Chapter 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Riggs

"Got a live one on the hook," my dad mutters as we walk back to my car.

It's sunny and beautiful for the moment, but I can already see the clouds thickening as they climb over the Sierras to the west. Soon enough the sky will darken and the gorgeous day will be ruined. Already, there's a chill in the air.

And if that's not a fucking allegory to the shitstorm of my morning so far, then I don't know what is.

"I love her," I say without preamble.

My dad's brows shoot up, but I just keep walking, bleeping the locks and climbing in the driver's seat of my SUV.

His door opens after a second and then he's sitting next to me. "Son," he begins.

"Don't," I mutter, jabbing at the button to start the ignition. "I put up with your shit because you're my dad, but if you say anything about Ella, I'm going to send you fucking packing."

He huffs, crosses his arms. "I'm just saying, I don't think you need the distraction."

"Sometimes having something to focus on besides hockey evens out the ups and downs."

"Professional athletes can't afford to have ups and downs." He slants a look in my direction and I see the familiar scowl on his face out of the corner of my eye—the one that precedes a lecture. "Especially, ones who are overpaid like you. If you want to see the full life of your contract?—"

"I need to pull my weight," I say. "I fucking know."

"I'm just saying?—"

"You know what makes me play like shit, Dad?" I ask, whipping my head in his direction, matching his scowl with one of my own. "You really want to know?"

He rolls his eyes, turns his stare out the window.

"Being kicked when I'm down," I growl. "Hearing ninety-nine negative things to every vaguely positive statement. To never have my own dad on my side, never taking my back, never reminding me that life—including hockey—has good days and bad days."

"You're out of line, son."

"No," I say, "you're just used to me toeing the line." But seeing Ella's face last night, hearing the shit her dad pulled and how deeply it hurt her, feeling that same wound pulse inside me has loosened my tongue. "I'm not going to do it anymore. I'm not going to listen to you shit on me or take your phone calls or reply to the asshole texts. It doesn't help me with hockey and it sure as shit is not good for my mental health."

Silence for long enough that my anger banks slightly, that a blip of hope flickers to life in my belly.

Maybe this time he'll listen.

Maybe this time it will be different.

Maybe this time he'll actually hear me.

"You're not seriously going to start talking about this mental health woo-woo bullshit now, are you?"

I grind my teeth together, bite back a reply—because what good will it do?—and grip the steering wheel tightly as I navigate out of downtown proper and start winding my way up to my house.

"Now," my dad goes on, like I'm not anything more than a robot to program, a virtual player in a video game to tweak and modify and mold to be exactly what he wants. "With this new system Coach is running, you need to be quicker on the breakout?—"

I roll my eyes.

Always the fucking breakout.

"Then clean up your play through the neutral zone," he says. "You're not connecting your passes like you should."

I flick my gaze at the clock, weigh the likelihood of driving off the highway and putting us both out of our misery in the cold Tahoe water.

Unfortunately, that won't keep Tahoe blue, will it?

Thinking about the often-sported bumper sticker in this area steadies me enough to ignore his droning.

Mostly because the water I'm getting glimpses of as I drive by reminds me of the blue of Ella's eyes.

"…and if you do that, then you'll play better…"

I don't reply.

But, of course, he can't take a hint.

"Did you hear me?" he asks.

"I hear you," I say. "But I'm not discussing this."

"Son, I've watched you play for more than twenty years. I know what you need?—"

I flick my gaze at him. "Do you really think so?"

Because I've told him exactly what I need—or don't need, anyway.

"I sure as shit do," he says. "You need to work harder. You need to spend more time in the gym and focus your game play on the breakout and in the neutral zone. You need to feed the puck to Lake because he's the team's leading scorer?—"

"And I'm right behind him, you realize that, right?"

Despite what my dad thinks, my last few seasons have been the best of my career—it's why I got the pay bump, why I'm on the top line, why I'm the second leading scorer on the team, and why the Sierra are at the top of the Pacific division (even though we're in a neck-to-neck fight with the Eagles to keep that spot).

"Lake is the man with the finishing skills," he says, "and add in Knox to clean up the traffic in front, and those two are going to keep the team moving up in the rankings."

But not me.

Apparently, I have nothing to do with that.

I turn into my neighborhood, the truth settling heavy on my heart.

Apparently, my dad isn't going to hear me. Not now. Not ever .

"I'm going to drop you off and then I'm going out."

Another scowl. "Where?"

I shrug. "I've got pregame shit to do."

He opens his mouth then clamps it closed, not pushing me for once.

Sort of.

Because the next question out of his mouth shows off exactly how much gall the old bastard has.

"Are you still getting the ticket for me later?"

I take a right onto my street.

I should tell him to fuck off.

Should flip a U-turn and drop his ass at the airport—or hell, on the side of the road—and never look back.

But…

God, I'm a fucking pussy.

This is the person who raised me, who took me to practice, who made sure I was clothed and housed and safe.

This is my dad , for better or worse.

So, yeah, I should turn my back on the old bastard.

But I find…I can't.

I don't stop. I just keep going, pull into the driveway, park in the garage, then sigh as I hit the button to unlock the passenger side door. "It'll be in your account."

He gets out, slams the metal panel shut behind him.

(All without a thank you, a goodbye, or a see you later).

I watch as he strolls into my house like he owns the fucking place then reverse out and hit the button to close the garage door.

And then, head pounding, I drive to Ella's.

I won't bug her at work, especially since I know she has a full day, but I'm not above taking a nap in sheets that smell like her—or eating some of the muffins she has on her counter when I wake up.

They're a few days old, but they're still fucking delicious.

In fact, they're so delicious that I steal one for the drive to the rink as my pregame snack.