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“Where’d you learn to play hockey?”
Dex had snorted, deep into his little punk phase. “Never played before.”
“You’re telling me this is the first time you’ve hit a puck?”
Fuck-you shrug. “Why, is it hard?”
The guy had looked like he’d wanted to clip him one. Of course, at the time Dex had no clue this man was a big deal in hockey. In sports. In life.
“Where are your parents?”
“Dead.” Half-true, or he assumed it was. He had no idea who his father was, and his mom may as well have been six feet under for all the use she was to him.
“Poor little orphan, huh?” The sneer was mixed with a grudging respect. “And you’ve never played hockey?”
Dex’s friend Scottie had wanted to meet his favorite player on the Chicago Rebels, Bren St. James, and Dex would never say no to any opp to get out of the home for a day. He’d skated once before when he stayed with the Mulligans, his second to last foster family. He’d liked how free he felt, gliding along the surface. How natural the motion had come to him. But today was the first time he’d picked up a stick and hit a puck. He’d skimmed by a couple of guys easily, hit the rubber disc as hard as he could, and sent it like a rocket into the back of the net.
Then he did it again.
Each time it hit its target like it couldn’t possibly go anywhere else. Like that was Dex’s purpose. All this rage inside him seemed to find an outlet at last.
“You need to join a league, kid. Who’s in charge of you?”
Dex looked around for Frank, the group leader, who, with his pot belly and general lack of coordination, should really not be on skates. “That guy.”
When Dex had skated back to Scottie, he’d received the funniest look. “I can’t believe you talked to him!”
“Who?”
“Clifford Chase! He owns the Chicago Rebels!”
As if Dex cared. Just some big shot who liked bossing people around.
Not expecting anything to come of it, he was surprised when two weeks later, Anton Ballard showed up at the home with instructions from the great Clifford Chase to train him up. From that moment on, Dex knew this was his ticket out.
So whenever Anton called after one of Dex’s fuck-ups, he had a hard time justifying the why of his fuck-uppery. That he might be broken was something he’d considered but in typical “avoid self-reflection at all costs” fashion, he’d dismissed it.
“They’ve got a lot of good players here. Hard to rise above.”
“Bullshit. So you’re gonna bail on them before they bail on you?”
“I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”
“Are you?” He could feel Anton’s disgust all the way from the east coast. “Because it sounds like you’re just enjoying that pity party for one.”
“Maybe it’s time to move on.”
“Thought you liked Chicago.”
He and Kit must be in cahoots.
“It’s no better or worse than anywhere else. Nashville was a better party town.”
“Now you’re just trying to piss me off.” Correct, sir! “Quit making excuses and start knuckling down, or you’re going to find yourself out of a job and a place to call home. If I wasn’t in Vermont, I’d come over there and tell you in person exactly what I think.”
Anton used to live in Chicago but got a coaching gig out of state a couple of years ago just before Dex had been acquired by the Rebels. Maybe, if he was around, Dex wouldn’t be so off the rails, if only because Anton was the one guy Dex hated to disappoint.
And why did the mention of losing “a place to call home” upset him more than the thought of finding himself out of a job?
