She’ll cry.She always does. The first time he called, when I was nineteen, I went straight to her and Paul. I showed them the messages, played them the voicemails.
She was devastated.
She and Paul tried to help, went to the courts, pushed for a restraining order, but it never stuck. The justice system doesn’t give a shit about threats when they haven’t been acted on, and I wasn’t a minor anymore. As long as he was just a voice on the phone and not a fist in my face, there wasn’t much they could do. I didn’t have to see him through court-ordered visitations anymore, so in their minds, I should just block the number and move on.
And the entire process broke my mother.
Not just because of him—but because ofme,too. I am a walking, talking reminder of Wayne McKnight. I have his last name, the face he had before he ruined it with drugs and alcohol—the face she was in love with once. And I know she loves me. She loves me so much, but she isn’t the kind of mom who will walk through fire for her children.
She likes when it’s easy, likes a Sunday dinner and a Christmas morning. She’s not the mom you call when your life is going to shit.
And I don’t blame her for that, not really. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. I swore back then if I ever had kids one day, I’d be the kind of parent that would do anything for my kids. They wouldn’t wonder if I’d burn the world down for them. They’dknow.
When my dad came back when I was twenty-one, I left her out of it. I went to my coach instead, hoping the NHL could do something. Hoped they’d care enough to step in. They did, kind of. They sent some threatening emails through their lawyers. It worked for a time.
When he came backagain? Coach Abrams cared.
I still remember the way his expression shifted when I showed him the messages, the barely concealed fury in his eyes. I’d never been cared for quite like that. He sat down with everything and helped me make a plan.
He helped me change my number.
Had security on standby whenever we were traveling.
Made sure my dad was escorted out of every arena if he showed up uninvited. And he did try for a while. When he realized he wasn’t going to be able to get into the games, he’d sit outside and wait for me. Eventually, though, he had enough of that, too.
I swore, after that, that I wouldn’t let it happen again. That I wouldn’t be weak enough to let my father sink his claws back into me. The next time it happened, I would be man enough to make him go away myself.
I stare at the screen, at the unread texts, at the voicemail I still haven’t played.
Maybe if I just send him the money, he’ll go away.
It’s a pathetic thought. I hate myself for even considering it, but I can’t stop the way my stomach churns at the idea of him making good on his threats. Of my career being trampled on right when my team needs me the most.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face.
Sometimes I wonder if Monroe realizes how good she has it with Coach Abrams as her dad.
I’d kill for a dad like that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monroe
I wake up on my twenty-second birthday to the sound of my phone vibrating against the nightstand. For a second, I forget what day it is. My body is warm, cocooned under the blankets, Rhodes’ steady breathing filling the quiet room.
He’s slept over a lot more often than not these days, my resistance being slowly eroded by the man in my bed. It’s feeling very close to an actual relationship. Rhodes wasn’t kidding when he said he could be patient, because he’s toeing the line between giving me space and touching me every chance he gets.
We’ve had two weeks of the skating clinic and it’s going so well. The Nationals team hasn’t bothered me at all since that first day, thank God. We’ve been around his friends a lot more. Beck and Finn are hilarious, the epitome of two golden retriever guys. JD is quiet, but I can tell he cares a lot about the group. Someone like himdoesn’t stick around the chaos that is these boys unless they like it. Tyler and Callum are protective and loyal, and I get the impression that if you ever needed to call someone to help bury a body, they’d be there with shovels. I’ve never been a part of a group like this before, and while I’m not naive enough to believe that they’d want me around if Rhodes wasn’t there…it’s starting to feel like maybe I have some friends.
Friends who don’t know it’s my birthday. To everyone else—and to me—it’s just another day. That’s what I am telling myself.
Last year, I spent my birthday blackout drunk in some stranger’s bed. This year, I have an eight a.m. clinic with Rhodes.
Improvement.
I check my phone. Two birthday texts, from my dad and Elsie. Both are short and sweet,Happy birthday, Monroe.Nothing from my mom, not that I expected anything. She’s still holed up somewhere, ignoring the fact that I exist. I haven’t told her I’m skating again, and Dad isn’t going to, either.
As far as I know, Rhodes doesn’t know. If there’s anyone who would make a big deal out of it, it would be him. He seems like the type to really go all-out for a birthday.