Page 51 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

WHAT IF IT’S TOO LATE EXCERPT

HARRISON

“ S omeone forgot to tell me adulthood includes dodging snot rockets and tantrums on ice.” August yanks his practice jersey over his head like it personally insulted him.

“Pretty sure we dodge snot rockets on the ice more often than we think,” Griffin chuckles. “Remember Rigovich from Ontario? That man snots like nobody’s business. What’s a few ten-year-olds compared to that boogery beast?”

August frowns. “Ugh, you’re right. So fucking gross. Someone remind me why I agreed to this?”

“Because Ella told you to,” Griffin fires back, grinning as he tapes his stick. “And we all know you’ll do whatever she says because you’re her smitten kitten.” The room cracks up and August scowls, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Oliver leans against the wall like he’s posing for a photoshoot. “Honestly, I’m just glad I don’t have to spend my day flirting with all the drooling moms. So glad I’m past all that now.”

“Drooling moms, huh?” Bodhi smirks. “You mean like you’re some kind of hunky hockey God or something?”

Oliver nods. ”Yeah. Exactly like that. Come on, you’ve seen them.

They walk in like they own the ice even though they’ve never been on it lest they change out of their expensive shoes.

They’re armed with Gatorade and an arsenal of unsolicited advice about everything from stick technique to snack choices.

They’re helicopter parents and they think they know everything about the sport or they think their son’s do and that their son’s shit doesn’t stink even though we all know it does.

I used to spend my summers flirting with them all just to shut them up so we could do our jobs. ”

“Corrigan did tell me I’m on a short leash today,” Bodhi adds with mock seriousness. “Maybe that’s why she told me that.”

Ledger shakes his head as he tightens his laces. “I don’t know why Marlee’s okay with this when we have three children at home. She didn’t even give me a choice.”

“That’s marriage, bud,” Griffin says with a wink. “Welcome to the club.”

“Yeah, speaking of,” Barrett pipes up from his corner, half in his pads already, “is Blakely covering this clinic for the team broadcast? Because if she is, I call dibs on not being the one she roasts in her segment tonight.”

“She’ll roast you anyway,” I say, smirking. “It’s her love language.”

“Sadly, you’re right.” He sighs dramatically but the man’s got puppy love written all over his face.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Teddy Bear,” Griffin tells him, grinning. “So, I guess that leaves us with just one guy who doesn’t have a built-in babysitter, boss, or PR handler at home.”

I look up to find six pairs of eyes on me.

“What?”

“You,” Oliver says, pointing his stick at me like he’s naming a suspect. “The last single man standing.”

“Poor bastard,” Bodhi adds, shaking his head in mock sympathy.

“Dead man walking,” Barrett mutters, grinning behind his blocker.

“Or just smart,” I shoot back. “While you guys are being bossed around by wives and girlfriends, I’m over here living the dream.”

“Dream’s a strong word for going home alone to DoorDash and your fist, brother.” August says. The room erupts in laughter. I flip him off and finish lacing my skates.

“He’s right though,” Oliver tells me patting me on my shoulder. “Guess you’ll be the one flirting with the moms this year.”

What else is new.

Same shit, different day.

But I’ll do it for the kids.

I roll my eyes and shove my gear bag into the corner. “You know what? I’m going to be that guy. I’m going to charm the leggings off those moms, and then I’ll have them running errands for me all season long. They’ll be my personal assistants.”

Griffin snorts. “Sure, buddy. Just make sure you don’t accidentally flirt with someone’s wife. We don’t want any broken hearts—or broken bones.”

“Good point,” I admit, shaking my head. “I’m not trying to get benched for accidental infidelity.” I glance at August, who’s still sulking like a toddler denied dessert. “But hey, at least you’ll be here for backup if the moms start throwing themselves at me. You’ve got my back, right?”

He grumbles something under his breath, but I can see he’s starting to laugh. I can’t help but poke the bear a little more. “Maybe I’ll even take a page from your book and bring some cookies for the snack table. Nothing says ‘I’m a fun guy’ like baked goods.”

“Yeah, until they realize you can’t bake to save your life,” Barrett chimes in, shaking his head. “Those cookies will look like hockey pucks.”

“Alright, alright,” I say, straightening up to channel my inner coach. “Let’s show these kids what top-tier dad skills look like. Remember: enthusiasm over technique!”

The rink is chaos the second our blades touch the ice but the kids’ energy and excitement is infectious. We’re not just here to show off our skills; this is one of the ways we give back to the community.

I look around at the sea of tiny, mismatched jerseys, and suddenly I feel like a giant standing among a bunch of pint-sized hockey prodigies ready to conquer the world, or at least the snack table.

“Alright, kids!” I call out, trying to channel my inner coach while making sure I don’t sound too much like a drill sergeant. “Who’s ready to learn how to deke like a pro?”

A chorus of tiny voices erupts into enthusiastic shouts.

If only I had that kind of enthusiasm when it comes to doing laundry, my practice bag wouldn’t smell so bad.

Kids zip around like caffeinated pigeons, pucks flying in every direction.

Griffin wipes out spectacularly within thirty seconds, letting a six-year-old “bodycheck” him into the boards.

He sprawls on the ice, moaning dramatically. “Coach, I’m injured!”

