Page 60 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)
“ I worked so hard,” I corrected him. “You literally shoved a baby hockey stick into my hand the moment I was born and haven’t let me do anything but live, eat, sleep, and breathe hockey for my entire life.”
“Because that’s what you wanted.”
“No, that’s what you wanted. What you forced us to do. We were never given any other choice than to play hockey. And if we complained, well, we may as well have ceased to exist. Your love was contingent on our success. On us sharing a common interest, a common passion with you.”
Ignoring me, he shook his head. “You’re throwing your career away for this podcast shit.
You belong on the ice. The league is furious.
Shareholders and players are calling me, asking me what’s wrong with my boy.
If this was Rebel or Riot in the place of Henderson, would you speak out against them? Against your own brothers?”
“If Rebel or Riot were accused and charged with several counts of sexual assault and rape, you bet your ass I would speak out against them. And I’d offer to pay the legal fees of their victims too.
This is bullshit, Dad. And you know it. You’re more concerned with your own reputation than with the wellbeing of anybody else. ”
“Why can’t you just do what you’re paid to do? Play hockey? Get butts in the stands, and make money for the team? Why do you have to get political?”
Scoffing, I picked up the kettle as it started beeping and filled the mugs with hot water.
Then I tossed in two peppermint tea bags and some honey before bringing them into the living room.
I set one down on the coffee table for my dad and held onto one for me as I took a seat in the chair opposite the couch.
“You told me I belong on the ice. And I believed you. Because I was a kid, desperate for my father’s love and approval, and I didn’t know any better.
But there’s more to life than hockey. So much more.
” I shifted a little when my back twinged in discomfort, and I adjusted the pillow behind me.
“If I want any quality of life, if I want to go to bed with a clear conscience and a healthy body not hopped up on pain meds, then I can’t keep doing this.
I can’t keep quiet, and I’m not sure how many years left I have in me to keep playing. ”
He rolled his eyes and perched himself on the edge of the couch, his left leg bouncing like it always did when he was agitated.
“Don’t throw your career away,” he repeated.
“This podcast shit is for washed-up players, and that’s not you.
You’ve got lots of life and time left on the ice.
We play through the pain. That’s what makes us tough. That’s what makes us Roys.”
“Even though the doctors say I should consider retiring because of the degenerative osteoarthritis in my spine?”
He scoffed again. “Get a second opinion. There are other doctors who will sign off that you’re fine.
You’re twenty-six years old, and you’re healthy.
Just get back out on the ice and stop making excuses.
Stop trying to fight someone else’s battle while alienating yourself from your team and the league.
From your family. You’re in a contract year, out for injury, and now this bullshit with the podcasts.
No team is going to want to gamble on you. ”
I set my tea down on the coffee table and headed to the door, taking in the mud caked on the bottom of my dad’s shoes and the fact that he’d tracked it into my living room.
I opened the door. “Thanks for coming by, Dad. Sorry you wasted your time flying all this way and couldn’t convince me to abandon my morals, or compromise my health.
” I tilted my head toward his truck. “Not sure when the last ferry to Seattle is, but you don’t want to miss it. ”
Now he was at about an eight, eight and a half, maybe.
More of a bright, orange-red, almost boiling, but not quite.
He stood up, fire in his eyes, and tracked mud back across my living room.
“You’re making a mistake. Don’t come crying to your mother or me when you realize you threw it all away for … her , and ‘doing the right thing.’”
“You can be sure that I won’t,” I said, clenching my jaw until an ache formed just below my ears as my chest tightened to a point of immense pain.
But I welcomed the pain. It was better than the one caused by my father.
It was one I could control. One I could stop when I wanted to.
I gripped the doorhandle until a throbbing ache formed in my knuckles.
He stalked past me, casting a perfunctory glare around my cabin, then at me, before climbing into the truck. He revved the engine and aggressively peeled out of my driveway, sending gravel flying, and driving way too fast down the grassy laneway and through the parking lot.
“Slow down!” someone called after him, as they had to abruptly stop their walk across the parking lot to not get run over.
“Sorry,” I called to them. “He’s an asshole of the highest order.”
The person just shook their head and hit the fob for their car.
I closed the door behind me and exhaled as my breathing came out in stuttered gusts and my whole body got jittery, like I was going into shock.
I’d never stood up to my dad like that before, and the fact that I essentially kicked him out was finally settling in.
The adrenaline coursing through me, mixed with regret and hurt, was almost too much to bear.
I tried to text Gabrielle, but my hands shook too much to hold the phone.
So I just slid to the ground, the door at my back, and hugged my knees.
I knew in my heart that I wasn’t doing the wrong thing, but that little boy inside of me who craved his father’s approval hurt like he’d just been tackled into the boards without any padding.
I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against my knees, concentrating on my breathing, trying to deepen it.
I was almost there, the tightness in my jaw and chest slightly less, when my phone rang.
Thinking it was Gabrielle checking in, I grabbed it, only to see that it was Dr. Avery’s office instead.
Calling on a Saturday?
“Hello?” I answered, not really recognizing my own voice.
“Mr. Roy?” asked the chipper receptionist.
“Speaking.”
“Hi, Mr. Roy. This is Gail from Dr. Avery’s office.
We’ve had a cancellation for Monday at eleven if you’re able to come in for a follow-up appointment to check to see the status of your recovery.
Dr. Avery mentioned that you’re eager to get back on the ice, and we’d love to get some new scans and see your progress. ”
“Monday? As in, two days from now?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“Well, I’m not exactly in Seattle right now. I’m on San Camanez, but I can just take the ferry. Sure, I can make Monday work.”
“Perfect. He’s already put in the requisition forms for your scans. I will email you the confirmations and when you need to arrive for them. We’ll see you Monday.”
“See you Monday.” Then I hung up. Did my dad have something to do with Dr. Avery’s sudden “availability” a few weeks before my scheduled appointment? No. He might be Hall of Famer, Kirby Roy, but he wasn’t God.
I exhaled another deep breath and leaned my head against the door. My fingers worked enough now that I could text Gabrielle.
All I wanted, all I needed right now, was to see her. To hold her and talk this through. She was so rational and levelheaded, I knew that she would give it to me straight, even if it was something I didn’t want to hear.
Because right now, as much as I knew kicking my dad out was the right thing to do, eight-year-old Maverick was crying inside, telling me I just ruined his relationship with his father, and he was never going to forgive me for it.