“Did you find out the kid’s last name?” I asked Max.
He pretended not to hear me while he demonstrated some goalie trick for the kid in front of him.
“Max. Did you. Find. Out?” I was grinding my teeth so hard my jaw was throbbing.
He blew the whistle and turned to me, waiting for the kids to file in front of him.
“Which kid?” He asked, clearly playing dumb.
“Don’t play fucking mind games with me Max, you know who I’m talking about.”
“No, I do not. Get your head in this- in what’s front of you, dude,” he urged me. “And no f-bombs around the kids.”
I rolled my eyes, “They’ll hear it in the locker room eventually. There isn’t a Hurley on the list.”
“She didn’t have a baby all by herself, man. Would you have a kid with a great woman and not claim it?” Max said it without making eye contact, like he knew he was testing me.
He could’ve just sliced a knife right into my heart instead of saying that and he knew it.
Fuck. This. He convinced me to coach- no, begged me to move back here and help him out. I could’ve gone anywhere, but I chose to shove my past of this place aside and be a good friend. And now this shit? I had no idea which was her kid, and I couldn’t go around looking into their helmets for resemblance…the tyke could easily look like the dad anyway…which would be a shame… No. Fuck. The frustration I was feeling was off the fucking charts. I could not handle seeing her on a weekly basis. The thought of that made me want to yak. I shut that particular door years ago, and it needed to stay shut…
