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I shrugged. “He’s the one missing out on an awesome game.” I paused. “I’d say don’t let him get to you, but a dick move like that…” I rolled my eyes.

She laughed humorlessly. “Yeah. I wish he didn’t get to me.”

“He’s your dad,” I said as we clomped off the ice and into the chute. On the way down the hall to the locker room, I added, “I think it would get to anyone.”

Sabrina nodded.

At the locker room door, she stopped, so I did too. Gazing back toward the ice, she let her shoulders sag beneath her pads. “It’s exhausting, you know? Just trying to live my damn life and enjoy my career, and he never misses an opportunity to take a dig.” She gestured at the ice with her stick. “This is probably because I was stupid enough to ignore his call the other night and not listen to his voicemail.”

I stiffened. “Oh. Shit. You think that’s what this is about?”

“Maybe? Because, I mean, I know better. I know it’ll always come back and bite me in the ass. But I just… I was so done with his bullshit, you know? So now… this.” She scowled, leaning against the wall. “Probably why he made it seem like he was coming to a game. So he can rub it in my face that I didn’t bother returning his call, so why should he bother coming to my game?”

“Those… don’t sound like they’re on equal footing.”

She snorted derisively. “They do if you know my dad.” Exhaling heavily, she picked at a thread on her glove. “Honestly, I knew he wasn’t going to come, and that this was just him being an ass. That part doesn’t bother me. It just…” She chewed her lip.

I nudged her gently. “What?”

Sabrina pushed out a ragged breath and met my gaze. “I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, or if he’s too oblivious to even know it. But the reason this bothers me so much is because all I’ve ever wanted since I was a little kid was for my dad to come to one of my games.” She swallowed hard, like it took some actual work. “Having him cheer for me was probably too much to ask, but I would’ve given anything for him tojust show up.”

Just listening to the raw hurt in her voice made my chest ache. I’d gotten the impression for a while that Doran McAvoy was an ass, but holy crap.

She laughed again, the sound bitter and resigned. “God, I sound like I’m still that little kid. I’m living my dream, but what do I want?” She flailed a hand toward the ice. “For my dad to show up and act like it matters.”

I took off my glove and squeezed her forearm. “You’re not a little kid, but youarehis daughter. I think anyone wants their parents to support them. And the fact that he’ll do something likethat”—I nodded in the direction she’d gestured—“says a lot about what kind of person he is.”

“I know, right?” She let her head fall back against the wall. “But like, I know who he is. I’ve always known who he is.” She sighed, gazing at the locker room door with unfocused eyes. “I wish I could learn how to stop caring that he doesn’t care.”

My heart ached for her. For the millionth time, I felt guilty for ever thinking she had an easy ride to the top. I couldn’t imagine fighting against that strong of a current and still landing here.

I wish I knew what to tell her to make her feel better. But really, what could make someone feel better after a lifetime of bullshit from a person who should’ve been one of the loudest members of her cheering squad?

“I have to admit,” she said softly, meeting my gaze, “I’ve always envied you in that department.”

“You have?”

She gave a near soundless laugh. “Your parents arealwaysthere. They always seem so happy and supportive, and I mean, they’ve been tohowmany games this season?”

I wasn’t sure why some heat rushed into my face. “They… Yeah, they’ve always been amazing about that. And now that they’re only a few hours away…”

“I’m glad they can come to your games. My mom does, too, and my sister. Just…” She rolled her eyes and scowled. “Not my dad.”

My heart ached beneath my chest protecter. It was both empathy and guilt; I’d been so sure she’d had everything handed to her, but I couldn’t imagine playing hockey—hell, just living my life—without my family’s enthusiastic support. There’d been times as a teenager when I’d resented having to work part-time jobs to pay for hockey, but I understood now that my parents had just been stretched too thin. They’d tried so, so hard, sacrificed so, so much, and sometimes they couldn’t quite cover everything.

Even during those petulant moments of hating that I had to work between school and hockey, I’d never—notonce—doubted my parents’ support, both of my hockey and of me in general. I’d never—not even during the most hormone-soaked teenage fits of anger—questioned how much they loved me.

Sabrina… God, how did someone deal with that? And on top of it all, play at the level she did?

“That really sucks,” I whispered. “Your dad—he should’ve supported you. And he should support you now.”

“I know.” She blew out a breath and managed a faint smile. “But I’m glad I’m in the minority. Most people I’ve played with—their experiences are better. And yours… Like I said, I’ve always envied you for your parents.”

I had to swallow hard to push back the sudden lump in my throat. “You should’ve had that too.”

The answer to that was a heavy shrug.

“You going to be okay for the rest of the game?” I asked.