Alex (Cold Fury Hockey, #1)(29)

“And your wrist shot is weak. You’re not transferring your weight quick enough.”

“That’s exactly what my coach said,” I agree, even though Coach said no such thing. My wrist shot is f*cking perfect. Got me a hat trick tonight as a matter of fact, but I didn’t bother pointing that out either.

“Stop humoring me,” my dad growled. “Fucking man up and admit your weaknesses.”

I watched my dad for a moment as he glared at me. Red spider veins shone angry against the pale skin of his nose, his cheeks flushed cherry from the vodka and his temper. He was a f*cking alcoholic who was angry at the world and angry with me because he wants what I have.

These meetings between my dad and me never ended well, because there would always come a point where I would get tired of his harassment and let him have it.

Leaning across the table, I spoke quietly for only his ears. “You want me to man up, Dad? How about this—I’m f*cking tired of you taking out your woes on me.”

“What?” my dad sputtered. “I’m not taking my woes out on you. I’m making you a great player. I made you what you are today.”

“Yeah, Dad,” I said urgently, leaning in a little farther. “You did make me what I am today. A f*cking professional hockey player who f*cking hates playing hockey. But imagine what you could have created if you’d given a little bit of praise…a little bit of affirmation. You made me hate this game. You and you alone.”

“You love the game as much as I do,” my dad scoffed, slurping heavily on his fourth double vodka.

“No, Dad, I don’t. You made me despise it, the way I despise sitting here listening to your drunken shit.”

My dad had never been one to take criticism. His already red cheeks blistered hotter and he seethed, “You should be thanking me for all I’ve done. You’d be nothing without me.”

I looked at my dad and tried to find an ounce of sympathy for him, but my heart was black with bitterness and rage. Standing from the table, I threw a couple hundred-dollar bills down. “I am nothing, Dad. And that’s solely because of you.”

***

When I make it back to my hotel room, I strip down to my boxers and crawl on top of the bed. Our flight to Montreal leaves early and I’m exhausted. Not from the game, not from the beer and a half I had, but from dealing with my dad. He takes it out of me like nothing else can.

Reaching over to the nightstand, I grab my iPhone where I had left it charging prior to the game. Turning it on, I see there’s already a voice mail from my dad. I hit the “Play” button and listen.

He definitely must have had his sixth drink before calling because his voice is slurred and almost unintelligible. But I’ve had years of listening to drunk John Crossman, so I was able to translate.

Alex…buddy. I’m sorry. I tried the best I could. You know that, right? I only wanted you to be the best. And you could be, if you just tighten up a little bit. Put more hours in—

I hit the delete button without listening to the rest. That zebra will never change his stripes. My dad was never good enough, no matter how hard he tried or how much he practiced. Now he’s projected that on to me. I’ll never be good enough for my dad’s expectations, but that’s his cross to bear, not mine. I just wish Dad realized I was good enough.

I mean, hello…NHL career here.

Flipping over to my texts, my heart starts hammering when I see one from Sutton. It’s actually a series of three texts.

I just learned what a hat trick was. Congrats!

Just for good measure, I ran into my bedroom, grabbed my Durham Bulls baseball hat, and threw it at the TV.

You were amazing tonight.

I read back over the texts two more times, my mouth involuntarily pulling upward in a smile. I can just imagine her throwing her hat at the TV to celebrate my hat trick.

Hilarious.

My thumb idly grazes over her words on the screen and I take stock of the warmth they bring to me. It’s the first time I’ve had a friend who has taken pride in what I do. I’ve certainly never had a family member do it. I don’t recall my dad ever handing out praise and I’m not even sure if Cam has seen one of my games.

And Sutton…well, I suppose she may be the first friend I’ve ever had. Even though my thoughts where she’s concerned stray far past what would be considered friendly.

It’s getting late and I have no clue if she’ll see this tonight, but I go ahead and text her back.

Thx. So it appears you’re a real hockey fan now, huh?

I hit the send button then swing my legs off the bed to grab a water from the mini-fridge. Before I can even stand up, I get a text back.

Yup. My fav player is #67.

Leaning back onto the bed, I forget the water and decide to engage in some conversation with the lovely Miss Price. Before I can respond though, she says,

I dont understand why that goal was disallowed.

Ah. She wants to learn some hockey but that’s too complicated to do by text. So before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her name in my contacts and hit her number.

She answers on the second ring. “Hey, Mr. Hat Trick.”

“Hey, Miss Curious About Hockey.”

“You played awesome tonight,” she gushes. “I was so confused when people started throwing hats on the ice. I had to go Google what in the hell a hat trick was.”