this day would never come.
Maybe it was inevitable.
“I-I’m sorry,” Violet stammers, bending to pick up her phone. “I didn’t mean to—you weren’t answering my texts, and I was worried. When I saw that your car was still here, I went looking for you to make sure you were okay.”
There are so many things written across her face. Concern, anger, sadness. . . love. But most of all, she looks fucking terrified, and I hate him even more for it.
My heart roars in my ears as I walk over to her, ducking to catch her gaze. “It’s okay, Vi.”
Her big blue eyes fix on mine, shining with compassion. Shame simmers in my gut, acrid and bitter. Because I know she heard it; she heard it all.
Interlacing my fingers with hers, I give her hand a squeeze and lower my voice. “Let me finish handling this—“
“Who the hell is this?” My father barks, nodding at her.
“This is my girlfriend, Violet.” Not particularly eager to drag her into this, but it’s a little late for that now. I suck in a breath, bracing for the worst. “Vi, this is my dad, Doug.”
He waves me off, suddenly disinterested in the answer despite his question. “Are you going to man up and get out there tonight, or not?”
“Why are you pressuring him to play?” Violet snaps. Her cheeks are flushed scarlet with anger, her voice shaky. “He’s injured. Playing could put him at risk of serious harm. Permanent harm.”
“This is a family matter, Violet.” He rolls his eyes. “We don’t need jersey chasers getting involved.”
My blood pressure shoots through the roof. Jersey chaser? Who the fuck does he think he’s speaking to?
I whirl around to face him. “Don’t talk to her that way.”
Violet is more like family to me than he’s ever been. My friends, too. Hell, even Coach Ward. At least he cares enough to listen and to help me when I need it.
“Back to the point.” The scorn in his voice is venomous. “It’s easier to explain you showing up late than not showing up at all.”
Right. That’s all he cares about—his reputation. Not my health or safety, and sure as hell not my happiness.
“Like I said, I’m out. Already told Coach Ward I have a concussion, and our team’s doctor checked me over before the game. They both agreed that pulling myself was the right call.”
He assesses me with cold, flinty eyes. “Never thought I’d raise a quitter. But I guess it makes sense. You’re too distracted by your little puck bunny these days to focus on what matters.”
My free hand clenches into a fist, and the thin tether holding me in line strains until it nearly snaps. If there’s one person who knows how to trigger me, it’s him.
“Quit fucking calling her names,” I grit.
“Don’t disrespect me over some little bitch.”
Violet flinches, and my entire body coils like a spring. An unprecedented level of fury ignites within me, threatening to incinerate my fragile self-restraint. The temptation to knock him out is almost too much to resist. It’s a good thing she’s standing beside me, because I’m not sure what I would do if she wasn’t.
“Say that one more time, and I’ll throw you outside myself.” My tone sharpens until it’s skate-edge sharp. “Leave Violet out of this. Last warning.”
“You ungrateful little shit. You don’t appreciate a single thing I’ve done for you.”
Which part should I be grateful for? The parts where he tore me down and told me I wasn’t good enough my whole life, or the perpetually moving goalposts? Or maybe the time he dislocated my shoulder when I was ten? Footing the bill for a couple of years doesn’t even remotely compensate for that upbringing.
Everything he’s instilled in me for so many years reaches a boiling point. All of the guilt, the shame, and the unworthiness condenses, distilling into something else.
And all I’m left with is pure, unadulterated rage.
“It’s not my fault you didn’t have what it takes to make it,” I tell Doug.
On some level, I’m aware that provoking him will make it worse, but I’ve lost control of my mouth. Better than the alternative.
“What did you say?” He’s eerily calm in a way that’s scarier than yelling could ever be. Or at least, it would be if I were still afraid of him. But he hasn’t laid a finger on me in over five years, and for good fucking reason.
“You’re a washed-up never-was who didn’t even make it to the league,” I add. “I’ve already accomplished more than you ever will. It kills you, doesn’t it?”
