WHILE I SIT on the plane the next day, waiting for the rest of the players to board, I study the photo I posted to my social media. It’s the one of me and Hazel at Streicher and Pippa’s engagement party—my hand around Hazel’s waist, her mouth stretching into a pretty smile from something I said that made her actually laugh, and my eyes are on her.
My feelings for her are so fucking obvious it’s not even funny.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call—my dad. My shoulders tighten, but I answer. If I ignore it, he’ll keep calling.
“Hey.”
“Rory.” His tone is all business, as usual. “I sent over the rest of the contracts this morning.”
On top of being one of Canada’s greatest hockey players, a hall of famer, and a guest commentator on the sports shows, my dad is also my agent. He’s always been my agent. He knows the hockey world inside and out, and it was just easiest this way.
“Yep. I saw them.”
“Good. I spoke with the dietician. She’s going to make some changes to your macros.”
I stare out the window as they load our bags onto the plane. My dad has arranged for the dietician to work with a meal delivery service because getting enough protein is a challenge for me.
“Got it.”
“Are you logging everything you’re eating?”
“Always.”
“No alcohol, no red meat, no sugar, no trans fats,” he lists off.
I think about Hazel’s expression of bliss as she drank her beer the other night and wonder what it would be like to enjoy food like that.
“I remember.”
“Good. If you want to be the best, you need to eat like the best. Food is fuel. Garbage in, garbage out. We need you fast and sharp out there, Rory. You missed that shot in the second period the other night. That could have been yours.”
My dad goes on about all the chances I’ve missed while I half listen. Even if I’m the best in the league, I could be better. Even if I’m the fastest, there’s some young guy in the minors just waiting to take my place. If I even look at sugar, the inflammation will slow me down.
“I’m thinking about taking a trip out there,” he says—he lives in Toronto with his girlfriend. My shoulders hitch more. He did this last year when I played for Calgary. “Maybe stay a few months.”
“A few months?” I frown. “Your girlfriend wouldn’t mind?” She has a job there, but I can’t remember what. I only met her briefly once last year.
There’s a pause on the other end. “We’re not together anymore.”
Of course. There’s something about my dad that makes women leave. Obsession? Relentless competition? Nothing ever being good enough? I don’t want to look too closely, because whatever it is, I’ve inherited it.
I clear my throat. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Another awkward pause.
Does he want to stay for a few months because he’s lonely? Fuck. The thought breaks my heart, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to agree, but this year needs to be different.
Ward made me captain, and I want to make him proud without my dad’s voice in my ear, in my head, telling me how to be. Hanging with the guys at the bar after games? When my dad’s in town, that’s not happening.
And spending time with Hazel? He’d never approve.
“It’s not a good time,” I tell my dad, swallowing past a thick throat. “I, uh. I’m still getting settled into the team.”
“You need someone pushing you, Rory.”
He’s pushed me my entire life, but it’s not working anymore. I don’t feel the same burning desire to be the best like I used to, because no matter what I do, the goal posts always move. How do I tell him that, though? He’d never understand.
“Now that you’re captain, you’re a playmaker,” he continues. “This is the perfect opportunity to look good.”
My gut churns at the idea of choosing plays that benefit me. I make a quick excuse that we’re taking off and hang up, and a second later, Streicher drops into the seat beside me.
“Hey, buddy.” My mood lightens. “Ready for Columbus?”
Their goaltending is shit, but their offense is strong. He’s going to be fielding shots all game.
“I’m ready.” He pulls out his phone. His background is a picture of Pippa and Daisy, their dog.
I wonder if Hazel ever wants a dog. She and Pippa take Daisy on walks in the trails around Vancouver all the time.
McKinnon steps onto the plane, and as he passes, his bag shoves against Streicher’s shoulder with enough force that a normal person would apologize. Instead, McKinnon just keeps walking.
Streicher’s hand tenses and he gives me a sidelong glance. “Heard you’re rooming together.”
Sometimes, the coaches make guys share hotel rooms on the road. “I asked Ward if I could room with you, but he said no. I don’t know whether it’s a curse because I have to see his fucking face when I wake up, or a blessing because I get to fuck with him.”
Streicher snorts. “He was pissed the other night, seeing you and Hazel.”
I smile, remembering his expression at the game after I made Hartley give me a kiss through the glass. My grin drops at the image of her in the hallway. Her shoulders were up to her ears while he loomed over her.
That fucking prick. My mind flicks to what I packed in my bag after I found out McKinnon and I are rooming together, and excitement weaves through me.
I can’t wait to fuck with him.
“So, this thing with Hazel,” Jamie says.
Anxiety clenches behind my sternum. We’re on better terms these days, but I still ditched the guy the second we got drafted. I was still a fucking asshole for all the years between then and now. Images of our fight last year on the ice replay in my head—the wet thud of his fist hitting my cheekbone, the blood dripping from his split lip.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to give me the old hurt her and die thing, Streicher.”
The last players file onto the plane, taking their seats. “I know you won’t.”
An image flits into my head of the four of us—Jamie, Pippa, Hazel, and me. We’re at a barbecue, hanging out. Pippa’s curled up against Jamie, and Hazel’s tucked into my side. I loop my arm around her shoulder, and she smiles up at me.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“About faking it?” I ask, keeping my voice low, and he nods.
I frown, glancing out the window as an ugly feeling surges in my gut. She thinks it’s fake. What if January comes and she still doesn’t want anything real? I’m Rick Miller’s son, after all. His carbon copy. Women get to know my dad, and soon enough, they’re packing their bags.
“Of course,” I answer, clearing my throat and shifting in my seat.
That old competitive focus that’s been driving me my entire life flows through me. I wasn’t lying when I told Hartley that I always bet on myself.
“What happened with them?” I ask him. “Why’d they break up?”
“Pippa says he cheated on her, but she doesn’t know details.”
I look out the window again, thinking about her, before I unlock my phone and pull up our chat.
I’m serious about teaching you to skate, I text her.
Her response pops up a moment later. Fuck no. I only said yes because Connor tried and I didn’t want to.
That was the wrong thing to say, because now I want to be the one to teach her even more. My phone buzzes with a text from Streicher. I send him a curious glance but open the link he sent.
Ember Yoga. Spark your love of movement.
“Hartley’s online yoga classes?”
He cuts me a side-long look. “Don’t tell her I sent you that.”
Yoga in an inclusive, encouraging environment. All body types, ages, ethnicities, nationalities, religions, genders, and sexual orientations warmly welcomed.
I know exactly what I’m doing tonight.