Barrett pounds his stick against the post, cackling. “Down goes Ollenberg! Highlight of my week.”

Meanwhile, August is barking orders like he’s coaching game seven of the cup finals. “Skate harder! Backcheck! No, that’s not backchecking, that’s—Christ, do any of you listen?”

Oliver is actually doing drills properly, his dad mode fully engaged and Bodhi?

He’s got a group of eight-year-olds lined up practicing celly dances.

He demonstrates a ridiculous shimmy-fist pump combo, the kids mimicking him like he’s gospel.

Ledger’s kneeling by the bench, retying a kid’s skates for the third time while he chatters about his dog.

Honestly, the guy’s a saint. And me? I’m trying to run a passing drill when I notice the strongest adolescent skater on the ice.

His name is Connor and for a kid who can’t be older than nine or ten, he’s really fucking good.

Too good.

Quick stride, smooth stickhandling, head always up.

He makes a perfect tape-to-tape pass like he’s been doing it for years and when I blow the whistle, he pulls up sharp, snow spraying around his boot.

He looks straight at me, focused, hungry and competitive.

Something about him hits me in the chest. Honestly he reminds me of myself at that age.

I crouch. “You play?”

He nods. “Travel peewee, Sir.”

“Figures. You’ve got instincts, kid. You want to try something with me?”

His smile grows so wide it takes up his whole face. “Heck yeah!”

I slide him the puck. “When your teammate is passsing to you, try angling your stick a little more on the reception. It cuts the bounce and let’s you keep control a little better. And if you can keep control, you can own the ice.”

“You mean like you do?”

I chuckle lightly. “Something like that.”

He does exactly what I tell him to and, of course, nails it grinning, wide and proud.

“Nice job,” I say, clapping his shoulder pad. “Keep that up, you’ll be going places in no time.”

The kids swarm around us like a pack of excitable puppies before our last set of drills, all limbs and loud voices.

I can’t help but grin; their enthusiasm could power a small city.

I take a moment to survey the rink, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline.

It’s just practice, but it feels like stepping back into my childhood.

A bright arena filled with laughter, shouts, and the unmistakable smell of ice and potential.

I’ve always loved doing this in the summertime.

Giving back to the community in this way, sharing the ice with tiny ice-pro potentials…

it’s so much fun and always has me looking forward to that day when I finally find someone to settle down with. To have kids with.

Hockey is fun, yeah, but I’m so ready to be a dad.

Because I have to imagine, being a hockey dad is unlike anything else.

I wouldn’t know, of course, since I have no idea who my father is, but my stepdad was there for me. He was happy to be involved and was always excited to cheer me on as I learned to play.

I love being that guy for other kids and I can’t wait to be that guy for my own kid. Whether it’s hockey or football, or cheerleading or dance, I’m going to be the best fucking dad the world has ever seen.

“Now don’t forget,” I remind the kids, “After tomorrow’s scrimmage the whole Anaheim Star team will be here.

You’ll get to meet everyone and you’ll have the opportunity to get your picture taken with your favorite player.

” I clear my throat. “Which means Barrett here will be all alone and I’ll be ridiculously busy. ”

The kids laugh as Barrett slowly turns his head to look at me and then rolls his eyes as if I’m the most ridiculous piece of shit he’s ever met. I’m not, by the way, but he’ll play it up for the kids anyway. He’s good at it. He’ll make a great father one day too.

Practice winds down with the usual circus. Griffin pretending to get checked into the glass, August nearly combusting when a drill collapses, Bodhi teaching a kid how to dab mid-goal. But Connor? That kid stays sharp till the very end. He even helps me gather pucks.

As the kids file off the ice, Connor lingers. “Thanks, Coach.”

Coach.

The word warms something in me even though I’m not sure I would ever make a good coach.

I mean, God knows I’ve thought about the possibility of coaching somewhere in my future and what that might look like for me.

As a man in my mid-thirties I know my time on the ice is limited.

The years have been good to me, but there aren’t many hockey players still playing pro in their forties and fifties.

Our bodies just don’t last that long and I’d be lying if I said mine wasn’t screaming at me from time to time.

Still, coaching?

I have to wonder if I’d be any good at it…or if it would be at all fulfilling.

I give Connor a nod of my chin and tell him, “Anytime, kid,” and then I watch as he skates off toward the tunnel. My gaze drifts to the stands, searching for his parents wondering which one of the rich wildly dressed adults belongs to him.

Will it be a mom with an overpriced purse and a pair of Gucci sunglasses or will it be one of the men standing around in their golf shirts scrolling on their phones scheduling their tee time?

I can’t figure out just yet which of the parents standing around belongs to Connor but when my eyes land on a particular woman, I swear to God I do a double take.

It’s a flash of brown hair and a familiar posture standing near the exit but it’s enough for me to blink several times trying to get a better look.

What the fuck?

My stomach drops.

It can’t be.

But before I can be sure, she’s gone.

“Dude, you okay?” August caps his hand on my shoulder watching me stare at the opposite side of the rink, my mouth hanging wide open. “Your face man…looks like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Shaking my head and trying to rid myself of the sudden memories of years past trying to infiltrate my brain I clear my throat and turn away from the ice. “I swear to God I thought I just did.”

What If It’s Too Late releases on January 14, 2026

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