(note, this story has already been claimed for TPE, it is not my intention to post this and claim money from it. it is simply to make sure it doesn't get buried in old PTs)

(-ick)
The image from a camcorder comes to life. It’s years old, barely used, or perhaps brand new to the user. The image is of a back wall, but one made hastily, as the bright sunlight peers through cracks in the wood. There’s a dresser, handmade, sitting right in frame, with a few books, some on language and most on various stories, all graphic novels, in Vietnamese and English. There are two books on hockey propped on top of the rest.

A face pops out from the side of the camera, from the arm movement, it’s clear this person turned it on. He clears the spot he’s put the camera on and leans in to sit down in front of the camera. It’s a boy, not older than nine. He’s clearly struggled with getting the recording to work, but a mound of enthusiasm shows through.

“<<Uh, hello! I’m Hai Nam Hoang, and I’m making a video of me practicing.>>”

Hoang exits the frame, and a moment later, a violent jerking motion can be seen on the video. Fumbling noises can be heard mixing with birds and frogs chirping as the camera is taken out into the open air. The frame settles on a dusty dirt road, the camera sitting on a chair on a wooden porch overlooking a breathtaking display of rice farms and blue hills dotted with thousands of trees. Sparce clouds dotted the otherwise clear sky. The frame only just captures the boy with a hockey stick and a puck. The harsh dirt makes his ability to control the puck and keep it where he wants it a challenge, but he seems to be doing fine enough to make himself content. After five minutes, a yell from behind the camera snaps him out of his focus, and he drops his stick and grabs the camera. More harsh noise is heard before the footage stops abruptly.

When the image returns, it shows the boy, a bit bigger and noticeably a year older, with full hockey gear sitting on a bench, leaning down to tie his skates.

“<<Tight enough?>>”

The voice is an older man, middle forties, perhaps. From the rough stability of the frame, it is safe to assume he’s the one holding the camera.

The boy finishes his double-knot, and stands up. He wavers for a second as his blades even out, and then be begins a slow, waddling walk out of the room. The camera follows the boy out to a rink, plastered with advertisement and slightly worn. The boards are wooden, masked by coats of peeling white paint. Several people skate casually, a few faster than the others.

The boy finds the makeshift door, struggles with the deadbolt lock at first before prying the door open. He looks back for a moment at his dad, his eyes peering above the camera. Curls of hair hide one of his eyes, bit the other shows a hint of hesitation. They share a glance before he turns around and takes one step on the ice, and then another. The blades carry him forward, and he leans back instinctively as if to brace for a collision in front of him, but he then pulls his body forward, and bends his knees. The shaking stops, and when the boy turns his right foot slightly and pushes off, he glides forward. He then repeats with his left, slowly getting faster and faster. One full lap later, and he finds the same spot he came out from, the camera still stationary, following him glide around the small, wet rink. He stomps his foot down and turns his foot, violent enough to make him stop, but he does not bring his other foot into the maneuver, and his knee on his extended foot drops to the ice, before he picks himself up. His face finds the person with the camera again, but there is no hesitance anymore. In its place is a beaming smile, one you would expect to follow with a deep, bright laugh. The camera feed cuts yet again.

The scene changes again. It’s now a bunk, spartan in quarters with only a white painted wall and a single window. The camera faces a bed, and in that bed is our small boy, again a little bigger. He sits atop the side of the bed. Noise is coming from the other side of the camera, muted by a wall. It’s a loud, boisterous conversation, being carried out in Japanese.

The child has his head in his hands. He’s crying.

The footage is the shortest of the past three scenes before we lose him in static. When we return again, the camera is no longer an antique camcorder, it’s now clearly a phone. We find the scene settle on the floor, moving rapidly. Two legs walk across a tile surface. The phone’s camera then jerks up and turns around, and we see the boy again, now a young man. The landscape is now clearly a decent-sized airport. The boy is in good spirits, and looks ahead while he speaks.

“<<Mom, Dad, we’re in Great Falls now. We’re ahead of schedule, and I just wanted to send you this video to let you know I’m here and we got here alright. Borys thinks our coach might not be here yet, so whether we have to wait or not, I don’t know. I love you guys, and I miss you. I can’t wait until you get out here, it’s like nothing back home.>>”

We then look to the side. We see a tall, dark man, heavily bearded, and in his mid-30s. He has a phone he’s intently watching, occasional typing or texting. The camera spins back to the face of the young man, who gives a sarcastic look of concern before looking ahead.

