Page 24

Chapter 24

Nat

Normally, I’d be playing music in the tow truck—I subscribe to Sirius XM for the sole sake of the long-ass repo rides—but tonight, I keep the Dingoes game blaring through the speakers.

Dark desert scenery blurs through my windows, around the edges of the road painted in grey and gold by the truck’s headlights. Luckily, the two jobs I’m after tonight aren’t too far out of town.

I’d rather be at a cold rink out in Colorado, watching the game. Following hockey on the radio isn’t the same, but it’s easier when every other word is Olli or James and my ears automatically tune in. My mind conjures up his image . . . the desert fades away.

And I’m seeing him out on the ice all over again.

At the Ice Out, arms lifted to the crowd.

At the Dingoes’ game, his face drawn in hard lines of concentration and determination.

At drop-in, a smile never far from reach, lurking at the corner of my vision.

But even more than that, even more than all the little pieces I’ve acquired, he’s still the mysterious ghost, the boy from the bar without a name.

Soft brown eyes, soft skin beneath my fingertips, soft lips I can’t stop tasting. Why can’t I stop seeing him, in blurred edges and stolen glimpses, the swell of a bare shoulder, the curve of unblemished knuckles, the lean cords of tendons through his forearm?

Olli James.

My little ghost, always, always, hovering on the edges of my periphery.

Listening to the radio announcers exclaim over him every other play, listening to him assist two goals—Dev and Charlie—and net one of his own . . . I know it. As sure as I’ve known anything.

Olli James will turn this team around.

The sudden sharp buzz of my phone from the center console jerks my thoughts back down to earth in a sharp tug of reality. I expect JB, maybe someone from the rink—

Syd’s name flashes across the screen.

Instant panic wells up inside me, and I slam the phone against my ear. “Syd? What's wrong?”

Of course something’s wrong. She’s seventeen. She doesn’t call.

“Dad?”

“Talk to me, Syd.” I’m already jerking the truck to the side of the road, jobs forgotten. Whipping it over the red desert dust to turn the fucking thing around. Foot too heavy on the gas as I head back towards town.

“Okay, don’t get mad, but—”

“Just tell me.”

She exhales in a wavery sigh that tells me everything is far, far from okay. “It’s Avery. He . . . I think he might get into trouble.”

“Tell me where to be, Syd.”

“Michelangelo’s,” she says, and I slam my foot all the way to the floor. Thank God I’m only a few short miles out of the city, and Michelangelo’s sits a little north of downtown. Still takes me a solid fifteen minutes to get there.

My heart’s racing as I shove through the door and into the crowded bar. Michelangelo’s on a Saturday is usually pretty busy; easy enough to see how a few teenage kids might have slipped through into the press of people around the bar—some of them even cheering on the Dingoes game overhead.

Might have made it more challenging to find Syd and Avery, but the snarl of people at the back makes me think I know exactly where they are. There’s a shout from the tangle, followed by a thud—like a body colliding with a wall.

Shit.

A fight.

Shit.

I’m already pushing through the crowd towards the source of the disturbance. A big blond man at the middle of it shoves somebody smaller. Pinning him to the wall. More large men cluster around him. The smaller man’s yelling—

“Shit,” I say again as I recognize the teen. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. And it’s less a thought than a deep inherent knowledge, that if this man does anything to Avery, I will hurt him.

I shoulder my way through the press of people to Avery’s side. My eyes scan his face for blood, for bruises, come up empty. “Whatcha doing here, Avery? Where’s Syd?”

“Not here, so fuck off.” His bright eyes spark with anger, and probably booze or weed or some combination of the two. I doubt he’s sober; I know that the Nat Taylor of eighteen years ago wouldn’t have been. “I got this.”

My heart sinks to my shoes.

“Doesn’t look like you do.” I turn my attention to the blond man. He’s big—bigger than me—and drunk; booze wafts off his breath in hot, sour puffs. “Want to back up and let me talk to him?”

“Kid’s right,” says the blond man. “Fuck off.”

“Don’t think so,” I growl back. And then I toss out the final word, like a knight throwing down his gauntlet. “Asshole.”

He whips around to face me, dark eyes flicking over me in quick, deliberate assessment. I’m big, but he’s bigger—linebacker big, with broad shoulders and a few years of heavy drinking to bulk him up. Good-looking in a way most ex-high-school athletes are in this town, his rugged features softened and faded with time and disuse.

