Fourteen

FOURTEEN

FELTON

I don't recognize my surroundings at first. There's a moment of panic when I open my eyes, and I have no idea where I am. It's only when I roll over and a twinge in my ass makes me wince that everything comes rushing back—Ren, the gang bang, how he held me after.

There's a bottle of water beside me, unopened. I only vaguely remember him setting it there. Sitting up and trying my damnedest not to grin at the reminders of how thoroughly I've been fucked, I chug the water. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until those first few drops hit my tongue.

Moving to the end of the bed, I look around. The room is dim because the curtain is closed. There's a bench in the middle of the room where my clothes are neatly folded. There are bottles of lube and a pile of condom wrappers on one surface. I can still smell sex in the air.

Quietly, I get up and dress. I desperately need a shower but that'll have to wait. My phone, which I find in my pile of clothes, tells me I have three hours until my flight.

The good feelings from yesterday war with the dread that sits heavily in my stomach. I'd rather stay here. I'd rather walk across fire than go. But it's Thanksgiving, and it'd just be one more way to let my father down if I don't show up. Just another way for him to know how badly I'm failing at life.

I try to be as silent as I can while making my way through Ren's house. I'm not sure if his friends are still here, but I don't want to come face to face with them, nor do I want to wake anyone up. As I slip into my shoes, I study the minimally decorated space. It's clean and devoid of clutter, yet there's still personality.

Even if I didn't know where I was, I'd have guessed that this place would belong to Ren. There's just something about it that reminds me of his voice. Smooth, quiet, and lightly accented. Taking a deep breath, I even get a whiff of something soothing.

A smile accompanies me when I walk out of Ren's house. My car is the only one left in the driveway, relieving the idea that I might have run into someone.

The drive to my house is only eleven minutes, so I'm there quickly and rush through a shower. It's a holiday so there's a toss up whether it'll be incredibly busy or dead as fuck at the airport. I'm only staying for the night, so I bring two changes of clothes—my father would lose his mind if I came to dinner in the gym clothes I'm wearing.

I debate with myself on what to wear. If I wear a suit, my father will say I'm incredibly over dressed and feel the need to appear better than everyone else. But if I wear something more casual, he thinks I can't be bothered to put the effort in. Fuck, I'm already exhausted.

I carefully tuck a casual suit into the hanging clothing compartment of my duffle and roll it up to drop in a more comfortable outfit for the flight home tomorrow. All I can say is thank fuck that the league doesn't give us a ton of days off around Thanksgiving. I'm forced to fly back immediately so I don't miss my game tomorrow night.

An awake six hours with my father is more than enough. Worse, I'll be back there in a month for Christmas.

Ignoring the way the reminder makes my gut churn, I hop back in my car and head for the airport. Sticking my earbuds in, I try to tune everything out as I listen to a podcast and scroll social media. I smile when I see I'm still listed as one of the top five goalies in the league, according to Toby Eads. Even with the way I've been off my game lately.

I appreciate how there is never any gossip on his profile. It's strictly hockey. He's got a bit of everything too. Who plays when, the current weekly standings, trades, predictions, new rules and regulations, retirements, opinions on play… Honestly, I feel like this is his full time job. There's rarely just one post a day, unless we're in the off season after the Stanley Cup.

The thing that's the most impressive and most chilling maybe, is that halfway through the season, Toby predicts who the Stanley Cup champions will be. Not kidding, for the last eight years, he's been correct. He's been off on some of the playoffs, but that doesn't change his winning streak for predicting currently. I think we all hold our breath come the first of February to see who he's going to predict for the Cup.

Toby Eads is like the Bible of hockey.

Sometimes when I need to shut out the world, I'll just scroll his feed for a while. I'm guaranteed to only see hockey. No ads on laser hair removal or the best gutters for my area. No one trying to sell me on a cock sock as underwear replacement—though I may have ordered one just out of curiosity.

It's not long enough before I'm sitting on the plane for the short ninety-minute flight. Because I didn't check a bag, I don't even have a reason to dawdle at the carousel for my luggage, and the rideshare trip is only nineteen minutes.

Every amazing feeling that I fell asleep with yesterday and lingered today is now gone. Overcome and drowned out by the sour feeling of being here. Facing my father in my childhood home. I really wish he'd offered someone else my room and forced me into a hotel room. Then I'd have a reason to leave.

Thankfully, I booked an early flight home tomorrow morning. I can't risk delays and not getting to my game on time.

As I'm standing in the driveway staring at the house, another car pulls up. My cousin and her family step out. She smiles as she approaches.

"Hey, Felton. Glad you could make it," she greets, wrapping an arm around my waist.

I drape one over her shoulders. "Yeah," I say, not at all sharing her pleasure at my presence.

"It won't be so bad," she whispers.

She's wrong. It's always bad.

She has an eight-year-old son and a four-year-old daughter, and I'm glad that they recognize me, despite me not being around often. As kids go, they're pleased to see me. My father's disappointment hasn't set in yet.

With her there, I can't really linger outside without it becoming awkward, so I follow her in. My father makes a big show of welcoming the kids—oh, how they've grown. He gives my cousin a big hug and her husband a big smile and a handshake.

