Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance

into place, hoping he hadn’t noticed my birthmark.
Unfortunately, what he said next confirmed he had.
“You’re absolutely sure you’re okay?” he asked in a low voice. “Because if you need, um, support or protection or anything, there’s a confidential victim’s advocacy program on campus. I could get the number for you, if you need it.”
This used to happen all the time. People would see my purple, moon-surface birthmark and think I was being abused by one or both of my parents. Even people in the medical field were sometimes unaware that port-wine stains existed. My dad always tried to joke around and say, “You should see the other guy,” and my mother would usually try to explain that it was a vascular birthmark, but I used to get angry and defensive. Thanks to them, I’d grown up in a loving home with parents who barely even raised their voices to me, let alone their hands, and I wasn’t about to tolerate anyone suggesting otherwise.
And yet, I had to forgive this guy. Now that I was an adult, I was more able to see things from a stranger’s point of view. He was coming from a place of concern, not accusation.
I gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m not being abused.”
“I didn’t say you were.” But he didn’t look convinced. I couldn’t blame him. On TV and in the movies, the victims always denied it, saying they fell down the stairs or ran into a door.
“But you’re thinking it. I can tell,” I said. “I swear to you I’m not being abused. I know the number for Campus Advocacy. It’s on a poster in my dorm and I promise, if I ever need it, I will call. Honest.”
One of the cafeteria workers came with a mop and started cleaning up the mess.
“If you’re sure…” he said, still frowning.
“I’m one hundred percent sure. Do you want me to pay for your clothes to be cleaned? Or buy you a new shirt? Because I’d be happy to…”
He shook his head. “No. This is probably the oldest T-shirt I own. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay, cool. See you around,” I said and left.
But I felt his eyes on me all the way to the exit.

2
Hudson
“So, that was interesting. Do you believe her?” my roommate AJ asked.
AJ and I both played hockey for Burlington University and at the start of each year, every athlete, male and female, had to listen to a serious lecture about what constituted sexual harassment and how to get help on campus. Apparently, it had been a problem sometime in the past, so now they made sure every athlete was well informed.
“I don’t know,” I said, watching the girl walk away.
She sure was dressed weird. From the shoulders down, she’d looked like any other co-ed, but her face had been covered up like she didn’t want anyone to recognize her. At first, I’d wondered if she was a celebrity wanting to get her degree after she was already famous, like Emma Watson or Natalie Portman, which would have been cool. But then, I noticed the purplish mark on the side of her nose and my thoughts took a more sinister turn.
“Well, if she doesn’t want to be helped, there’s not much you can do about it,” AJ said. “You did what you could, buddy.”
“I guess,” I said. He was right, but I was still troubled. I really hoped she was telling the truth. I resolved to keep my eye out for her in the next few weeks, even though I didn’t really know what she looked like.
“So, I don’t know if you noticed,” AJ said, “but while you were trying to be her knight in shining armor, they closed the place.”
“What? Really?” I looked around and every one of the food counters was dark. “Damn it.”
“I didn’t want to eat here anyway,” AJ said. “Want to go to the Biscuit in the Basket?”
The Biscuit in the Basket was the unofficial, on-campus hangout of the hockey team. We went there after every home game to either celebrate a win or drown our sorrows if we’d lost.
“No. There’s no way I’m showing up there like this.” I reeked of root beer and the right leg of my jeans was a chili-infused abstract painting. “Let’s just go home. I’ll change clothes and we’ll grab something in town.”
We’d gone to The Marketplace because I was starving and it was close to the ice rink, but the neighborhood where we lived had a lot more dining choices there than here on campus. AJ and I shared a two-bedroom place on Lake Street in a historic building that was originally a railroad warehouse from the 1870s but had been converted a few years ago into apartments. Downtown Burlington was only a ten-minute walk away.
As we drove up to our place, AJ said, “Hey, your dad’s here.”
Sure enough, there was my father, just getting out of his cherry red ’67 Camaro convertible. He was a big man who, at four inches over six feet, stood like a mountain. When he was playing for the NHL, he weighed two-twenty. Now, he had to be close to two-fifty. He still had most of his hair but was missing one tooth—a point of pride with him. The hole in his smile was a badge of honor.
“Dad, what’s going on? Is Mom okay?” I asked as I got out of my car.
“You’re mom’s fine. AJ, Good to see you.”
“Mr. Forte.”
My dad and AJ shook hands.
“I told you none of that Mr. Forte shit,” my dad said. “Call me Dom.”
AJ had met my dad several times, but he still went starry-eyed around him. To me, he was just Dad, but to everyone else—especially hockey fans—he was D-Day Forte, the man who won the Calder Memorial trophy as the rookie of the year, the Hart Memorial trophy as most valuable player, and earned almost 1300 points during his colorful nineteen-year NHL career.
“Why are you covered in food?” my dad asked.
“I had a little run-in with someone