Day River isn’t a town to make you, but to break you, to slowly wear you down and wear you away with time and cold and lost hope. You play hockey here, or you watch it and wish for it.

“What did you call me?” His voice is half anger and half laughter, his smile crooked.

I smile back, trying to mimic the lopsided drunken lilt of his. “Asshole. Am I wrong? You seem like a prick. Picking on a kid half your age and size.”

He leans in a little closer, close enough for me to pluck out and categorize his scents—cheap beer and cheap deodorant and spray-on Axe. “Kid’s trying to get an invite to the Ice Out.”

I bite back a groan, step back to give Avery my full attention this time. “For fuck’s sake, Avery. You crazy? You want me to call your stepmom?”

“Hey.” The big man looms in front of me again, all too eager to play. “If the kid wants in, maybe I’ll let him in. Let him swim with the sharks.”

“I can handle it.” Avery nudges forward—

So I slide in front of him, putting myself between him and the big blond guy. “Don’t think so, kid.”

Anticipation rushes through me in a swell I might almost name joy, if the high of an impending fight could be labeled as such.

“Maybe you mind your own fucking business.” The big man steps closer, trying to be intimidating with his excessive height and size.

“Maybe it is my business.” I look him dead in the eye, don’t fucking blink, because it’s been a long, long time since I was scared of anyone. “You’re not giving him an invite.”

“He your kid?” He looms closer. More cheap beer and Axe invade my nose. The undertone of sweat and body odor lurk beneath the store-bought mask.

“Yeah, he is.” I set my hand on the broad chest and shove him back. “So fuck off. ”

His hand shoots out, fingers tangle into the collar of my leather jacket to pull me towards him. “Make me.”

Adrenaline turns my veins to fire as I prepare for what’s to come—the duck, the swing, the crack. I know how this fight will end, how this night will end.

I’ll end it like all the ones that came before. In violence and blood.

I tilt a lazy grin up at my new friend, then bob my head towards the back door. “Let’s go.”

He follows me out into the icy black night.

I lead the fight into the parking lot. My breath is a soft cloud of condensation against my lips, just like my ghost boy’s was outside this same bar, and I don’t know why I’m thinking that.

The man behind me laughs, so I toss a glance over my shoulder to find he’s brought two friends with him.

Both of them drunk. Laughing.

Behind them, Avery trails out of the bar, looking strangely small in his ratty grey sweatshirt.

I stop, wait for my opponent to step forward. My hands hang loose at my sides, at such odds with the adrenaline pulsing through me like a torrent of liquid fire.

And yet, I am calm, cool, not angry, not like this. The fight, it’s always so cold, so calculated. Precision, deliberation, the planned release of some inherent need, some animal instinct.

This big bold motherfucker has no idea what’s in store for him, no idea who I am, what I am, what I’ve got waiting for him.

He lifts his fists.

The world tunnels, fades, blackens to nothing.

His fist swings, and I duck sideways. He swings again, again, and again. I duck, duck, duck. Step back, pulling him with me, dragging him into my orbit. Making him dance. Swing, swing, swing. Duck, duck, duck, I draw his frustration, anger, ire.

Wait.

His fist dips .

I swing.

Knuckles crack cheekbone, hard enough to feel the snap of something breaking, in my fist or his face I can’t tell, can never tell, because I don’t feel the pain.

But it’s enough. That one hit, fist to cheek, it’s enough. It’s always enough, always how it fucking ends—my knuckles, his jawbone, his knees on the ground. Just like hockey.

I’m distantly aware of someone yelling.

Big bodies crouch next to the one I’ve brought down. The big blond idiot looks up at me from his knees, fingers clenched to his face, dripping blood.

I don’t start these fights, not really, but I always, always end them.

“Dad.” The small female voice nudges against my ear, breaking through the tunnel of my fighting calm. “Dad.”

My attention instantly snaps to that voice. The fighting focus vanishes in an instant, because the last thing in the world I’ve ever wanted is for her to see me like this. “Syd.”

I blink the world back—the man on the ground, one of his buddies beside him, the second standing between me and him, fists raised.

Like he thinks I might come after them, try to kick the fool while he’s down.

I step back, my breath puffing heavy and white in the darkness, so I stand beside my daughter. “I’m done.”

“Dad.” Syd’s voice sounds a little wavery, like she’s fighting tears. “Dad, where’s Avery?”

Guilt wells, further whiting out any traces of anger or adrenaline.

