Rush: The Season (Austin Arrows Book 1)(10)

Gabby: Have you posted yet?

Bianca: Not yet. I’m still working on what it should say.

A couple of months ago, I came up with a brilliant idea. I’ve seen a lot of posts where someone is looking for another person. I’ve seen a couple where someone holds up signs saying everything they want to say, without actually speaking. Like, “I’m looking for my twin brother who was given up for adoption.” Or, “I’m looking for my biological mom.” That sort of thing.

It gave me the idea to look for my dad. Since Mom said she tried to find him but never could, I don’t think she’ll mind. Why would she? After all, he’s my dad. And since she hasn’t dated anyone in a really long time, I think maybe it’ll be good for her, too.

Sometimes I dream about my dad finding us. In my dreams, he’s always so happy to meet me. When I told Gabby that, she said it would be even better if he would then realize he had missed my mom and we’d eventually be a family.

It would be so cool if I could find him and surprise her.

Gabby: Well, you have to tell me when you do. I want to see if you get any likes. Or comments.

Bianca: You’ll be the first to know. Promise.

Gabby: I need to go to bed before my mom comes in and gets mad. You still planning to come over tomorrow?

Bianca: Yep.

Gabby: Cool. See you then.

Bianca: K. Night.

I drop my phone onto the bed and stare at the laptop on my desk. I really should do the post, but I haven’t figured out what it should say yet. Every time I think about it, I come up with nothing. I figure one of these days it’ll make sense, and as soon as it does, I’ll post it.

And then, if I’m lucky, my dad will come find us and we’ll live happily ever after.





4

Kingston

Monday, October 10th

As is my usual routine, I was up at six o’clock this morning.

For the most part, except for when the team travels, it isn’t much different than any other practice day. I went for a run along Lady Bird Lake Trail, came home, showered, then hopped in my truck and headed to the rink for practice.

Rather than having a smile planted firmly on my face as I generally do on the first day of practice after training camp is over, this time I’m battling the random nonsense running through my head. I’ve been dreading this since I heard that Phoenix is stopping by for a chat with the team, but even more so after my conversation with Spencer on Friday night.

No way can I deny that today I would prefer to stay in bed and ignore all the shit that has been going down for the past few months. Since my job is at stake—being a professional hockey player might be my passion in life, but it’s a job nonetheless—I have to suck it up and go in. Face the music, as they say.

Although I know what’s coming—translated to the verbal ass beating I’m going to receive—I can’t not go. The last damn thing that the Austin Arrows need is another black mark on an already tarnished reputation.

And to think, a little more than two years ago, we were riding high from our Stanley Cup win.

That damn sure isn’t the case anymore.

Regardless, I owe it to the team and to myself to be at my best, no matter how f*cked up we’ve allowed the situation to get. And Lord help us all, it is a clusterf*ck of epic proportions.

As I head across the parking lot, shouldering the bag that contains some extra clothes, I keep my eyes down, my attention on the asphalt beneath my feet. My brother once told me that if you do it right, you become invisible. Some people might think it’s cool to have fans who want nothing more than to meet you and get your autograph, but there are times when it becomes a nuisance. Like right now, when I want nothing more than to sneak inside and get this day underway.

For about thirty seconds, it works … right up until I hear someone calling my name.

“Mount Rushmore! Can I get your autograph? It’s for my son.”

Stopping on the sidewalk, I smile at the woman sporting jeans and a faded, wrinkled T-shirt. If I’m not mistaken, that’s syrup over her left breast. I lift my eyes to meet hers. The first thing I notice is that there’s a huge thumbprint smudge on her glasses.

Clearly she isn’t here to hit on me like some of the chicks I’ve encountered. She looks flustered and tired and, more than likely, really did hit the arena during practice just to get her kid an autograph.

“What’s his name?” I gladly take the hockey stick from her hand, along with the Sharpie marker.

“Carson,” she answers quickly. “He told me what you look like so if I did come down, I’d find you. Tomorrow’s his birthday. He’ll be fifteen.”

I try to think what description the kid could’ve given her that would make me stand out. Brown hair, brown eyes, beard, six three… I look like damn near every other guy on the team, minus the beard, of course.

I smile as I scribble a note on the stick. “Does he play?”

“He does. He’s a goalie. Wants to play pro one day.”

Her smile reflects the pride she has in her son. I like that.

“And his grades?” Sure, it’s a personal question, but one I make a point to ask when it comes to kids and hockey. Natural skills, honed by practice, are good to have, but brains are more important, no matter what professional sport you want to play.

“He’s a smart kid. All As and Bs.”