Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance

stand to tell them the whole party had arrived, Jason Nightingale pulled me aside. He was one of the incoming freshmen and from what I could tell, a nice guy. We called him Birdy for obvious reasons.
“Dude. Your dad is really D-Day Forte?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought I was being pranked. I mean, I knew your last name was Forte, but I never put two and two together—that you were one of the Fortes.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I go around announcing it.”
My family has had a player in the NHL since the day the league came into being. Over a hundred years of hockey playing men came before me, so the minute my parents looked at the ultrasound photo of my tiny dick and balls, my fate was sealed. I was going to play for the NHL or die trying—not an exaggeration.
After we were seated, the guys all spoke in hushed tones for a few minutes, like they were in the presence of the Pope or something, but by the time appetizers were served, my dad had them all eating out of the palm of his hand. He had long ago learned how to make people feel as if they were part of his inner circle.
“So, anyone want to play a game?” he asked.
Shit. I knew what was coming, but before I could think of a way to derail it, AJ said, “Sure!”
My dad grinned. “The name of the game is You’re Full of Shit: Hockey Edition. I’m going to tell you ten facts about hockey and you tell me if I’m full of shit or not. If I win, you each chip in ten extra bucks for the tip, in addition to the twenty percent I’ll be giving. If you win, I’ll put a hundred into your team kitty. Deal?”
The team kitty was a stash of money that built all season. The captain and alternate captain decided which infractions required a contribution and, in the spring, the money was donated to a local charity.
Everyone was down for that. One of the freshmen mustered up the guts to ask for a selfie too, and my dad assured them they’d go outside after dinner and they could have all the selfies they wanted.
My dad pointed at me. “Hudson, you don’t get to play.”
“No, I know.” I’d seen him do this many a time at parties and charity fundraisers. At one high end event, he raised ten thousand dollars with this game.
“And no fair giving them hints. No sign language, no eye rolls, nothing.”
I held up my right hand. “I swear by all that’s holy I won’t help them.”
My dad rubbed his hands together in anticipatory glee. “Let’s start with an easy one. You all know what a Gordie Howe hat trick is, right?”
Rolling his eyes, Spencer Briggs said, “It’s when you score a goal, get in a fight, and get an assist, all in one game.”
“Correct. What would you say if I told you Gordie Howe only did that twice in his whole career? Oh, and no fair Googling. All phones on the table.”
There were groans of protest, but they all complied.
Briggs said, “That doesn’t seem possible. They named it after him. He must have done it more than twice.”
AJ looked at me, but I gave him my poker face. A minute or so more of debate went on before my dad called for a “final answer” from me. I’d been designated as the team representative since I wasn’t playing.
“The consensus is you’re full of shit,” I said with a laugh. Saying that to my dad never got old.
With a grin, my dad shook his head slowly. “Oddly enough, it’s true. The record for Gordie Howe hat tricks is actually held by my brother Rick, with eighteen in his career.”
“Good old Uncle Rick,” I said. Not surprisingly, Uncle Rick also held the family record for the most missing teeth. Go figure.
“Brammy, did your dad score any Gordie Howes?” Birdy asked.
All eyes turned to Pete Bramley, admittedly not my favorite guy on the team. He was moody and not receptive to the couple of times I’d tried to be friendly. I was actually a little surprised he agreed to come to this dinner. Oddly enough, his dad had also played for the NHL. But Bramley hadn’t been drafted. He told everyone it wasn’t his life’s goal to play professional hockey, that he wanted to be a screenwriter, but Burlington U wasn’t exactly known for its TV and Film department. It was, however, known for its excellent men’s hockey program and plenty of their players have gone on to the NHL without being drafted.
“No,” Pete replied, “but he’s a Stanley Cup champion.”
“Who’s your dad, son?” my dad asked. His tone was casual, but I could tell his dander was up. The fact that he’d never won the Cup really stuck in his craw. Everyone in the family knew not to bring that up in his presence.
“Craig Bramley. He won the Cup with Colorado but he also played for LA and Arizona.”
According to his Wikipedia page, Craig Bramley was one of those solid—and I mean solid—physical players who got a decent amount of ice time, a good portion of it spent delivering hard hits. His career reminded me of Uncle Rick’s.
“I remember your dad,” my dad said, nodding. “We didn’t play too often since he was in the Western Conference, but he’s a good guy. How’s he doing?”
Pete shrugged. “He’s okay.”
“Give him my best, will you?”
“Sure.”
“All right, going back to the game,” my dad said. “You all know the logo for Montreal, right? It’s a big C with a little H in the middle. I’m here to tell you that contrary to popular belief, the H stands for hockey. Am I full of shit?”
Some of guys thought it stood for Habitants, but others said it stood for hockey. After a lot of arguing, they went with hockey and got a point.
The score was tied by the time the bill came and we had to finish the