I do know is if your old man were alive, you shouldn't be seeking approval from him; he should be kissing your ass because I can tell you've done a lot, taking care of your mom the way you've been all this time, and you're gonna have to step up and help your mom take care of the baby, because it won't be easy on her being a single mom and having two kids she'll need to feed and provide a life for. But I also know that Gordon still loves you. A lot. He called you the real Minnesota Miracle Man, you know."

"I know." Charlie dug the heel of his hand against his cheeks to wipe his tears away. "He told me that. There isn't much we don't talk about." A slight smile curved its way up onto his lips, his face softening considerably.

"I gathered that when he talked to me about taking over," Ted said gently, smiling. "And truthfully, I've always seen it."

"What do you mean?" Charlie looked at him inquisitively, quirking an eyebrow as he dried up his tears.

"I've watched you and the Ducks play since Peewees." Ted watched as Charlie's expression shifted into shock, and he smiled a little wider. "Who do you think left behind those presents for you kids in the locker room after the championship? And I watched you all during the Goodwill Games – I saw everything."

Charlie could only gape at him, opening and closing his mouth several times.

"I only did everything I'd done these past few weeks because, if I didn't think you could handle it, I would've sent you kids right back to the Peewees," he continued firmly. "Gordon knew you were ready for it, too, and he knew you needed someone to help you kids grow up; he knew he couldn't be that for you kids. Otherwise, why do you think he convinced Dean Buckley and the board to give you kids those scholarships?"

Charlie finally nodded. "Yeah, I see that now," he mumbled.

"For what it's worth, if you and your mom need any help with anything, don't hesitate to ask," Ted told him.

"Hans and Jan have given us enough blank checks; they can't keep giving us money," Charlie argued.

"I'm not talking about money," Ted said firmly. "Though a few extra dollars go a long way. I'm saying if you ever need anything, if you're unable to pick the kid up from daycare, if you need a last-minute babysitter, if you need help with dinner, grocery shopping, whatever it is, I'm a phone call away. Really. 'Cause if there's one thing Jan taught me years ago after the accident, it's that people are willing to help if you let them, and not just where money is concerned."

Charlie only gaped back at him, unable to form words, but the fresh tears forming in his eyes communicated a silent gratitude. Ted watched as the kid's words caught in his throat; the only noise coming from him was a quiet choke as he closed his mouth, swallowing hard.

"You're welcome." Ted winked at him and patted him on the shoulder, and Charlie grinned, the first genuine smile Ted had seen on his face in days.

"However," Ted continued, his voice switching to something sterner. "These next few practices aren't gonna be easy on any of you. I'm going to be very picky, especially with you, because if we're gonna step our game up, it starts with you. You're their leader. They need you to do that for them with or without that 'C.' You understand me?"

"Hans told me something similar to that before he died," Charlie mumbled.

"And he was right." Ted smiled a little wider at the boy, and Charlie's grin widened. "All right. Get outta here, son."

Watching as Charlie skated off to the locker room to shower and change, he knew that tomorrow morning would be when he gave the kids a little something back that was missing.

Because these kids weren't Warriors.

Early the next morning, the kids were doing his garbage clean-up drill. Already, the ice was looking cleaner since they were clearing the trash away and banging in the junk, just as he taught them to. However, watching them skate around in their red and white Warriors jerseys a day before the big showdown sparked something in him as he blew his whistle shrilly; he knew that those jerseys were not them and that if they were going to play tomorrow, they needed to play under a banner that represented them, something that made them stick out far more differently from the Varsity team.

And if the school's mascot name was going to change tomorrow after they won (he knew they were going to win), they might as well dress for it. When Gordon and Jan gave them those famous Mighty Ducks of Anaheim jerseys (the same jerseys the NHL team named after them in honor wore loudly and proudly), it represented them uniting as a team because the motto of the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim was theirs: Ducks fly together.

He knew that once he did what he did, those kids wouldn't just fly. They were going to soar higher and higher because nothing could stop them at this point.

His whistle brought all the kids to a stop as he yelled, "Let's go! GET OVER HERE!" He watched as all the kids took a knee around him, petrified, thinking they must've done something to displease him, but he had the cardboard box propped up atop the trashcan, having broken away from them to grab it from his office.

Looking around at their now-paling faces, he said, "You guys are not skating like Warriors!" He watched, amused, as they flinched, not realizing he was just messing with them. His face softened into a smile as he said, "You look like something else." He opened up the flaps on the box, caught Charlie's eye, and knew that the boy knew what he was doing. "You look like Ducks." He reached into the box and yanked out the first jersey, displaying it so that they could see the glaring number 7 and Dwayne's last name.

"Robertson!" he said, tossing the jersey at Dwayne, who caught it eagerly.

He smiled wider, watching as they leaped to their feet, smiling wider than he'd ever seen. But the happiest ones were Charlie and Adam, the two who'd been hurt the most during this transition. Adam looked so delighted that he seemed near tears as Ted tossed the jerseys at them all, watching as they reached their hands out eagerly like small children jumping up and down to catch candy falling from a pinata.

"ALL RIGHT!" Goldberg cried, hooting loudly.

"CHECK IT OUT!" Ted shouted, watching their hands go straight for the box to claim which one was theirs. Seeing Charlie and Adam reclaim theirs, he could see the pure joy emanating from them as they cheered, snatching the jerseys up and fanning them out. And even though Charlie's "C" patch wasn't present, none of that seemed to matter to anybody. He could see that they were just elated to have their stuff back, and the kids spent the rest of practice quacking happily, the quacks echoing off the walls as they skated in a circle before they all met in a massive hug, ripping the Warriors jerseys off after dropping their gloves and sticks to the ice. They tossed the red and white jerseys down to the ground and swapped them for the Duck ones, wearing their old colors proudly.