“<<Brother Bear!>>”

The busy chatter of the concourse is broken by a loud call, and the young man snaps to attention before moving his camera to show a man thirty yards away, with a sign with his name on it, waiving, but not looking at him.

Suddenly, the man beside him runs forward, momentarily startling the young man, who quickens his step to catch up to him. He catches up to see the two men embracing. They exchange words in their native Polish, which the young man can’t decipher, before attention shifts.

“It’s very nice to meet you, young man. We’ve got a lot of work to do and I’ve heard a lot about you. We’re happy to welcome you to Great Falls.”

The man speaks accentuated English, but the young man follows him well. The man hustles the two out the door, before the feed cuts and the video is abruptly paused.

“That’s just the coolest thing you can imagine, right?” Chris Valentine cuts in.

The team is at a bar, celebrating their first playoff win. The series is only tied at two, but the Grizzlies were expected to be swept.

“I still can’t believe they have footage from that far back. Is that really where he learned how to play in Vietnam, on that road?”

Manny Calavera interjects, he holds the phone. “It’s a picturesque place to live, for sure.”

Loosh O’Sullivan asks the question in everyone’s mind. He leans forward to look at everyone’s face.

“Has Hoang seen it?”

They all turn. Hai Nam Hoang sits as far away from the bar as he can, attached to the scrum that is his teammates, but still detached. He was in perhaps the best mood they had ever seen him in since he joined the team in July, scoring the goal in the fourth overtime to win them the game they’re celebrating. He’s back in a funk now, which alarmed the three men watching the video.

“How could he have not seen this, Half of Montana has seen it.” Manny says, more hushed.

“I’ll ask him,” O’Sullivan says, while he removes himself from his bar seat. “He knows me better than most of us.”

The other two men think about interjecting or going along with him, but they change focus to the rest of the video.

On the other side of the room, O’Sullivan approaches Hoang, who is leaning over his phone, a half-drank glass of water sitting to his side, the ice long-since melted. Loosh tries to approach softly, but Hoang pops his head up immediately.

“I’m alright. I just don’t want to drink.” He says. O’Sullivan locks up for a second, before responding.

“We’re not worried about that. There’s this video we found, it was posted before the game and we wanted to know…”

“I have.”

Hoang’s interjection slams O’Sullivan’s train of thought to a halt, though he was ready for either response.

“I just wanted to ask what you think of it. It’s a nice video, but I can see how someone wouldn’t want it released, you know? I bit personal.”

Hoang’s face betrays no emotion, but he does not move to assuage his concern with his expressions.

“It’s out, people like it. It’s what it is now.”

“Who did release it then?” Loosh responds. He then quietly winces to himself. He wanted to ask the question, but it came out as confrontational, too personal, exactly what he feared he’d do.

“Dunno.” Hoang’s response is pointed and clear. Rehearsed. He’s lying.

O’Sullivan looks down, back at his teammates watching the rest of the video, then leans forward to put a hand on Hoang’s shoulder.

“You did good today, buddy. Better than all of us. We’re with you, try to have some fun.”

He then turns and heads back to the bar. Hoang’s eyes follow him.

He then gets and walks outside, searching the contacts in his phone. Finding what he wants, he presses the name, then waits for the call to begin connecting. He then puts it on speaker, balances his arm on his stomach, and stares ahead.

“<<Hello, honey.>>”

“<<Hi, Mom. Played a good game today. Won. I want to ask you about a video everyone’s watching.>>”

“<<Oh, yes. Your father is learning how to make videos in his computer, and he found your old video recorder and decided to put it together. Did you watch it? He’s very proud of it.>>”

His mother’s words sting the back of his throat.

“<<You should have asked me before you sent it. If you wanted me to see it you should have just sent it to me directly.>>”

“<<You know your father. Speaking of which, he’s heading out to a function and I promised to go with him. I know you’ll understand at some point. We love you.>>”

Hoang wants to respond, but he never got the words he wanted. The stinging is harder now, and he can feel his nose and eyes start to signal that tears are coming. He wants to say something. He wants to say goodbye, he wants to say he loves them, he really wants to say that his journey is his own, and to post the video is against what he wants for himself. But he has no words.

He just holds the phone in front of him. The dark May air thick with the sound of birds and toads, singing and croaking. The phone makes no noise for two seconds. Two seconds that last sixteen years.

“(cli-)”

(1885 words)