Page 6 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Six

Kailey

I smiled at Oliver, pressed my finger to my lips, and tilted my head toward the door.

Hazel, Dominic cradled on her chest, both of them sound asleep.

Oliver’s wife had dozed off sometime during me and Oliver droning on about memory and graphics cards, Dominic dozing off right alongside her, his little fist pressed to his mouth.

I knew from personal experience earlier in the evening that the fist in Dominic’s mouth paired with him falling asleep would mean that a puddle of drool would be left behind when he woke up.

Lucky for little Mr. Dominic, he was really freaking cute, so I hadn’t minded the stain left behind.

But now, two out of the three members of the house were sleeping, and I’d already eaten and admired Oliver’s computer. It was time for me to go.

Leave the happy family to it.

Oliver caught my arm. “You don’t have to.”

I patted his hand. “Get your wife and son to bed,” I murmured. “I’m going to go home and play Legends of the Dragons until I can’t keep my eyes open.”

A sigh. “Lucky.” He made a face. “I hardly have time to play anymore.”

“No,” I said lightly. “You’re the lucky one.”

His expression gentled. “Yeah, Kay, I am.”

He knew it. He never let Hazel doubt that truth, and I knew that he would never allow Dominic to doubt that same truth.

Oliver loved him, would always love him, even despite the flaws that every person had, despite making mistakes as he no doubt would, despite not being perfect or not sleeping through the night and leaving drool stains on T-shirts.

And I didn’t have that.

So, I wouldn’t let Oliver waste it.

A squeeze of his hand before gently peeling back his fingers. “Bed, Ollie,” I murmured. “And give them a hug and kiss from me.”

He nodded, stepped back.

Then stopped. “Kailey?”

“Yeah?” I murmured.

“I know that the social stuff is hard for you…”

Immediately, my stomach began knotting, clenching and rolling, and winding tighter and tighter.

“…but”—he moved over to me, the motion so smooth no one would have ever known he’d lost his leg after a horrific on-ice hit not long ago—“you’re really cool, yeah? The team, any one of us you want to let in, would be lucky to know you.”

My lungs expanded.

“No pressure,” he said softly. “Just if or when you feel ready, yeah?”

Lungs tight again. My tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.

But I managed to nod.

Then I turned for the door, slipped through, and walked into the cool night air.

I turned on the taps of the bath, dipping my fingers into the stream of water, waving them around to ensure the temperature was right before plugging the tub.

It was late.

I’d spent too long with the new update, flying around in my virtual dragon form, pillaging enemy villages, and saving the villagers under my protection. By the time I’d finished with my quest, it was after midnight, and I’d increased my gold hoard to the point that I’d needed to upgrade my den.

Plush carpets, an oversized fireplace (because dragons liked it hot), and plenty of storage for my shiny trinkets.

My virtual world was expansive, and I wished that I could speak as well with my mouth in real life as I did with my fingers in that online life. They moved fast and of their own accord, not needing the awkward pauses, the over-analyzing. Just type out a response and go.

If only my freaking mouth would work as well in real life.

In fact, the only person that I had that with—and it was still a bastardized copy of my online self—was with Oliver.

We’d talked online so much over the years and about work so much recently, that a lot of the awkwardness had dissipated. I was still…Kailey. Still paused too often, avoided eye contact, felt uncomfortable in my own skin.

But I could talk.

It was a little weird at times (but that was me). It took me a bit to relax ( also me).

But it was as normal as I got.

Books. Coding. Playing my game. Those were all easy. Soaking in a bath until I turned into a prune. Even more so.

A big, bearded man with a penchant for loud plaid, an infectious smile, and a sudden interest in me?

Uh…yeah, that was definitely not natural.

It was also…unwanted.

Right?

I was happy in my bubble, settling in, expanding a little bit with events like the team get-together. My parents were on the other side of the country and though the move had seemed overwhelming at first, I could say now that it was the right thing to have done.

A full-time gig with my closest real-life-online friend.

People who were cool and smart and talented and who pushed me a little but backed off when I needed them to.

Opportunities to be involved.

Plenty of space to soothe the part of me that needed it.

So yeah, I still had moments where the anxiety gripped me tight and made it hard to do the simplest things, like just remain on the fringes of a party, watching the others interact, to engage in small talk or friendly competitions.

But…away from my dad, I was better.

My cell rang.

Right.

I’d thought of him and conjured up the monster with just that internal musing.

Ring .

“Shit,” I whispered, eyeing my bath, the steam rising off the water in curling tendrils, debating and knowing that it was better to bite the bullet and just answer the call.

Get it over with.

Be done for this segment of time so I wouldn’t have to talk to him again.

Sighing, I dried my hands on the towel, picked up my cell, and swiped.

Lifted it to my ear.

“What took you so long?” blasted through the speaker before I even had a chance to open my mouth and say hello.

“Hi, Da?—”

“I was sitting there listening to the phone ring,” he snapped.