When they've moved on, he turns to me. The only thing big about me being here is that I take up a lot of space. My height is another disappointment for him since he's unsure where it's come from. He's barely six feet. My mother is five and a half feet tall. Apparently, there's someone on my mother's side who's very tall. I got their genes, I guess.

"You could have been here sooner to help your mother in the kitchen," he says by way of greeting.

In other words, he's had to help my mother in the kitchen, and he doesn't want to. I don't answer. Yes, I totally could have come yesterday on my day off, but I didn't want to. Though I try not to lie often, I told him I had a hockey commitment. Thankfully, he doesn't ask many questions concerning my hockey commitments.

"Put your bag upstairs. I really hope you brought a change of clothes."

"I did," I say and head upstairs to my childhood bedroom. There's nothing reminiscent of my childhood here. Even the bed is brand new. Not big enough for me, but beds rarely are. Generally speaking, I sleep on a California king at a diagonal. It's the only way my feet will not hang off the bed. There are other options, but I like this set up for now.

I spend the next couple hours helping my mother in the kitchen preparing dinner. She's nothing like my father and I think she actually likes me. Once, we'd exchanged emails and when I told her everything I was doing, she said she was proud and told me how happy she was that I'd made my dreams come true.

Then my father mentioned the emails my mother and I exchanged, so I stopped. I'd stopped telling anyone anything. It didn't matter how excited I was for something or how big an accomplishment I had, not even how excited another family member was for something I'd done—it's never enough for my father and I get to experience listening to my father remind us all of that.

So I don't share.

My mother is kind and sweet. Very loving. But she also doesn't contradict my father. She doesn't step in and tell him he's being an asshole. She says nothing. My mother has mastered a neutral face over the years.

When I was younger, she'd come to me when my father was away or sleeping and tell me how proud she was of me. I should just ignore my father. Parents always want better for their child than what they had and that's all he wants for me.

At one point, I stopped listening to her. Mom's indifference when Dad puts me down is just as bad as his words most of the time. Telling me after , when he's not there, only makes me feel worse.

I'm an only child, but neither of my parents are, so we have a large extended family who rotates years for hosting holidays. This year is my family. The furniture has been moved around to accommodate a large table that runs between the dining room and the living room.

There isn't a separate kids' table. They sit dispersed between us as part of the family. Not some separate entity.

On either side of the table, running parallel pushed against the wall, are buffet tables filled with the backup dishes of what's on the table. In all honesty, I'm always impressed that a normal single-family kitchen can produce as much food at one time as my family always manages.

"When are you going to have a family and host holidays, Felton?" my cousin asks. She's teasing, but I really wish she wouldn't have said anything.

"My son is too busy making unsavory content online to settle down," Dad grumbles.

"I think hockey probably takes up a lot of time," an uncle counters. I give him a thankful smile, but my father doesn't miss it.

"Yet, he has time to be caught with his pants down," Dad says.

"This is hardly the time or place for this," my aunt, his sister, chides. "Today is about family and being together." She smiles and when I return it, I leave it small. There doesn't need to be any ammunition added to my father's arsenal.

"I hear Sally won an award," Dad says and my four-year-old niece looks up from where she's stuffing her face with plain mashed potatoes with a wide grin.

"She did," my cousin agrees. "Most improved in dance." She smiles.

My father goes on about this for no less than ten minutes. I'm not jealous. It's not that. But let's make a big deal for the four-year-old who won't even remember about an award that will no doubt be lost because it's simply nothing more than a participation trophy. No doubt everyone in class received some kind of award.

All the while, there are little digs at me. When my son was four, he was in hockey, but they didn't get awards. As if he expected our coaches to make one up just to appease my father. No, what he's really saying is that I didn't excel enough that my coach thought I deserved one.

I spent thousands of dollars on hockey and my son thanks me by nearly ending his career with his pants down.

Honestly, this isn't the time for that.

There are kids present.

Just making sure they know not to throw away their talents for a little bit of fun.

On and on and on. I endure this for hours, slowly going numb to his words. It's like I'm made of rubber. I don't feel the sting, but I feel the impact all the same. It's dull, but the vibration of it seeps into my bones.

By the time I can escape to my room, I'm breathing heavily. Fighting not to break down entirely. I toss and turn for a few hours, dreading going to sleep and knowing I have to face them in the morning.

I have to listen to my father send me off with his words sticking out of me like a dozen knives.

Unable to face it, I push myself up and dress before sneaking out of the house. I'm fortunate that my father hasn't upgraded to the latest technology and camera doorbells that detect motion. There'd be no way to get out.

But I leave in silence and hurry down the road; when I reach the corner, I call a rideshare to the airport. Maybe there's a late flight. I'd love a late flight. Any flight. I just need to get away.

There's one ten minutes before midnight. I'm home by two, but I can't remember getting here. My father's words echo in my head. I shake. It feels as if my heart is going to beat its way out of my chest. Tears sting my eyes. The voice in my head is loud. So, so loud. Bouncing around and echoing, continuously stabbing me. Repeatedly.

I tremble so badly I can barely hold onto my phone. There's only a 2% charge. Since I don't trust myself to drive, I call another rideshare and wait outside.

My phone dies before I get inside the car.

I'm unable to think better of this as I stumble out and up to Ren's front door. I knock. Ring the bell. Knock again. I barely see the door. I don't see anything but the disappointment in my father's eyes.

Not for the first time, I wonder if he'd prefer a different son.