My father steps closer, and I pivot, putting myself between him and Violet.
“Who do you think you’re talking to? After the sacrifices I’ve made for you, you’d better show some goddamn respect. You didn’t get here all alone, son.”
Oh, that’s rich. Now he’s trying to take credit for my hard work.
“I got here by freezing my ass off hiding at the rink down the street, deking the puck and working on my wrist shot for hours on end all winter long. Because I’d rather do that than be trapped inside our miserable excuse for a home with you!”
Violet clutches my hand harder, and I realize I’m nearly shouting. Swallowing, I fight to keep my anger in check. I don’t want to lose control in front of her. I refuse to.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” my father roars.
“What’s the matter with me?” I laugh, but it’s dark and mirthless. Fuck it. Violet has already seen all of the skeletons in my closet. What’s the point in trying to shove them back in? “You’re the one who beat the shit out of me every time we lost a game in the minors. I was a kid, Doug. Look in the mirror.”
His face reddens, a telltale vein in his forehead bulging. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“The only one who should be embarrassed here is you. Don’t expect me to keep your secrets anymore. I don’t owe you shit.”
I steer Violet over to the door, gripping her more tightly than I should. The minute we step out into the hall, I’ll have to let her go.
“If you walk away right now, you can consider yourself cut off,” he calls. “That includes your vehicle.”
A nauseating amount of adrenaline courses through me. I’m done. So fucking done.
“Good thing I have a full ride then, huh? You can keep the car.” I yank my keys from my pocket and disconnect the key fob, tossing it underhand to him. It lands at his feet with a clink, but he doesn’t move to pick it up. “Go fuck yourself.”
For the first time in my life, he has nothing to say.
***
I’m dizzy with overwhelm as Violet and I step out into the hall, hands breaking apart. An older, grey-haired man in a navy suit stands at the other end looking at his phone, an arena guest pass lanyard around his neck. Even from a distance, I recognize him instantly.
Russell Peters. The AGM for Chicago.
Fuck me.
He glances up from the screen and his eyes widen in recognition. “Nash,” he says, strolling toward us. “I stepped out to give you a call. Coach Ward told me about your concussion, and I wanted to see how you were doing.”
My concussion is the least of my concerns. Did he just overhear all that?
“I’m sure it’s okay,” Violet murmurs under her breath.
“Russell.” My father appears behind us, striding up to him. Perfectly on cue to steamroll me like always. Dread consumes me as he continues, “I’m so sorry about all of this. My son should never have—“
“Why don’t you let me worry about my prospect, Doug?” Russell says coolly.
He blinks, rapid-fire. “But I’m the one you’ve been dealing—“
Russell cuts him off again. “Do you mind if I have a word with you in private, Nash?”
While I’m still in shock and not fully in my right mind, I know I need to say yes. Not having my father acting as the go-between with Chicago means there’s one less thing he can hold over my head.
“Sure. I’d like to walk her back to the bench first, though.” I nod to Violet standing next to me. No way am I leaving her to head back by herself with Doug around. I’ve never seen him get violent with his girlfriend, but I still don’t trust him.
“That’s fine.” Russell returns his attention to my father, leveling him with an icy look. “I’ll be speaking to the board at Copperhill Academy about my concerns with respect to your behavior and your lack of suitability for overseeing minors.”
“It’s not—come on, Russell. You know me.” Doug starts to ramble, grasping at straws, alternating between blaming me and minimizing what just happened.
Russell turns away, evidently uninterested in his excuses, and we leave him glued to the spot, glowering with incandescent rage. I’m sure there are a million threats he’d like to make, but he can’t say shit with Russell present.
It’s never felt better to walk away from him.
***
Once Violet steps onto the bench with the rest of the team, Russell and I head into the concession area and grab drinks, then sit down at a table off to the side. He’s got a coffee, while I’m nursing a hot chocolate. It seemed like I should order something, and beer was obviously out. Though I could sure as hell use one right now.
