Page 24

TWENTY-FOUR

Blake

The voicemail from my father is short and to the point.

It’s an apology but not a sincere one and I listen to it a few times just so I can wrap my head around it.

“…your mother says I owe you an apology, and I guess she’s right. I just always had so much faith in you. Your potential. You’re so damn talented and after all we sacrificed for you, watching you throw it away for beer and pussy broke my heart a little. But you really are playing your ass off now. I’m a big enough man to admit when I’m wrong. Anyway… we’d like to see you. In Vegas. We bought flights and then thought we could drive to L.A. for the next couple of games. Let us know if you can get us tickets. Your mom is really excited about it. Okay, that’s it. Bye now.”

No, “I love you, son.”

No please or thank you or anything else.

Just a half-assed apology and a request for tickets.

Which I have to provide because I know damn well my mom and sister are excited. And I want to see them. I like having family around to celebrate the wins, even when some of them are actually losses. In some ways, it’s even more important when we lose. That support is invaluable.

I have almost no emotional support in Phoenix. My parents have come to a handful of games, but it’s more about them taking a few days to relax in Sedona than seeing me play.

This is different.

I reluctantly arrange for them to get tickets to tonight’s game and then head down to get on the bus to the arena. We’ll be there for the duration, even though the game isn’t for hours, having our pre-game meal as a group, warmups, and whatever rituals we all indulge in.

If I had my way, my pre-game ritual would be having Rowan suck my dick.

A blow job before a game is the best feeling ever.

It relaxes me, makes me feel good, fills me with all the endorphins everyone talks about, and puts me in a decent mindset.

Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards, so I do my best to put it out of my mind.

We have lots of other superstitious rituals and things we do that seem to be a habit, but there’s one I particularly love.

Since the playoffs started, Harper has been at every game and Gabe inadvertently started a new pre-game ritual. Just before the first game, she’d been standing outside the locker room door and he leaned over and kissed her stomach. Connor saw him do it and yelled out, “Is that our lucky baby bump?”

“It’s not our anything,” Gabe had said, scowling at him.

“Aw, come on, it’s our first Baby Phantom! We should all tap the belly.”

“Absolutely not!” Gabe looked murderous, but Harper was a good sport.

“No, I think it’s great,” she said. “Anyone who wants to—very gently—tap a stick or their hand on my belly is welcome to.”

“ Very fucking gently,” Gabe growled.

And every single guy on the team did it.

We’ve done it every game since too.

Tonight is no exception, and Harper is standing right outside the door to the locker room. Gabe always leads us out and he leans over, kissing her bump and whispering something I can’t hear. Harper just smiles and looks to Canyon, who’s next.

One by one, we stop in front of Harper and touch her belly. It’s quick, and most of us don’t say anything, but sometimes I do.

Because I think it’s fun.

Also because I want her to know me, like me, remember me.

It never hurts to get on the good side of the owner of the team you play for.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her as I bump my fist against her belly.

“Now that I’m past the first trimester, I have energy again,” she says, “so I’m good. Have a great game, Blake.”

“Thank you.” I walk down the hall and see Rowan and Sunny doing something. Rowan looks up as I pass, though, and we share a soft, secret smile.

I hate sneaking around but there’s also a part of me that kind of likes it.

It’s our secret, something no one gets to share or be part of. The only people who have any input are the two of us, and right now, we’re very much in sync. Both physically and emotionally. I think we’re going to need another discussion about the future, but I’m not sure what to say.

So much is up in the air.

And I have to figure out what to do about hockey.

Even if it means we’ll have to be apart for a season or two. We can make it work if we have a plan.

We just have to come up with the plan first.

But that means having a potentially difficult conversation, which makes me nervous. Everything is so good I don’t want to rock the proverbial boat.

I need time to prove to her I’m the man she needs me to be, but I’m afraid of what’s going to happen once the playoffs are over.

Especially if they end soon.