“Shit.” I swivel, find Avery poised by the back door of the bar. His jaw hangs slack, his eyes too wide. Shocked, or maybe just crossfaded, but rendered speechless either way.

“C’mon.” I don’t like the look on Syd’s face—loose with shock and fear—so I pull her into a hug. “I’m okay. Let’s get Avery home.”

She nods, sniffles against my shoulder. Then pulls back. “Are you okay to drive? ”

“I haven’t been drinking.” And God knows the fight takes all the drink right out of me anyway. That surge of adrenaline and bloodlust beats back any kind of buzz. “How did you get here?”

“Uber.”

“Okay. Let’s go get Avery.” My work boots crunch the salt-crusted pavement as I cross the distance between the fight and the teenage boy. Syd’s steps echo behind me. “Bennett. You all right?”

His slackened expression doesn’t change, but he nods. His eyes find Sydney, and she curls an arm around his waist. “Let’s go.”

He follows me without a word.

I climb behind the wheel of the tow truck, and Syd and Avery slide into the bench seat on the passenger side. Syd takes the middle, and Avery leans his head against the cool glass.

“Can I take you home?” I let my eyes stray sideways towards his face as I turn the music down to a low buzz, so I can’t discern the song. “Or do you need a place to stay?”

Sydney tenses beside me.

Avery doesn’t respond. Doesn’t offer any sign that he’s heard. The only sound is the whir of the engine, the low thrum of the machine.

“You want me to call your stepmom?” I pull the car onto the ice-slicked street, and the lights and dark of the city blur outside the windshield. The one constant is the snow, the ice, always, always, encasing our city in brutality, like the unyielding grip of winter.

Like hockey, a constant.

“No.”

“You want to talk about why you were there?” My voice is a sharp crack through the quiet of the car. “Trying to buy your way into the Ice Out?”

Avery simply stares through the window at the passing city lights. I get it, though. I wouldn’t have answered me either.

So I make a decision—the kind that nobody made for me when I was his age. I drive past the street that leads down to the battered apartment complex he shares with his dad and stepmom .

Continue on towards my townhouse instead.

He doesn’t speak until I pull into my short driveway in front of the door and cut the engine. Only then does he sit up. “I didn’t need your help. I had that.”

“I really don’t think you did, kid.” I turn to look him in the eye. “Everybody needs help. Learning to ask for it is part of growing up.”

He grunts, shoves the door open without another word. I follow him out into the frigid night. My breath clouds the air in front of me, like the ghosts of breath Olli and I shared. Why am I still thinking of him, remembering him, tasting him in the forefront of my mind’s imagination?

I yank open the door and nudge Avery inside. Syd trails behind. “You’re gonna be sleeping in my room, kid. I’ll be on the couch. So if you get up and try anything , I will know about it.”

Avery grunts something indecipherable.

The three of us traipse into the living room. Syd goes right to the couch; takeout containers sprawl over the coffee table from a hastily abandoned meal. My stomach clenches. I should have been here.

I should have been here. Having dinner with my daughter. Staying apprised on the drama that I surely could have prevented before it turned into a full-blown fight.

Guilt clutches my stomach tight, and I swipe the takeout containers away before she can bring them into the kitchen. Instead of tucking them into the fridge, I divide them up onto two plates, toss them into the microwave.

When I return, she’s curled onto the couch beside Avery. A first-aid kit sits on the coffee table in front of her.

I hand each a plate heaped with warmed up Chinese food. “Eat.”

I take a seat on the other side of Syd, reach for the first-aid kit. Because as much as I don’t want to let her see it, my knuckles are bleeding. “Did Avery tell you why he was there, Syd? ”

“Yeah.” Her gaze refocuses on my hands as I extract a disinfectant wipe from the kit, tear the package open. On her other side, Avery’s curled into the corner of the couch, and I don’t know if he’s awake.

“So.” I scrub the moist towel over my bruised and split knuckles. “You more upset about why he was there, or how I handled it?”

“You mean, how he was trying to get an invitation to the Ice Out?” Syd says, her voice carefully scrubbed of emotion. “Or how you cracked a knuckle on some guy’s face trying to prevent it?”

“Yeah, exactly that.” I shove the bloodied towel back into its packaging, flex my hand into a fist. It’ll be sore tomorrow morning, but I don’t think anything’s broken. “So?”

“Both, I guess.” Syd shrugs, wraps her arms around her knees. “Maybe I’m tired of being surrounded by stupid men who can’t see past their own goddamn stupid.”

