Page 10 of Breaking the Pucking Rules (LA Vipers #1)

KODIE

“ Y es, Sutton. You’ve got this,” I bellow as she gets the puck and flies down the left-hand side of the rink, dodging two members of the other team to line up a perfect shot.

As she pulls back her stick, I hold my breath and pray.

I get nervous for my own games; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. Especially big ones. But I am never, ever as anxious as I am for one of Sutton’s.

I try not to be that dad who barks orders and pisses her coaches off from the stands, but every now and then, the words just slip out.

My eyes are glued to her as she takes the shot, hitting the puck with enough force to send it flying past the pint-sized goalie and straight to the back of the net.

“Yes,” I hiss, attempting to be a little quieter than before since I can’t help myself.

I’ve been brought up to be competitive and cutthroat on the ice. Even the humblest players struggle to rein it in after years of it being encouraged.

The other parents around me cheer as Sutton finds me behind the plexiglass and comes racing over.

Lifting her hand, she presses it against the board, waiting for me to high-five her.

“Great work, Peanut,” I say as her team gets ready for the face-off.

“She’s got your talent,” the dad standing beside me says.

A wide, proud smile curls my lips.

I wasn’t surprised when at four years old Sutton announced that she wanted to play ice hockey. It was pretty much all she knew. But that didn’t mean I loved the idea of letting her on the ice. I know firsthand just how hard it is. How fucking painful it can be.

Allowing her to go out there knowing that she’s going to get injured at some point breaks every single fatherly promise I’ve ever made.

But I also remember exactly what it was like watching it on TV, going to the rink and seeing these larger-than-life men shoot the puck, looking like it was the easiest thing in the world.

I was in awe of them from as early as I can remember. Hell, most days I still am.

I might be one of the NHL’s top goal scorers, but even now, I look at my teammates, at other players in the league, and I feel a trickle of what I used to as a kid.

The only difference now is that I’m lucky enough to be standing on the ice with them.

No, I’m not fucking lucky. I fucking hate that saying.

I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am today.

Life hasn’t been easy, and nothing has fallen in my lap.

I put every single hour I could into hockey, into trying to succeed at college with Dad’s diagnosis of early onset dementia and then his declining health.

My dream of being drafted was seemingly impossible.

But I did it. Then only a couple of seasons in, I had had the added pressure of becoming a single dad.

It’s been hard.

Really fucking hard.

But it has been so fucking worth it at the same time.

As long as Sutton enjoys playing and it puts that incredible smile on her face, then I’ll be her number-one supporter. Always.

I just wish that I didn’t have to miss so much of her season because of mine.

I’d love to be standing front and center for every single one of her games.

I stand there with a permanent grin on my face as the girls finish their game.

Sutton’s team wins. But while I’m proud of her win, and her goal and assists, what really causes emotion to crawl up my throat is the way she makes a point of interacting with the losing team and the rest of her teammates.

Win or lose, she’s always the same.

I like to think that she’s learned it from me, but I can be a miserable fucker even after a win, so I’m not sure.

It shows me just a hint of the kind of woman she’s going to be, and…

Fuck.

I get choked up just thinking about it.

It’s bad enough that she’s turning eight soon.

Thinking of her as a teenager right now is hard enough, let alone a grown-up.

I shake my head trying to banish those thoughts of the future as their coach dismisses them, and Sutton immediately turns toward me with her helmet under her arm and races my way at full speed.

I open the bench door with ease as she approaches me, and launches herself into my arms the second her blades hit the edge.

“We won, Daddy,” she cries happily.

“You did,” I say, carrying her over to the bench so she can take her skates and pads off.

As I undo her laces, she chatters on about the plays they chose and how well they worked.

“Aurora lost the puck right at the last minute. I couldn’t believe it; she was so close, but then I remembered what you did in that game against the Wildcats. I did it. Just like you did. They didn’t have a clue what I was doing until it was too late.”

She’s practically vibrating with excitement on the seat, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

“Hungry?” I ask her.

“Starving,” she confesses.

With her bag over my shoulder and her tiny hand in mine, we say goodbye to her teammates and the other parents and head out.

We drive to our favorite after-practice diner and slip into our regular booth at the back.

Neither of us reaches for the menu. We don’t need to. We have the exact same thing every time we come here.

It’s our Sunday treat when I’m in town.

The rest of the week, we eat like the athletes we are. I’m not over the top with it. I allow her treats every now and then, but I also think it’s important to teach her that if she wants to be a professional one day, she needs to understand how much of a part nutrition can play.

I remember watching kids struggling because of the shit they ate. They weren’t as alert or as fast when it really mattered. I also remember them dropping out. Of course, there were a million other reasons as well—food isn’t the be-all and end-all—but fuck, it’s crucial.

