Page 48

TWENTY-NINE

COURTNEY

Dad’s desk is a mess of whiteboards stacked with half-erased plays, stat sheets litter his walls with the lines for the upcoming season. Even though it’s chaos, it’s oddly comforting.

It reminds me of the countless hours I spent in his home office as a child. Scribbling my own plays on the few boards he'd clean for me.

Wiping my mouth, I sit back in the leather seat across from him and assess Auguste’s lines: Matheo, Auguste, Erik.

That’s the line I’ve watched more of during training camp.

It’s the team’s strongest offensive line.

Not surprising given how bossy Auguste can be. Or maybe commanding is the better term.

“You okay, honey?” Dad waves his hand in front of my face.

“Yeah, just looking at your line combos.”

He looks back over his shoulder. “I’m thinking about switching Sylkes with Weissmann.”

“Really? Jayden and Eli are…” I mesh my fingers together conveying how tight they are as a pairing.

Dad chuckles, “Sometimes you have to switch things up to keep them fresh. Sylkes is a great thinker. If there’s a hole in the opponents' play, he’ll find it and use it. Great for power plays and turnovers. Weissmann is scrappy. Something we lacked last season on penalty kills.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” I muse as he cleans up the trash from lunch. “But how are Jayden and Eli going to take it? They’re like a married couple on the ice.”

Dad sighs, looking back over his shoulder at the photos of the two defensemen side-by-side.

Eli Sylkes was possibly the most awkward player to photograph.

I felt like I was torturing him by the time we got the shot PR chose to go with.

Even then he looks like he’s about to pull his blond man-bun right out.

In complete contrast, Jayden’s smiling like the cat that got the cream.

His confidence shines in his hazel eyes.

I’m not a coach, but the two of them have the kind of balance between them that breeds chemistry. It’s palpable when you’re around them, visible when you see them on the ice together.

“So!” Dad claps, bringing my attention back to him. “What are we doing with the few weeks you have left in LA?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve got a few tickets to a couple of galleries and museums.” Another sweet gesture from Auguste, but I don’t tell him that. “Aside from that, I’m hoping to enjoy the beach a little, maybe explore a few hiking trails.”

“There’s a great one close to my place. We could do it together, maybe take a picnic. Like we used to do.” he says gently, watching me over his folded hands.

“I’d love that. Although, from what I recall, you did the hiking while I sat on your shoulders. Not sure we could do that.”

“Courtney Eloise Nilsson, are you calling me old?”

“No,” I snicker back.

“Good, cause I could put some of those kids out there to shame with my stamina.” He’s smiling so big that it takes me a moment to catch up to his next remark. “You know, I’ve been talking to your mom about New Orleans…”

Mom? “You’ve been talking to Mom?”

“Of course. I call her every Thursday evening to check in. I’ve done that for years.”

A lump lodges in my throat because I did not know this.

Mom never mentioned him calling ever. Until I got my own phone, I practically had to beg her to talk to him when Martin wasn’t there to rush me off the phone.

In fact, it makes total sense that they talk on Thursday evenings.

It’s the one night of the week Martin goes for work drinks and meets up with his friends.

“It was just to check you were doing okay, if you needed anything…” Dad clears his throat, frowning down at his hands. “I know I wasn’t there physically, but I’ve tried to be present, Courtney.”

“Yeah, I… I know…”

“You do?” Tilting his head he peers up at me while I figure out how to school the anger and disappointment from my expression .

I nod and move the focus from me. “So, you’ve been talking to Mom about New Orleans. What about it?”

Let’s add insult to injury because aside from the fact I had no idea he called weekly, Mom still hasn’t called or messaged me. The radio silence from her is the worst it has ever been. I’m not sure where that leaves us, if I’m honest.

“Well, we mainly discussed your accommodation. She’s as concerned as I am about you being in a part of town that has a significantly high crime rate. Especially with assault involving young women in your age bracket.”

“Dad… daddy…”

“Daddy,” he hums. “You think I don’t know you Daddy me when you want to pacify me?”

“I took self-defense classes in college and I have an overflowing stash of Mace spray, thanks to Delilah.”

“That’s great, but I still want to put you up somewhere safer. Closer to the facility. More security.”

I look away because the look he’s giving me is the equivalent to me buttering him up with daddy .

It’s working too. Especially with the knowledge that this isn’t something new to him.

That he’s not trying to ease a misplaced sense of guilt.