I wince, and my chest clenches tight. Again. I wasn’t thinking of Syd when I intervened. Didn’t think of what it’d be like for her, watching her fucking father lose his shit on some random drunk asshole in a bar.

Not that she doesn’t realize I’m not the perfect father. Never have been or will be. But it’s one thing to hear about it, another entirely to see it in action.

“I’m sorry, Syd.” The words trickle from my mouth. “I always want what’s best for you, but sometimes I don’t think enough about the right way to get that.”

She sighs, and her gaze drifts back to my knuckles. “Yeah, I know.”

I resist the urge to fold my hands together, hide the evidence from her appraisal. I’ve never hidden myself from her, from anyone. But not for the first time, I wonder whether she’s ashamed of me—her rough around the edges, too-young, too-single parent with a less than admirable career, with too much ink and too many scars.

God knows I’m not like Maggie’s suit-wearing dad and pretty blonde mom, or even Avery’s stepmom with her pristine hair and makeup and nails .

“I know it’s not easy . . . being. Well. My kid.” My kid, and motherless to boot. Brenda’s done her best, but I know how even the best step-parent won’t erase the doubt, the questions.

My own mother walked out when I was seven. Left me practically parentless, because Dad was so caught up with Jesse, his golden child. With living his own broken dreams vicariously through his son.

He barely saw me until Jess left, and suddenly, he saw me too much.

“You’re a good dad,” Syd says, her voice a low hum, and she leans slightly to rest her head on my shoulder. “Most of the time.”

Her arms still hold her knees against her chest, but she’s softened slightly, with her hair tickling my cheek. Reminds me of when she was a kid, and we’d sit like this on the couch watching cartoons.

“I’m a rough human,” I admit. “Who’s trying to cut it as a single parent.”

But having Syd here with me, soft and vulnerable, makes me soft and vulnerable too. Melts something inside of me, something jagged and broken.

“Is that why you fight?”

I blow out a long, slow breath, ruffling the hair atop her head. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve always been like this.”

I’ve always been a little broken, a shadow kid. Unplanned, overlooked, perpetually angry. Torn between wanting something so desperately I couldn’t see past it, and knowing it was never mine to take.

Unlike Jesse, I’ve always known I’m not better than this town.

I’ve been hovering like the ghost of a dream, neither here nor there, not quite cracked enough to break, not quite whole enough to move on.

“Look, I got something to tell you.” More words to ruffle the dark strands of hair across her face.

I don’t know what makes me decide that this is the moment. But maybe with everything that’s happened—with the Dingoes winning, with Olli’s play for attention and my belief in him, with the fight both Avery and Syd witnessed—maybe I’m realizing I’d rather they heard it from me than from the rest of the town.

“What?” Syd asks, sitting up off my shoulder. The way Avery shifts next to her, I think he’s not asleep after all.

Good. He should hear this too.

“I play in the Ice Out.”

Avery sits up like he’s been electrocuted.

“What?” Syd asks, her voice barely a breath. “You . . . what?”

“I didn’t want you to know that,” I admit, and it feels like throwing off a weight, speaking the words aloud. Throwing off a weight, leaving me unanchored, unmoored. Like I might just float off into space and never find my way back down. “I’m not proud of it.”

“You’re Forty-Seven, aren’t you?” Avery asks, but it’s barely a question.

“I don’t want to know how you know about that.”

“You are, aren’t you?” He leans over to look me dead in the eye. “You’re Forty-Seven. I’m right. Tell me I’m right.”

“I’ll tell you you’re definitely a little high—”

“But right.”

I sigh. “You can’t talk about this shit, Avery. For one, I could get in a lot of trouble. And for another, you could get in a lot of trouble.”

Avery sits back, a huge white smile blooming over his face. “Holy shit, Syd. Did I ever mention your dad’s kind of a badass?”

“Oh, God,” Syd groans. “You’re gonna have some kind of weird celebrity crush—”

Avery, still laughing, reaches out to smack the underside of her backwards hat’s brim, sending the front careening downwards over her eyes. “Shut up, Sydney.”

Syd squawks, but reaches over to steal his hat even faster than he can retaliate. Nobody ever said she was a pushover. “I’ll kick your ass, Avery Bennett.”