“Two cheeseburgers, loaded fries, a side of onion rings, a strawberry milkshake, and a soda, right?” Clarissa, our usual server, asks with her pad poised and a smile on her face.

“One day we’re going to surprise you by ordering a hot dog and mac and cheese,” Sutton tells her with a smirk that is scarily similar to mine.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Clarissa says before ripping her eyes from my daughter and focusing on me. “I do love it when people take me by surprise.”

I force a grin in her direction in the hope that this time she’ll get the picture.

I like her. She’s sweet and good at her job. But she’s at least ten years too young for me.

“Okay, well…I’ll go and grab your drinks, then.”

“Clarissa has a crush on you, Daddy,” Sutton informs me.

“She’s just a hockey fan,” I explain, but if the way Sutton’s brows lift tells me anything, it’s that she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Then why has she never asked for your autograph?”

“Uh…” Because the place she’d like me to sign isn’t ap propriate in a full diner with an almost-eight-year-old watching? “No idea, Peanut. Are you looking forward to school tomorrow?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.

She lets out a heavy sigh, her previous happy expression faltering a bit.

“I guess,” she muses, reaching for the salt dispenser.

“Sutton,” I prompt.

It takes her a few seconds before she lifts her eyes from the table and focuses on mine. “Miss White put Adrian at my table.”

“Ah, I see.”

Adrian also plays hockey. He’s good. But…he’s not as good as Sutton, which pisses him the hell off.

I get it. All hockey players want to be the best. I understand his ego, but also…Sutton is better. And I’m not just saying that because I’m her father.

And unfortunately, this kind of jealousy is something that Sutton is going to have to learn how to navigate.

Being a hockey player is hard. But being a kick-ass female player…I can’t even begin to understand what that’ll be like.

When I was at school, we were seen as gods. Did it go to our heads? Abso-fucking-lutely. But I suspect is doesn’t work for the girls in the same way.

And the rivalry between the boys’ and girls’ teams…something tells me that it’s going to be savage.

“Has he said anything to you?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. But he will.”

I scrub my hand down my face, wondering what makes me qualified to dole out advice on calm conflict resolution when I’m surrounded by physical fights on a weekly basis.

“I know it’s hard, but you’re going to have to ignore him. But tell me if he does or says anything, okay?”

“Daddy,” she begs. “You can’t get involved.”

“I can and I will,” I state.

“But his dad…” Had a career in the AHL and ended up retiring with an injury before he managed to play a single NHL game.

“No one hurts my little girl, Sutton. No one. ”

She smiles at me, her eyes glassy with emotion.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Peanut,” I say as Clarissa returns with our drinks.

T he next morning, I stand on the playground and watch as Sutton saunters into school. She doesn’t run like many of the other kids, but she’s also not clinging to my leg and screaming like a handful of others, either.

She’s calm, composed, and maybe even a little stoic.

She wasn’t herself this morning, and I know it’s because of Adrian.

I scan the playground, looking for him, but come up empty.

I fucking hate that she’s scared. But what can I do?

It’s a part of growing up we all have to handle.

Just because I want to wrap her up in cotton and never let her get hurt, it doesn’t mean I can.

Just like that first time I watched her get on the ice and train.

I’ve got to trust that she can handle it and be here when it gets hard.

She turns back when she gets to the door, and finally, her beautiful smile appears.

She waves frantically before slipping into the building.

With a heavy sigh, I spin around and head back to the car.

I love the start of a new season. It comes with so much promise, so much possibility.

But it also comes with a cost.

Summers with Sutton are incredible—just the two of us against the world. But now…I’m going to be away as much as I am here, and I’m going to miss out on so much.

Mom is an incredible grandmother. I know she does a fantastic job caring for Sutton in my absence, but it still pains me not to be the first one she sees on those days. I’m not the first to hear about her successes and failures. I don’t get to go to her school performances or all her games.

I’m pretty sure the guilt over being a half-time parent will always weigh heavily on me.

I pull into my parking space at the arena, still lost in my morose thoughts.

This place is my home now. I may only be starting my second season here as a Viper, but everything about the place feels right.

It reminds me every day that coming here was the right decision.

We all needed the fresh start, and—Adrian aside—we’re happy here.

Forcing down my unease, I head inside and join the rest of my team on the ice for drills.

“Rivers,” Coach says with a nod as I pass him, ready to get started.

“Coach.”

Our eyes meet, a silent understanding passing between us.

There aren’t many guys in my daily life who appreciate the pressure of both hockey and being a single dad, but Coach is one of them. It’s one of the biggest reasons I knew we’d be okay when I was traded here.

Coach gets it. He understands my life and where my head is.

And for that, I’ll forever be fucking grateful.