Ted let them continue their quacking until the very end, and he wouldn't lie; he quietly quacked along, too, until he finally blew his whistle again, officially calling the end of practice.

"All right, Ducks," he said, grinning. "You all did very well all week, so I decided I'm going to give you kids tonight and tomorrow morning off; I want you all well-rested before tomorrow night. Remember, warm-ups start at four-thirty tomorrow, so make sure you eat lunch tomorrow. Do not do anything differently than you would normally do. And then, Saturday afternoon, we've got an away game in Duluth; that means if you kids win tomorrow night, don't stay up too late celebrating; we'll need to be on the bus by ten-thirty a.m. Saturday. Are we clear?"

"YES, COACH ORION!" the kids shouted.

"All right, hit the showers and go get some breakfast," Ted ordered, watching as they skated away, quacking all the way to the locker room.

Later that night, Ted put his daughter to bed, though she couldn't bring herself to fall asleep. Even though she'd won her game against the Hawks that night, she was still hyped up for tomorrow and worried about what was going to happen.

"What happens if you don't win tomorrow night, Daddy?" she asked him.

Ted stroked her hair back. "There's nothing to worry about. Daddy still has a job. Besides, we've been through tougher times together than me coaching the Ducks. And the Ducks can't get kicked out anyway; Uncle Gordy made sure of that. They've got to stay in school because they were given those scholarships to play hockey, not win at hockey, honey. There are more important things than winning and losing."

Lucy nodded, clutching her favorite stuffed teddy doll closer to her. "I want them to win tomorrow. 'Cause they're not Warriors. They're Ducks. I'm a Duck."

Ted grinned at her. "And I'm proud to be a Duck, too, sweetheart. And we will win. I promise. I've already filled in a big order with Goldberg's Delicatessen, so we kind of have to." He leaned down and pecked her on the forehead, thinking about the huge catering request (turkey burger sliders, salmon burger sliders, beef ribs, coleslaw, pasta salad, Matzo ball soup, latkes, knish, duck liver pate, stuffed peppers, jelly doughnuts, and halva) he put in with Goldberg's parents to celebrate that win with the kids; perhaps he was growing a bit overconfident, but he felt it in his gut that they were going to win this one. "Now get to sleep, baby. You've got school tomorrow. And you and Mommy will be watching the Ducks play the Varsity tomorrow night, so if you stay up to celebrate the win with us, you've gotta get lots of sleep!"

"Could you read to me? Please?"

"I've read you a story already," Ted frowned, pointing to his wife's battered copy of The Secret of the Old Clock; he'd read her two chapters that night after tucking her in.

"One more story?" Lucy asked; that wasn't a surprise. She was always asking him to read to her. He couldn't wait until she could start reading her own books at night. But then again, he reminded himself he'd miss this time when she would always beg him for one more story before bed. In a lot of ways, he was grateful his daughter loved books so much and that she had little patience for TV and even less patience and attention span for a movie; it meant she'd be away from electronics and be a great example for her baby brother.

"Which story do you want to hear?" Ted wandered over to her collection of books, which rested on her bookshelf.

"Stinky Cheese Man," Lucy insisted. "Start with The Really Ugly Duckling. Please!"

Ted smiled; for some reason, that collection of twisted, stupid fairytales was Lucy's favorite one, probably because she knew what it was like to stand out and be "different" from others. She had a natural empathy for others who were different, and The Ugly Duckling was one of her favorite classics to begin with. Plus, the stupid fairytale collection never failed to make her laugh, and he wouldn't lie that he found those parodies amusing, also. He grabbed the book and sat back on the bed, taking in the oil pastel-styled illustration of the Stinky Cheese Man.

Opening the book to the story she wanted to hear first, he cleared his throat, saying, "'Once upon a time, there was a mother duck and a father duck who had seven baby ducklings. Six of them were regular-looking ducklings. The seventh one was a really ugly duckling . . . The really ugly duckling heard these people, but he didn't care . . . would probably grow up to be a swan . . . Well, as it turned out, he was just a really ugly duckling. And . . . just a really ugly duck. The end.'" He flipped the book around to show Lucy the picture of the really ugly duck with its strange-looking eyes, long tongue, long neck, and abnormally crooked feet.

She burst into giggles at the illustration, encouraging him to keep reading the rest of the fairytales in the book until finally, he heard her drift off to sleep, her little face smoothing over as he set the book down on her bedside table, keeping it open to the page that had the really ugly duckling displayed; looking at the wacky, almost Picasso-styled ugly duck on the page as he turned the light out, it made him think of the Ducks, how they started off rough and tumble and just didn't fit in like that very ugly duckling, yet, they persevered and were so tough as a result, how they continued to walk into Eden Hall with their heads held high.

He couldn't have felt prouder of them as he blinked, suddenly not seeing the really ugly duckling illustration, but rather, a group of ten, eleven, and twelve-year-olds wearing green, yellow, and purple jerseys with some cheap-looking cartoon duck decal on the front of them (designed by Hans), proudly wearing them as they won their very first state championship title. He smiled gently as he closed the bedroom door behind him, feeling a strong surge of confidence rush through him, knowing deep down that those kids were going to win tomorrow.

No question.

A/N:

The passage Ted reads to his daughter is The Very Ugly Duckling story from The Stink Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Fairy Tales; obviously, I had to not quote the entire passage to avoid copyright infringement, but it felt fitting, especially since it released on October 1st, 1992, which would've been during the District Five team's first season when they became the Ducks.