Page 10 of Slap Shot (Blades Hockey #5)

Weston

In unspoken agreement, I follow Daisy back to her place after the meeting.

She lives in a collection of old, turn-of-the-century brownstones a few blocks over from the Pru, one of the tallest skyscrapers in Bostonˇs skyline. Itˇs not the first apartment that sheˇs rented here in the cityafter her move from Hartford, she lived in a tiny studio in Dorchesterbut itˇs by far the nicest. Round-the-clock concierge service, an elevator that keeps her from lugging groceries up five flights of stairs, andher favorite amenityaccess to a parking garage so sheˇs not battling it out on the streets of Back Bay in the middle of a Norˇeaster.

I canˇt help but wonder how long sheˇll last with rent. Iˇd offer to cover it for her, but I like my nuts exactly where they areattached to my body.

When she merges onto Storrow Drive, completely bypassing the turn for the Pike, I let out a small groan. Only Daisy would be willing to sit through an obscene amount of bumper-to-bumper traffic to avoid driving on the highway. Itˇs one of her quirks. Sort of like how she canˇt stomach the taste of milk when itˇs within three days of its expiration dateeven though the smell hasnˇt gone sour yetor how, whenever we watch a new show together, she spends half the time researching production instead of, you know, enjoying the show.

I know way more about Lord of the Rings lore than Iˇve actually seen play out on the screen.

Which is why I know that something is off with her.

She walked out of that conference room without once glancing back, her posture stiff, her eyes downcast. If she could, I bet sheˇd hit up the rink in Watertown to get some skating in but since one of the employees sold us out to the tabloids, I doubt sheˇll risk turning up there again anytime soon.

Maybe it makes me overprotective, but I call heror try to, at any rate. Iˇm intercepted by an incoming call, one that Iˇd prefer to send straight to voicemail. Unfortunately for me, the streets of Boston decide to fuck me over with a stray pothole. As my car bounces, I accidentally tap accept instead of reject.

My fatherˇs smooth, cultured voice immediately filters in through the carˇs speakers: ¨Youˇve been avoiding me.〃

Yeah, no shit.

¨And youˇve upset your mother,〃 he adds stiffly when it becomes glaringly obvious that I have no plans to engage him in conversation. ¨She wants me to remind you that youˇve missed family dinner three weeks in a row.〃

¨Itˇs not really a reminder when Iˇm the one who made the decision not to show up.〃

¨I wonˇt tell her you said that.〃

¨Maybe you should.〃

Though he falls silent on the other end of the line, Iˇm not na?ve enough to think that Iˇve won our little standoff. Thatˇs the thing about David Cainhe never raises his voice and rarely loses his shit, and yet thereˇs no doubt in my mind that Iˇve been pissing my father off since the second that I was born.

It started with small things as a kid.

Not wanting to go into the office with him on bring-your-kid-to-work day. Or showing very little interest in the activities that he rolled out before me on gleaming silver platterspiano lessons and tennis and fencingwhile immediately shutting down any excitement I showed in hockey or even comic books.

I was too loud when I was meant to be quiet and too quiet when he wanted me to engage. The emotional whiplash put me on rocky ground from an early age. While I wasnˇt alone in the mess, Tory was always better at masking his emotions. When Dad said jump, my twin asked how high. Meanwhile, when he told me to sit down, I just left the room.

Iˇll give him credit where credit is due, though.

My father is really fucking good at turning on the charm. When Iˇm in the right mood, itˇs easy to see where I get it fromthe difference being, of course, that I donˇt make it a habit of telling the people I love that theyˇre wasting their lives away.

¨Whatˇs the point of this call, Dad?〃 I ease off the gas as Daisy slows down in front of me. ¨Because we both know that Mom isnˇt exactly my number one fan right now.〃

¨Sheˇs worried about you.〃

¨Really? Because I didnˇt get that feeling when the two of you were telling me it was time to hang up my skates.〃

¨Well, she〃

¨Or when I had Sports 24/7 breathing down my neck last month because they received an anonymous tip that Iˇll behow did they put itoh, yeahthat Iˇll be retiring soon because Iˇm done with hockey and ready to get involved with the family business.〃