Russell leans back in his seat, draping his arm along the back of his chair. “I was speaking with your coach before the game, and we both agreed that it shows a lot of maturity to pull yourself like that, knowing you weren’t fit to play. I know it can be hard when you’re hoping an issue will resolve itself in time, and it doesn’t.”
“It was hard,” I admit, clutching my hot chocolate like my life depends on it. My hands are still shaking from the adrenaline rush of quarreling with Doug.
“In the long run, you’ll be better for it. The league takes concussions very seriously these days. If it’s even borderline, we don’t want you to get out on that ice. But make sure you tell your training team right after a hit like that next time, okay?” His graying eyebrows lift. “Don’t try to wait it out on your own. They’re there to support you.”
“Understood.” I do see that now. Maybe it was hard for me to trust that they were on my side when Doug never was. I’ve played with bruises, cuts, sprains, you name it. He always told me to suck it up, shake it off, and get back out there.
Russell nods at me. “Speaking of that, how’s your shoulder been?”
My relief wanes at the topic, but I know I should be honest. “I’ve been consistent with my rehab. Still have some twinges here and there, but it’s doing okay.”
“You’re in great hands with your athletic training team. After school wraps up, we’ll send you to Chicago to work with our staff over the summer to make sure you’re ready for the season.”
A wave of gratitude engulfs me. Most of the time, rookies are on the hook for their own training during the gap between their college graduation and their rookie season. While I would easily be able to afford that with my signing bonus, working with the team is infinitely better. In addition to receiving world-class coaching and rehab, it’s an opportunity to get to know the staff and some of the team, as well as to familiarize myself with the facility.
It’s a huge honor—coming on the heels of one of the worst moments of my life.
“That would be great.” I swallow another sip of hot chocolate, my brain working overtime to process everything. Too much has happened in a short span of time, and I suspect it’ll be several days before it does.
“We can help set you up with accommodations if you don’t have time to arrange for that while you’re still in school,” he adds. “Coach Ward tells me you’re one of the hardest workers on the team. We’re committed to helping you grow as an athlete, and we’re investing in you for the long-term.”
I nearly choke up on the spot, but I manage to keep it in check. After working for as long as I can remember, this is what I’ve always wanted to hear.
Russell asks me about school and my classes before jumping into discussing my game. He walks me through an honest assessment of my strengths and weaknesses, what they’d like me to work on, and where I fit in with respect to their roster. I learn multiple things Doug withheld from me, which is no surprise. Up until now, he was always the point of contact between me and Chicago.
“I’ll come back in the new year to watch you play once you’re ready, but it’s important not to push it. Take the time you need to heal fully before you return to the ice.” Russell pushes his chair back, gathering our empty cups.
We walk through the empty concourse and back to the spectator area while I debate whether to stick around and watch the game. Then I realize I don’t have a choice, because I no longer have a car.
Or any money.
My scholarship takes care of tuition, but I still need to cover everything else. I’ll have to stretch my rainy-day fund paper-thin to get it to last until graduation.
“Why don’t you stick around and watch the rest of the game?” Russell asks, nodding to the seating area. “Last I saw, the Grizzlies were handing the Vulcans’ asses to them.”
Good. The only thing worse than losing is losing while I’m benched. I always feel at least somewhat responsible.
I follow Russell into the viewing suite he’s been given access to, and we sit down, watching the rest of the second period. With three minutes to go, Vaughn scores a killer goal with an assist from Connor, and the crowd erupts into booming cheers.
Once it dies down, I force myself to ask the question that’s been haunting me.
“About my dad,” I begin. “How much of that did you hear, exactly?”
Russell steals a glance at me, sympathy across his face. “Enough to pretend that I didn’t hear any of it, if that’s what you’d prefer.”
“Not sure there’s any point in that. I think everyone in the entire arena may have heard.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Nash.” His lips press into a grim line. “There are a lot of athletes in the hockey world who grew up in similar situations. I’m just sorry to see that you’re one of them.”
