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Finally, something we agreed on.

But since agreeing with him about anything was a slippery slope that would only lead to more lecturing, I just said, “Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Obviously.” Dad smacked his desk for emphasis. “But I’m not calling to talk about your teammates. We need to focus on your performance.”

I squared my shoulders and smoothed my expression into the blank, unreadable mask that hid every flinch, every spike of annoyance. If he saw so much as an eye-twitch, he’d pounce on my ‘mentals’ next.

“Sure,” I said, knowing there was no other acceptable response.

He launched straight into his critique, no build-up or sugarcoating. “Second period against Savannah, you had the puck on your stick with the net open, and you put it right into the goalie’s chest.”

Because the pass from the point was rolling edge-over-edge, I thought. I had to heel-drag it just to settle it, and by the time I snapped it off, Simpson was coming across in a butterfly slide. If I’d tried to lift it over his shoulder, I would’ve cleared the crossbar entirely.

I didn’t say any of that, though. In Dad’s mind, Explanations were just excuses.

“And your support on the track in the third against Washington was half a step slow every single time. Half a step, Hunter.”

I picked at a scratch in the leather next to my thigh with my thumbnail. “I know.”

“I’m not trying to be hard on you,” he said, looking at something off to the side—probably a second screen where the tape of that game was cued up. “I’m telling you these things because nobody else will. Hendricks doesn’t have the balls to tell you you’re a step slow.”

He did, actually. Him and our forwards coach had pulled me in for a video session a couple of days ago. But since I was one of the few players who’d actually put up points during the roadie, I’d gotten off a lot easier than some of the other guys on the team.

But it wasn’t like I needed a deep dive to know what I’d done wrong in those games—I spent more time than anyone, my dad included, cataloging my failures.

He finally looked back at the camera. “I’m disappointed, son. You have more in you than these games show. I know you do. I just don’t understand why you’re not delivering consistently.”

I’m disappointed too! I wanted to shout. I’m disappointed that I’m drowning out there every goddamn night.

He expected elite, forty-goal production every game, as if I could magically fix our atrocious defensive-zone exits by myself. I was twenty-three years old, logging seventeen to eighteen minutes a night behind Bell, one of two guys carrying the offensive weight of the team while also taking heavy hits.

I was fucking trying.

But I was only one guy on a roster held together by tape and a prayer. What else did he expect me to do? Lace up a pair of pads and play in net for Hale, too?

I forced a slow breath down into my stomach, feeling my ribcage expand, while desperately trying to keep my throat from tightening up. I could not do this right now.

I was already drowning when he called, and if I stayed on the line with him for even twenty more seconds, my mask would shatter. He’d zero in on the cracks, pouncing on my mental state and dissecting my brain the same way he dissected my shifts.

“I’ll work on it.”

It was the only thing I could say to end the conversation, and I really fucking needed it to end.

He glanced down at his watch. “All right. Get some sleep. And watch the rest of that tape.”

The screen went black before I could say goodbye.

I thought about reaching for the remote and turning on the TV just to have sounds other than the “you’re a fucking failure” playing on loop in my head, but I didn’t even have the energy for that.

Instead, I just sat there in the dim quiet, unable to make my body move.

Mikey’s key twisting in the lock startled me out of my stupor. I checked my watch, surprised to see it was barely ten o’clock. I’d braced myself for him coming home around one or even two—or maybe even not at all.

My whole body seemed to relax with relief before I realized how fucking stupid that was. It didn’t take all night to fuck. Hell, the last time Mikey and I were together, less than twenty minutes had passed between my knocking on his hotel room door and him coming down my throat.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, tugging my cheeks down. I didn’t think I could handle knowing that Mikey had hooked up with someone else, but the not knowing would maybe be just as bad.

I needed to get a grip on myself and stop falling for guys who couldn’t love me back.