We win game two 4-0, shutting out the Sidewinders and getting a huge morale boost to boot. We’re cautiously optimistic afterward, and I’m surprised when several members of the press ask to talk to me specifically. I didn’t score tonight, but I had two assists and am still tied for first in points in the series.

“Blake, how does it feel to know you’re tied with Canyon Marks for points in these playoffs?” one asks.

“It’s trippy,” I reply. “Canyon is an elite player, so just being on the ice with him every night is huge.”

“Do you plan to come back to the Phantoms in the fall?”

“If they want me.”

“How exciting has it been to make it to the second round with a team who hasn’t made it to the second round in nearly twenty years?”

“It’s incredible. The team, the organization, everything about the Phantoms is top-notch. I love playing for them.”

“What do you think you’ll change for the next game?”

“That’s above my pay grade,” I say, “but I’m sure Coach has a plan. Thanks, everyone.” I make a quick exit since I don’t want to talk about things like what we did wrong, what we could do better, shit like that. I’m not experienced enough with the press to answer more nuanced questions, so it’s easier to just get out.

“There you are, Blake!” My mom comes rushing forward, hugging me tightly.

“Hey, Mom.” I hug her back.

“You were awesome tonight!” Phoebe gushes, hugging me next.

“Thanks.” I hug her too.

“Hey, son.” Dad holds out his hand, and I eye it for a second before reaching for it. There’s still a lot of press around, so I don’t want anyone to see me snub him. I don’t need any type of negative press.

“Dad.” I nod politely.

“Why’d you end the interview so soon?” he asks, swaying slightly as he gives me a lopsided smile. “They were eating out of your hand—that’s great publicity for you! Which is what you need.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and just nod.

He’s drunk.

I can smell it on his breath, see the redness in his eyes, and notice the way he’s swaying a little.

Jesus.

He’s drunk again.

“I’ll meet you guys back at the hotel,” I say to my mother.

“Hey, you! With the camera!” Dad’s waving at someone in the press corps.

Fuck.

“Dad, please don’t—” I begin, but he’s already walking away.

“Come talk to my son—do you know what a kickass hockey player Blake Rourke is? He’s my son—where are you going? Hey!”

“Dad. Knock it off.” I give my mother a look of frustration, and she takes Dad’s arm.

“Come on, honey. We’re going back to the hotel now.”

“No!” He swats her hand and gets even louder. “I’m not going anywhere until all these people recognize how awesome my son is! He’s the best player on this team right now.”

Good grief.

I push my mother behind me because I don’t want him touching her like that—even though it was barely a slap to her hands—when he’s drunk. I am never going to live this down but short of punching him in the face, I don’t know how to get him to shut the hell up.

Phoebe tries to get Dad to stop talking, but he’s on a roll, side stepping her and essentially yelling loud enough for anyone and everyone to hear.

“…and another thing—why the hell is he still on the Rebels? Do you see how many points he has? Who’s running this team anyway?”

I catch Rowan’s eye, but she turns and hurries in the other direction.

Great .

Even my girl wants no part of this.

And I know it’s going to go bad.

“Dad.” I try to grab his arm, but he’s heading toward another journalist who’s been recording the whole thing with a look of amusement on his face.

This is going to be all over social media tomorrow and I’ll be a laughingstock. At the very least, my father will be banned from coming to games, which is both a problem and a relief. He’ll be pissed and could potentially guilt my mother into not coming either, which pisses me off.

Everything about this pisses me off.

Mother. Fucker.

Out of nowhere, Coach Vanek appears, and he sweeps in like an avenging angel or some shit.

“Mr. Rourke, so good to see you. Come on, let’s go have a chat.” Coach steers him back toward one of the offices he uses when we’re here.

“But—” Dad tries to protest, but I know he’s a little in awe of Coach.

“We haven’t had a chance to get to know each other.” Coach is really masterful at deflection, and I realize now that this was Rowan’s doing. She’s watching from a few feet away, and I give her a grateful look.

“Thank you,” I mouth.

She smiles and then slips away.

“You should marry her,” Phoebe whispers to me.

Hell, I should have married her a decade ago.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty.