Page 14

FOURTEEN

Blake

The series is tied at two so game five is a big deal. It’s also the last game at home, in L.A. We’ll have a mental advantage if we go into game six—in Alaska—up three games to two. And it gives us a little breathing room. If we win tonight, even though the goal is to win it in six, we still can have an off night and come back in game seven.

I hate thinking about losing, especially since I’m playing my ass off, but it feels like there’s a lot of pressure on us tonight. The game is sold out, everyone and their brother is attending—from friends and family to celebrities and fans from all over the world. Personally, it all boils down to pressure from my dad. I love having Mom and Phoebe here, but Dad makes me crazy.

We had breakfast at the hotel this morning before Bodi and I left for practice and Dad alternated between talking about how much of a loser I am and how this is my shot, how I’d better not blow it. Mom managed to redirect the conversation once or twice, but my father is pretty single-minded when it comes to making me feel like shit.

He’s not impressed with the minors, so he rarely comes to games in Phoenix, which is a relief.

This is a whole different ballgame, though.

“How’s everyone feeling tonight?” Coach Vanek comes into the room where we’re having a team meal and looks around. “Any injuries, personal drama, or fuckery going on?”

“Not yet,” Ivan quips. “But give us an hour.”

We all laugh.

“I know you’re feeling the pressure,” Coach says, hands on his hips. “And there’s nothing I can tell you that will make that go away. But try to push everything out of your mind. The sports pundits, pressure from your family, concerns about what happens if we lose—we can’t control any of that. All I want you to do is think about playing the game we’ve been playing all season. That’s what this boils down to.”

Everyone is quiet, solemn, listening intently.

No one is eating anymore.

We’re all just focused on him, the sound of his voice as much as his words.

“Life beyond hockey goes on whether we win or lose, so for now until the end of the game, don’t worry about it. It’s out of your control. Let me hear you say it.” He looks at Canyon. “Say it, Marks.”

“It’s out of my control,” he repeats.

He turns to Gabe. “DeLugo.”

“It’s out of my fucking control,” he says.

He goes around the room and makes every last one of us say it.

The funny thing is, by the time we’re done, I almost believe it.

“I really like playing for him,” Bodi says under his breath. “I’m going to hate going back to Phoenix.”

“We’re not going back to Phoenix,” I reply calmly.

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Most-Points-So-Far-in-the-Playoffs.”

“We all bring something to the table. None of us wins individually.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m NHL material. Maybe the minors is where I’m supposed to be.”

I glance at him in surprise, because I’ve never heard him talk this way before. Obviously, the pressure is getting to him differently than it does to me. I worry about my dad; he deals with imposter syndrome. I get it.

But we don’t have time for that.

Not today.

“Dude, knock it off,” I say in the sternest voice I can muster up without being loud. “You’re here for a reason. There are twenty other guys on the Rebels they could have called up, and they chose you.”

“I’m a big fish in a little pond in Phoenix,” he says, “but here, I’m a fucking minnow in the middle of the ocean.”

I know that feeling.

We just have to fight it because if you let that shit fester, it can totally fuck with your game.

“You’re not .” I don’t know where my confidence is coming from but it feels important. I stare at him until he looks at me. “We are not fucking minnows.”

“I don’t even know how you’d manage to fuck a minnow,” he deadpans.

I bark out a laugh and flip him the bird. “There you go. Now eat and stop being whiny.”

He laughs and digs into the pasta in front of him.

It’s another rough-and-tumble game but we manage to pull off a 4-3 win by the skin of our teeth. It’s tied the entire third period, and Canyon squeaks out a goal with thirty seconds left.

Thank fuck.

Despite all my confidence with Bodi, my own performance was somewhat lackluster. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I couldn’t make anything happen out there either. The game is fast, so much faster than with the Rebels, and while I can keep up, it’s a struggle to be the fastest. The smartest. The most productive.

I watch guys like Ivan and Canyon and realize I have a lot of catching up to do.

Not just from the experience aspect, but also from the perspective of physicality. Things are definitely physical with the Rebels, but this is a different level. It’s subtle at first, so you don’t see it until you’re right in the middle. And by then it’s too late. I get a touch of that minnow-in-the-ocean feeling at the end of the game, and though there’s a jovial mood in the locker room, I don’t have time to celebrate.

The minute I get to the family lounge, my father is on my ass.

“Not your best showing, son,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you have guys like Marks and Rochenko backing you up.”

I can smell the liquor on his breath, which is never a good thing. He doesn’t drink often, but when he does, it tends to bring out the ugliest parts of him.

“Yeah, thanks, Dad. I’m aware.” I hug my mother. “Did you enjoy?—”

“Seriously, son, are you going to fuck this up?” Dad interrupts.

“Ethan, stop it,” my mother says in a firm but low voice. “Not here. If you embarrass him, he’ll never invite us back.”