¨Now, Weston, donˇt be pointing the finger at your〃

¨She added her signature to the fucking email, Dad. I mean, come on. If youˇre going to start a rumor, at least make sure that it wonˇt come back to bite you in the ass.〃

¨I donˇt appreciate the way youˇre talking about your mother.〃

¨Well, I donˇt appreciate the fact that my mother is trying to use the biggest sports network in the country to manipulate me.〃 Holding the steering wheel in a death grip, I bite my tongue before I say something truly shitty. It would be so much easier to pretend that my parents canˇt stand me. Thatˇs the kicker, though. They donˇt hate me, they never havethey just donˇt understand me, and sometimes that feels like the cruelest fate of all. ¨Iˇm not even thirty yet. I have a few more years left in the tank before I need to worry about calling it quits.〃

¨What about your hip, then? We know that youˇve been seeing your physical therapist again.〃

I resist the urge to bang my head against the wheel. ¨Iˇm a hockey player. I practically live at PT. They should be handing out frequent flyer cards or setting up bunkbeds so we can roll out of bed in the morning and just get on with it.〃

¨And what about with your teammatethe old captain?〃

Tension stiffens my spine at the mention of Jackson. ¨What about him?〃

¨Concussions are a big deal. Iˇm sure he wishes that he retired sooner, and I bet his family worries about him all the time. If he even makes it to old age, which is doubtful from what Iˇve heard, heˇll be〃

¨Donˇt talk about him.〃

¨Weston〃

¨I said, donˇt .〃 He wonˇt like my tone, but I donˇt care. While weˇve been stuck in this vicious cycle of him wanting me to quit hockey and me telling him to shove it for years now, itˇs the first time that heˇs brought one of my teammates into our mess. And for it to be Carter of all people? Carter, who went through Hell and back over the last few years, and who will need to fight every day for the rest of his life? Iˇm so fucking angry that it takes physical effort to unclench my jaw. ¨You donˇt get to talk about him like thatas if he wonˇt be here one dayjust because youˇre trying to prove a point.〃

¨I wasnˇt, son.〃 He has the balls to actually try and placate me with that soothing tone. As if I might actually fall for itI wonˇt. ¨All Iˇm saying is that you should be grateful that you only injured your hip and not your head. Maybe next time itˇll be worse, and youˇll have to face the hard truth that hockey is running your body into the ground.〃

The world runs us into the fucking ground.

My brother sits behind a desk and suffers excruciating migraines. Before getting hired by the Blades, our equipment manager was putting herself through school by working ten-hour shifts at a restaurantshe said that the soles of her feet are still calloused from always wearing out her shoes. A buddy of mine from college ended up becoming a firefighter; when I talked to him last, he was worried about the long-term damage to his lungs.

Weˇre all out here just doing our best, taking the shit with the good, living life the only way we know howby facing it head on.

None of that is the point, though.

Because this conversation isnˇt really about my hip surgery or Carter, even. Itˇs about the fact that my parents want a version of me that doesnˇt exist. My mom wants a son that she can tote around to all the fancy parties they attend in Connecticut, and my dad wants to feel like the Big Guy on Campus with both of his boys working for him. Theyˇre chasing after a pipedream. In the process, theyˇre pushing me farther and farther away.

¨Good talk, Dad, but I gotta go.〃

When he doesnˇt answer, I let myself imagine that itˇs because heˇs trying to find a way to bridge the gap between usbut then I hear the insistent tapping of fingers on a computer keyboard, and reality slaps me clear across the face.

I bet he penciled this call in after a late lunch: Donˇt forget to pester West about family dinner . If I hang up, he probably wonˇt even notice.

¨Did you hear me, Dad? I have to go.〃

¨Oh, right.〃 The sounds of him typing donˇt even break for a quick pause. ¨We love you very much, son. You know that, donˇt you?〃

Itˇs taken me years to realize that I donˇt like their brand of loveit comes with too many terms and conditions.

¨Weston?〃 His tone is expectant, and I grit my teeth.

¨Love you, too, Dad. Iˇll talk to you later.〃

I hang up before he can say anything else and immediately call Daisy, who picks up on the second ring. After waving to me in her rearview mirror, she chirps out her usual greeting, ¨Stop stalking me, Cain. Weˇve already talked about this.〃

Safe.

Home.

Daisy .

¨How do you feel about takeout?〃 I ask.