“She will, too, Av,” I say, entirely serious. “I wouldn’t fuck with her. ”

“Not if she’s your kid, shit.” Avery’s eyes go suddenly round. “Oh, my God. This explains so much—”

“It does not!” Syd protests, but her mouth curls into a grin too. “Wait, so . . . you know who Twenty-Three is then, don’t you? You have to tell us.”

“It’s Olli, isn’t it?” Avery asks, but once again, it’s almost not a question—like he knows. “Olli James.”

Syd shakes her head. “Charlie! It’s obviously Charlie.”

“I ain’t saying anything.” I lift my own hat off so I can lean back into the couch cushions. Exhaustion drags at my bones, making each of them feel a hundred pounds heavier, in the wake of the waning adrenaline.

“Oh, come on!” Avery protests. “Everybody wants to know. How awesome would it be if Syd and I had the inside scoop?”

“Nope.” I shake my head back and forth against the couch cushion. “I don’t care about your popularity, Bennett.”

“Man, this whole time I’ve been surrounded by people who could get me into the Ice Out—”

“No way.” My chest clenches painfully at the return to the beginning of the night—why we’re here. “The Ice Out is fucked, Av. You’re young, you’re talented. The Ice Out has nothing to offer but injuries and bad habits. Not to mention possible arrest—”

“But—”

“But what?” I sit up and look Avery dead in the eye. “But you think that’s how you get onto the Dingoes? Because you think Jesse Taylor might be there? No way.”

Avery’s teeth grit together, jaw flexing. “But—”

“Look.” I drag a hand across my face, lean forward elbows on knees. “You wanna know why I play for the Ice Out and not the Dingoes?”

I sense rather than see their attention, lasered in on me. But neither speaks.

“I was just like you back in high school, Av. Skipping class, skipping practice. Showing up high. I can’t tell you how many times Coach pretended to look the other way or gave me one more second chance. Way more than I deserved.”

“That’s why,” Syd breathes, “you’re always hounding Avery about it.”

“Yeah. Because honestly, sometimes second chances do more harm than good.” My eyes rove across the dark creases in the floorboards beneath my feet. “My last game, I showed up drunk and high. Got in a fight. Put a kid in the hospital. Nearly—”

My voice breaks on the memory. All things considered, I got so lucky. Still haunts me, the thought of how much damage my broken fists could’ve inflicted.

How much worse my life could’ve turned out. “The kid was okay. But Coach kicked me off the team right then and there.”

“Damn.” Syd’s staring at my hands again.

“Right. Shit like that stays with you. A long-ass time.” I slouch against the couch cushions. “I belong at the Ice Out. But you, Avery Bennett, are way too talented and young to risk it all on hack fighting shit like the Ice Out.”

Avery stares at me, and I can’t tell if he doesn’t believe me, or he’s just too fucked up—or stubborn—to properly understand.

“Work hard,” I murmur, my eyes drifting sideways. “Skate hard. Stay clean. You will go places, kid.”

Avery stares at the floor, silent. I get it, though. Putting yourself in the spotlight for all the world to judge when you yourself don’t believe—that’s a special kind of hell.

So I continue. “But you have to believe that. You have to believe in yourself and your talents. Nobody else can do that for you. No amount of cut corners can make up for that.”

Avery meets my gaze, his eyes like blue fire. And then, the corner of his mouth curls in a grin. “This is proof I don’t need school! I believe . . . without algebra!”

“You tire me out, kid.” I flop my head back on the cushion. It’s true. I am tired—exhausted. My eyes are begging me to let them close. “Can we finish this tomorrow? I’m beat, and I’m gonna have to get up early to finish work, since I had to leave two repos behind to deal with your batshit plans, Avery.”

I side-eye him pointedly, and he looks away, his mouth losing its cheery grin. I almost feel bad, except that he most definitely deserves it.

“You’re in my bedroom,” I tell him. “Syd’s in her room. I’m on the couch—after I duct tape the door.”

Avery sighs, grumbles. But when he stumbles off towards my room, Syd lingers behind. Her big green eyes find mine. And she gives me a small smile. “Dad . . .”

“Yes, Syd?”

“You know I think you should skate in the open tryout, right?”

And somehow, as she stands, leaving me alone in the living room, somehow that’s how I know. This is where I’m meant to be. In this town. With these kids, at the rink. Surrounded by ice and snow, not the desert. Not out on the tow truck.

Hockey’s my future, as much as it’s my past.

And whatever Olli James needs to ensure this town keeps its team, I’ll help him do it. Whatever it takes. Whatever that means.

Hockey is my life. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it here.