Page 20

Hayden

The stadium hums with the fading energy of the game. The Silver Bears and their cheering fans have already left to celebrate their win while folks from Knightswood shuffle out of their seats, their low, disappointed voices echoing in the corridors leading to the exit doors.

My body aches from all the relentless hits I took during the game but it’s not over yet. The real pain inside me is just coming alive as I skate toward the side of the rink.

My dad stands there rigidly, waiting for me. His stony expression and the familiar cold, dead look in his eyes are enough to send a shiver through me.

Dread fills me, my stomach churning as I move toward him.

“Hi, Dad,” I mumble, feeling guilty even though I haven’t done anything to be feeling that way.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me.

And somehow, that makes me feel smaller.

“Go clean up,” he says after a heartbeat. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

The coldness in his quiet voice feels like a noose around my throat, choking me.

I want to say no to him but all I do is give a silent nod.

My obedience was beaten into me since I was a child. Even though I want to say no to him, it’s a hard job to fight against my survival instincts. So, I just obey and struggle to hide the emotions crashing through me.

The aches in my body flare up as I skate away. I bite my tongue, refusing to acknowledge them.

Deep inside, though, I’m yearning for the feel of a warm body that smells like caramel and sea salt.

Liam.

I want to drown in his warm, sapphire eyes and forget about every damn thing in my life right now.

My chest aches, knowing I can only have Liam in my dreams. He’ll never allow me to get closer to him again.

Swallowing hard, I enter the locker room.

The air in the room is as gloomy as a graveyard. Most of my teammates are slumped on the benches. Groans and grunts escape them as they strip off their gear. Cuts and bruises mar their bodies, reminders that I wasn’t the only one the Bears ripped into tonight.

“Fuck! My ribs are killing me,” Mitchikov groans, lightly pressing his side.

I pull off my jersey, feeling my ribs complaining as well. I wince but don’t complain. Mitchikov took far more hits than me, trying to defend me on the ice.

“That last period was brutal, though,” Aminov, our second defenseman adds. “We couldn’t do a thing to stop those fuckers from scoring all those goals.”

“It’s all my fault,” Tyler says in a broken voice. Tears run down his cheeks as he silently sobs.

Everyone exchanges glances but no one says anything. It’s the only merciful thing to do when we all collectively agree we lost due to Tyler’s cowardly stance as the goalie.

Someone claps a hand on my shoulder, making me grit my teeth to stop a curse.

“We’re going to Dahlia’s tonight,” Mitchikov says in a quiet voice. “You want to come with us, Bastian?”

“No. I’m meeting my dad.”

“Oh. That man in the black suit who was standing beside Coach Sullivan...was that your dad?” he asks, staring at me closely.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I say, shoving my stuff inside a bag.

Surprise flits through my teammate’s eyes. It’s common for friends and family to come to our games but my father never showed up until that game last season. Back then, no one noticed him, so I didn’t have to answer any questions.

“I’ll go ahead and shower,” I say, grabbing a towel from my bag. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, all right?”

Mitchikov looks like he wants to say something more but I don’t give him time to ask me anything. Turning away, I walk toward the shower area.

While my teammates gather together, sharing their misery, I shower in silence. I’ve never been chatty but it always felt good to hang out with them after the games.

Now that my dad’s here, I’m going to be denied that last drop of warmth too.

After the shower, I change into fresh clothes.

My teammates pay me no attention as they talk between themselves in low voices, drowning in the misery of losing the game. No one looks up as I walk out of the locker room and head toward the exit doors.

A cold breeze blows in my face as I step outside. While most of the crowd has left the grounds, some fans are still hanging around. I look among them and soon, find a lone figure standing away from everyone.

My dad notices me too and gestures for me to follow him.

Pulling up the hood of my jacket, I lower my head and walk after him.

Dad leads me away from the lingering crowd and moves toward a row of trees on the far side of the grounds. He doesn’t want any witnesses while we “talk”.

“You were pathetic tonight,” Dad sneers the moment I’m close enough to him.