He’s always cared, always been there, looking after me behind the scenes, and I feel so fucking bad for being so clueless.

So na?ve and trusting of my mother’s indifference to him.

I’m an idiot.

“Okay,” I say, glancing up at him to find him beaming with relief. “ But … I don’t want anything over the top like the penthouse here.”

His head bounces from side to side. “That isn’t over the top, it’s?—”

“Literally a penthouse, Dad.”

An awkward chuckle vibrates his chest as he scratches his jaw. “Okay. No penthouses. Something simple. Something safe. Did you look through all the options I sent you?”

“Yes.” I nod, heart squeezing because all the options were luxury condos like the one I’m staying in now. “The smallest one was three bedrooms.”

“A master suite, a guest bedroom, and an office,” Dad corrects like he isn’t simply assigning labels to the two extra rooms I don’t need. “You have a ton of kit you carry around and need a place to store, and if your mother visits there’s room for her.”

Ugh , I chuff to myself. I don’t think my mother will be visiting me, and I’m not sure I want her to. She lied to me. She knew how badly I missed him and she never, not once, told me that he called regularly… for years …

I don’t know if I can forgive her for that.

Not with all the shit I’ve lived with because of her toxic marriage to Martin.

All those times she let him talk shit about Dad to me.

All the times she didn’t correct him when he told me I was lucky she chose to keep me when my father bailed. It wasn’t even remotely true.

“Will you visit me?” I ask him, my voice barely above a whisper.

I can’t bring myself to look at him when he asks, “Would you like me to?”

That’s not a yes. Not even a maybe… “I mean if you’re paying for the place, you should get to?—”

“Courtney… honey?” Tentatively I lift my gaze to his, allowing him to pry my hands apart. He frowns down at the angry divots my nails left. “Would you like me to come visit you?”

“Yes,” I say, softer. A sigh of relief escapes me when he smiles at my reply. “Not just for games, though. I mean like… really visit. We can spend time together and… I don’t know… do things together.”

His eyes soften.

“I would love that,” he says. “ And , I’d like it if you did the same. Visited, spent some of the holidays here, with me.”

I smile because it’s the only response I can give without getting overly emotional.

“Come on, kiddo, let’s go grab a soda and candy bar from the vending machine.” He stands, stretching his back and cracking his neck as he grumbles at the wall behind him, “These assholes have my blood sugar all over the place.”

We head past the equipment room to the vending machine at the end of the hallway.

Today is the first open practice the team is having and the atmosphere is livelier than usual.

I’m looking forward to this afternoon’s session.

The board is attending along with the VIP fan pass holders.

Cecelia mentioned the kids from the community rink are going to be joining the guys at the end.

It’s going to be fun, and I need something else to think about than the fact my mother let me believe my dad was always too busy for me.

“Here,” Dad hands me a can of raspberry pink lemonade seltzer, my favorite, “Wai?—”

“Oh my God,” I screech as the cap pops, spraying me in the face and chest .

I’m soaked through, my light t-shirt sticking to my chest. My only option is to hug myself so I preserve my modesty. Dad’s a panicked shade of purple as he takes his baseball cap off and holds it in front of me like it’s going to make a difference.

“Oh, hell, Court… honey, I’ve told you to wait before you open the cans.”

“I know,” I groan, looking around for an escape. “I forgot.”

“Jesus! Okay, well…” He looks around too before light flashes in his eyes. “Come on.”

I follow behind him. Grateful that everyone is occupied preparing for the afternoon.

When we get to the equipment room, Dad grabs one of the first tops that comes to hand. A jersey from the ironing pile.

He tosses it to me with a nod to the bathroom across the way. “It’ll do.”

“Thank you,” I catch it midair and run across the hallway as he tells me, “I’ll see you out on the ice.”

Close the door behind me when he disappears down the corridor and lock it so that I can rinse the sticky, fruity smell off me before I put the jersey on.

The jersey.

“Oh no. Fuck my life,” I grumble into the mirror as I catch the large 74 on the back with Jayden’s surname across the top.

I eye the soda on my shirt. Then the jersey.

Could I wait it out a bit for my shirt to dry? Nope, not a chance. I have to be out, rink side in five minutes and I still have to go grab my camera bag from the office.

With a huff, I accept my fate like the idiot I am. Every single time we get a drink from that damn vending machine Dad reminds me to wait before I open it. Every freaking time. And I always forget.