My phone buzzes in my locker.
Dad,Three Missed Calls
There he is, the reason behind my bad temper these days. I exhale slowly, pressing my thumb against the screen until the notification disappears. His voicemails sit unopened. They’ll stay that way. His texts will go unanswered, too.
My dad has been a nasty drunk my whole life, and from what I’ve gleaned from my mom over the years, was for most of my parents’ marriage. Mom left him when I was two, and he never got over it. Never got over her.Court orders made it so that I had to split my time between them, but she was the one who footed the bill for hockey, making sure I had everything I needed. My dad only comes to games when he thinks he can corner me afterward or berate me in the stands.
When I was four, Mom married Paul, and a year later my half-sister Sloane was born.
Paul is a good guy, the kind of guy my mom deserves. The kind of father Sloane deserves, a stable job and white picket fence kind of guy. He tried toinclude me. My mom tried, too. But no matter how much they welcomed me into their new, perfect life, I was always on the outside looking in. I’m the spitting image of my father, and there are times I swear my mom looks at me and flinches.
Sloane and I are close, even with the five-year age difference. I love her and would protect her with my life. She lives close, on the college campus in town, and we make time to see each other pretty regularly.
My dad, though? Whenever he drinks himself into a hole, I’m the first call. Me and my“big, fancy NHL bank account”. I do well—my salary and endorsements set me up—but that doesn’t mean I exist to pull him out of every pit he throws himself into. Not while he’s still hurling insults at me on the way down.
I should tell Coach he’s calling again. He’s taken care of my dad before. But I’m twenty-four. I’m not a kid and I don’t want to project my daddy issues onto the one stable adult male relationship in my life. Fuck. A therapist would have a field day with me.
My ejection will be out by the post-game interviews, and afterwards I’ll have to figure out how to deal with that, too.
I sit in my car while the game ends, watching the highlights on my phone screen.0-4. Wolverines lose.
Fuck. My. Life.
A text message from Beck pops up onto my screen.
Beck (9:30pm):Where you at, man? Everyone’s back in the locker room.
Me (9:35pm):I’ll go over footage before next practice.
Beck (9:36pm):Can’t hide forever, Rhodes.
I exit out of his text and lean my head against my headrest. I can’t face the team right now. Beck is right. I’m hiding.
I start my car and drive out of the parking garage. My stomach growls loud enough to pull me out of my thoughts and alert me to the fact that I am starving.Food. I need to get food.
* * * *
Hours later, after I’ve eaten, I am sitting in front of the Abrams Professional Skating Club, my home away from home. Our home games are at the big arena downtown, but we practice here. I’m here more than I am anywhere else in my life. We share ice time with the figure skaters when we’re not at games and when they’re not competing. It was easier for Coach to host our practices here, somewhere he could keep an eye on his team and his daughter.
Monroe Abrams—the figure skating darling of Team USA. She’s the reason we have such a state-of-the-art practice facility.
I technically shouldn’t be here after hours, but I need to feel in control of something because I’m sure as hell not in control of my team. Or my dad. I can guarantee Kelsey, my agent, will have sent me a dozen messages by now, too, which I won’t see until tomorrow, because my phone is off and I refuse to turn it back on. No doubt she’s already come up with some kind of plan to rewrite my bad-boy hockey captain status into something more palatable. She has worked overtime this season to keep me from losing endorsements, and I’m extremely aware of how difficult I’m making that job.
I make a mental note to give her some kind of spring bonus this year to make up for my dumb ass.
I relish the first step onto the ice, feeling the familiar give under my skates. I skate hard, fast, running drills until my legs burn and my mind is blank, the New Year’s Day game tonight wiped from it.
Then I do it again. And again. And again.
The muscles in my thighs are shaking and sweat drips down the back of my neck, despite the cold. I push through it, cutting tight into a turn. Too tight.
I slam into the boards, my shoulder hitting first, rattling the plastic. A sharp groan leaves my throat.
Enough for tonight.
I push myself off the plastic and lean heavy into a glide over to the rink exit door. My blue-and-red Wolverines team bag is sitting on the bench nearby, and I grab it as I head toward the showers, the familiar logo stretching with the amount of gear stuffed inside. In the empty locker room, I strip out of my jersey and pads and toss them into a dirty laundry bag.
The water scalds the back of my neck as I stand beneath the unrelenting stream of heat. I turn it up even hotter, letting it burn my skin. By the time I’m done rinsing off and getting dressed, it’s close to one in the morning. I grab my bag, my keys, and my skates and lock the rink doors behind me.