I stand still, bracing myself for harsher words.

“Have you forgotten what happens if you lose?” he asks, slapping me across the face.

The impact is hard enough to make me stumble on my feet. Balling my hands into tight fists, I stay quiet because it never mattered if I won or lost a game. Slaps and kicks were all I ever got from him anyway. But I don’t tell him that.

“You embarrass me,” he says, his words cutting into me. He grabs a chunk of my hair and pulls me closer. His whiskey-soaked breath is hot on my face as he glares at me. “I spent my life training you and coaching you. And for what? You’ll always be a useless little loser who can’t even win a game.”

My teeth clench together but I don’t say a word. He wants me to react, to explain how I did my best, that I alone couldn’t make my team win.

He wants me to say all these things just so he can scoff at me and say I’m making excuses to mask my failure.

So, I don’t move or say a word. It’s the quickest way to get this over with anyway.

Before I know it, he punches me in the gut.

I double over, gasping, but Dad doesn’t let me fall. Grabbing the back of my hoodie, he hits me again.

“I should’ve thrown you away after your mother died,” he growls while I gasp and pant from pain. “I should’ve walked away when I had the chance. It would’ve saved me from raising a goddamn loser like you.” His breath stinks of whiskey, triggering memories I’d long suppressed.

Dad’s fingers clamp around my throat, squeezing hard, making it even more difficult to breathe. Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth, doing my best not to utter a single word.

Because begging Dad always made it worse. I’d learned a long time ago that fighting back wasn’t an option.

For a moment, the lack of oxygen dissociates me from my bruised, battered body. The line between the past and the present blurs, throwing me back to a time when I was six years old.

I was a small, fragile child, skating in the backyard rink my dad had built for me. It’d been snowing that day, the sky darkening as an early winter dusk set in.

Pride suffused me as I came to a stop. I’d been skating and handling the puck he gave me without slipping up. I couldn’t wait to see the surprised look on his face.

But Dad had just watched me with a cold, bored look. He stood at the edge of the rink, a bottle in his hand, his mouth twisting in disgust.

“You call that skating?” he’d sneered. “Let me see you do it again.”

I’d obeyed, skating across the ice again. And again. And again, until my legs shook and I fell face-first into the ice.

Dad had thrown his bottle on the ground, shattering it. He’d roared with rage, grabbing me and hitting my thin, weak body. While it hurt, nothing felt worse than his words.

“You’ll never be good enough.”

Dad had been a pro-NHL athlete. I remembered seeing him skate with his teammates while a crowd of thousands cheered him on.

Unfortunately, his glory didn’t last too long.

An unfortunate injury took it all away. And suddenly, I became his second chance, a replacement.

He taught me to skate while he recuperated.

And then, my mom died the next year. She was a gentle woman, her voice soothing and her embraces soft and warm.

Her death shattered my dad. He started drinking as his dream of playing in the NHL came to an end.

With no one around to shield me, I became his punching bag. He poured all his frustration into beating me and molding me into an ice hockey player.

I could always see the rage and regret in his eyes when he looked at me. He hated I was moving toward the dream he lost.

So, he repeated the same words over and over again, wishing I’d fail and end up just like him.

A strike to my left shoulder snaps me back to the present.

“You’re such a goddamn failure,” he spits as my vision blackens momentarily.

His words weren’t new. They didn’t need to be.

He finally lets my heavy weight drop to the ground. I stay there motionless, barely having the energy to move as he kicks me hard in the gut.

I let him take what he wants from me. He’s already robbed me of my childhood. He’s also made sure to make me believe love can never be something safe.

I tried to gain my dad’s love since I was a kid. No matter how many times he beat me, I still did my best to train hard and win medals and trophies. Everything I did was to make him proud.

But it never worked.

Dad still hates me. He’d rather see me weak and broken than become a pro hockey player. He’d rather I hate him than achieve the dream he’d lost a long time ago.

Numbness settles deep into me. It’s my only shield and survival tactic against the man who raised me.