“I’m very busy and I’m taking time out of my day to call my daughter—who, by the way, never calls me—and I’m just standing here with my dinner getting cold, twiddling my goddamned thumbs, and listening to the phone ringing, and—Jesus Christ, Kailey, just say something . ”

Just say something .

A familiar sentiment.

But, God, so fucking hard when he was always like that.

Impatient. Snapping. Expecting.

My kryptonite.

“I’m here, Dad,” I managed to croak out.

“I know that ,” he said. “I called. You picked up. Now my dinner is getting cold. Tell me about work and what you’ve been doing with your time.”

Okay, I’d forgotten about commanding.

A command to speak was just as bad as the impatience and snapping and expectant tone. The four coming together to form a quad-fecta (was that a word? I didn’t think so, but it fit well enough, anyway) of anxiety-inducing gloriousness.

Then again that was my father.

“Kailey.” A whip of my name. “ Speak .”

Like I was a dog, and if only that command would work, just to get the freaking man off my back.

Already I was sweating, moisture gathering in my armpits, between my breasts, trickling down my spine. My tongue was thick and dry. My throat swollen and closing more and more by the moment.

A sigh, nearly as whiplike as my name had been.

“I see this new job hasn’t improved your communication skills at all.

” Another sigh and I could picture him with one palm flat on his kitchen island, fork in the other, cell pinned between shoulder and ear, his plate of chicken and steamed broccoli growing cold in front of him.

Always the same food. Always so structured. Always growing cold as he yelled at me.

And then he wouldn’t even reheat it.

Because then the chicken breast would get tough and the broccoli mushy.

Not that he would stop calling me at this time.

It would deprive him of the opportunity to belittle me.

Which, look , I understood—not the belittling, because that was shitty and I might have anxiety and be shy and have trouble with socializing, but I was a human being and deserved respect.

Being quiet, having difficulty speaking up didn’t mean I was stupid or weak, like he often insinuated.

The part I did understand was that belittling was his tactic and he wouldn’t stop doing it.

It made him feel big or important or smarter than me.

Or maybe it was just so much a part of his personality that he wouldn’t ever stop it.

Or both.

Probably both.

“Are you even practicing the techniques I paid all that money for you to have from that overpriced therapist?”

He’d paid for five therapy appointments.

When I was thirteen.

He’d refused to come in for a parent meeting, had just told my therapist—in front of me—to “fix her” and then he’d left.

Five hours was not enough time to unpack what my father was.

It certainly wasn’t enough time to help me manage my anxiety.

But my therapist had tried, then had set me up with the counselor at school.

And I knew those five hours and the weekly twenty minutes with the busy school counselor had been the reason I’d gotten through high school.

Survived by the skin of my teeth.

Then a scholarship to Stanford, finding my groove with engineering and math, not being the smartest, but being surrounded by weird, smart people like me.

Online friends.

Classes that challenged my mind.

Helping me understand that I deserved the respect I hadn’t realized up until that point was so lacking.

Pulling back from my family.

Going to therapy again, this time paid for by my tech industry job. Picking up side projects for apps and websites that made my heart sing.

Understanding the abuse.

Pulling back further.

But it was nearly impossible to cut ties with someone who owned a private jet. If I didn’t talk to him once a week, he’d fly out, show up on my porch, and berate me in person.

The calls were easier.

Plus, it made everything in my life seem easier after dealing with the maelstrom that was my father.

“I’m using my techniques,” I said calmly. “And I’m glad that you’re doing well?—”

“You haven’t even asked how I’m doing.”

My molars grinding together. My spine straightening. My free hand clenching. But calm, and words were working now, so I was going to keep going with that. “How are you doing, Dad?”

“Terrible,” he grumbled. “I’m too busy and now the company wants to offer me a promotion. I asked them how they expected that I take on more responsibility and they responded by opening their checkbooks.”

“That’s…great.” It sounded like hell for the employees who worked under him, but my father had been with the company for almost twenty years, so what did I know?

Maybe they liked pompous assholes.

And considering they’d kept him around for two decades, I supposed that was true.

He prattled on, telling me about the money (extensive), his new department he was taking over (“a complete mess filled with idiots”), and his golf game (the only meaningful hobby in his opinion).

The prattling and complaining—all loud, all intense, all making my teeth clench together, my spine prickle—cut off precisely ten minutes later.

Ten eternal minutes later.

But my dad had a time limit.

Ten minutes to check in with his children per week.

So, I endured. Managed to get in a few more responses, which I knew my father barely heard, but which were important for me because I needed practice engaging in uncomfortable conversations.

One day, I wanted to be in a situation that would normally trigger me and be able to handle it with aplomb.

That was my dream.

And maybe it was a small one.

But when my father brushed me off the phone as quickly as he’d engaged me—those ten minutes up—and I put my cell down, I knew that I was going to do it someday.

Keep working.

Keep getting better.

Keep trying.

Keep avoiding the type of men who were big and loud and would stifle me, who would prevent all my hard work from meaning anything.

Keep avoiding Conner Smith.

Because he would crush me.