Dad snorts. “We both know this is the last time we’ll see him play for the Phantoms. If I were Coach Vanek, I’d ship his ass back to Phoenix tonight.” This is drunk Dad talking, because even though sober Dad is a jerk, he always wants me to be playing in the big leagues. Drunk Dad obviously doesn’t give a shit.

“Dad.” Phoebe’s face is red. “Stop it. You’re not embarrassing Blake—you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Dad just rolls his eyes. “Go ahead—you and your mom keep mollycoddling him, just like you’ve always done. Look where it’s gotten him.”

“To the NHL,” Phoebe murmurs softly as he stalks over to a group of players who’ve just come in.

“It’s okay,” I say, sighing. “You don’t have to protect me.”

“Of course we do,” Mom says. “Your father is a proud, stubborn man, and every month when that mortgage payment comes due, he gets angry.”

“That was his choice,” I say gruffly. “I was fifteen. I had no idea you guys were doing something so monumental.”

“I know. It’s just…hard sometimes. We’re getting close to retirement and have no idea if we’ll ever be able to pay that second mortgage off without selling the house. Instead of talking to you about it, he insults you and occasionally drinks too much. He’s just… well, he is who he is. He’s too old to change.”

“But I’m not too old to cut him out of my life,” I say through gritted teeth. It’s really hard not to lose my shit right now, but I’m trying to be an adult.

“Son, come over here!” Dad calls to me. He’s standing with Canyon, Gabe, and Connor, who all had stellar games. “Come listen to how you play NHL hockey.”

Several heads in the room turn, and my face has to be burning.

Mother. Fucker.

“Your son doesn’t need any pointers from us,” Canyon says, eyeing my dad warily. “He does just fine on his own.”

“If that were true, he’d be?—”

“Dad, enough.” I walk over to him. Canyon, Gabe, and Connor are obviously embarrassed for him, and I can’t take it anymore. “You’ve obviously had a lot to drink. I think it’s time for you to go back to the hotel.”

“I’m fine!” he snaps. “And I’m having fun. Why can’t I have a little fun?”

“Because you hurt people’s feelings when you drink!” I clap back.

He rolls his eyes. “Seriously, don’t be so dramatic. Jesus, he gets it from his mom,” he says to Gabe.

“Mr. Rourke, this really isn’t the place for this,” Gabe responds in a calm voice, but I can see how annoyed he is.

“Maybe calling him out in front of his peers is what he needs to light a fire under his ass.”

“Dad, fucking stop.” I hiss out the words and grab his arm.

“Oooh, is the big man going to kick my ass?” Dad chortles gleefully.

Fuck.

This is escalating, and I can’t let it happen.

The press is still milling around, there are family members and tons of kids, so me losing my temper won’t accomplish anything but make me look even worse.

“Mom, make sure you don’t let him drive,” I say to her. “But I have to go.”

Tears fill her eyes. “Blake, let’s just?—”

“I’ll call you later,” I whisper. “You can come to my room to say goodbye, but I have to get out of here before I do something I can’t take back.”

She nods. “Yes. Okay. Go.”

I turn and stalk out the door, all but running toward the players’ lot.

“Blake.”

I hear my name but keep walking.

I can’t talk to anyone right now.

“Blake, wait !”

The sound of Rowan’s voice penetrates my haze of hurt and fury.

I slow down a beat but don’t turn around.

“I can’t right now, Ro. I’m too mad.”

“Please, wait.” She reaches me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Look at me. Blake .”

I lift my gaze to hers.

“Please don’t drive when you’re this upset.” She squeezes my biceps.

“I have to get out of here, Ro. Because I’m going to hurt him if I don’t.”

“Come with me. I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. Bodi will take your car back to the hotel anyway.”

I’m practically trembling with anger and hurt and myriad other emotions, but somehow, I know she’s right.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Come on. We can go this way.”

She turns down a little hallway I’ve never used before and we take a weird, winding path that brings us to the door that leads to where she’s parked.

“I had no idea that hallway existed,” I say.

“Yeah, there are a lot of nooks and crannies to explore in this building.”

I absently open the door, letting her walk out ahead of me.

“Let’s go get a drink,” she suggests as we get into her Honda SUV.

“I don’t know if there’s enough alcohol to soothe what’s broken in me right now.”

“We’ll figure it out.” She starts the ignition. “Just breathe. Use the same technique I told you about on the ice. It works for nerves, anxiety, and anger too.”

I hope so because I’m beyond furious right now.

I’ve been paying for my childhood mistakes for most of my life, and I’m just tired.Tired of feeling like a disappointment to everyone, especially myself.

Tired of wishing things could be different.

So fucking tired.

The only thing I’m not tired of—well, that’s the woman sitting beside me.