Page 95 of High Sticking the Heart

I pushed up on my elbow, needing to see his face. My heart broke at the sadness written in his expression. His skin was salty when I pressed a kiss to his cheek, peppering his face until I met his lips, then looked at him again.

“Your dad was an asshole.”

He rolled his lip between his teeth, staring off. When he spoke, he sounded distant, lost in thought, and I let him release what must have been years of built-up family shit.

“I got a full ride for hockey. I made Rookie of the Year, and put up record-breaking numbers my freshman year. Came back as a sophomore, and when we made playoffs he showed up at practice. Had no clue my biological dad was a hockey player—Mom never told me. We didn’t talk about my dad, period. It was the first big fight we had.” He ran his hand over the back of his head. “Regret that to this day. But when he took me out to dinner, he painted this picture of my mom keeping him out of my life. And he was so…”

“Convincing?”

He nodded, and even in the dim lighting I knew he wasn’t actually seeing what he was staring at, too lost in thought.

“Very. It’s how I found myself dropping out of college senior year and joining the Desperados. Mom wanted me to finish college and get my degree.” He let out a humorless chuff. “But I wanted so badly to please him. To give him a reason to stay.” His eyes locked onto mine, bitterness coating his words when he spoke. “He hates it when I call him Dad. We live in the same building, on the same floor, and I’ve never seen him here. I drive the car he wants me to, wear the name he wants, act the way he wants, and he won’t let me call him Dad. Maybe if we win the Stanley this year.”

Heartbreak.

My heart was shattered by the way Dalton longed for acceptance. The hope in that last sentence. He believed the lie that he should earn his father’s love, that he fell short of deserving it, so he thought he needed to work harder for the affection.

When, in reality, his father was undeserving of him.

I didn’t know how to tell him he was better off without the asshole. My gut told me he wasn’t ready to hear that yet. So I did the only logical thing.

Used humor to deflect.

“Think it would help your daddy issues if I called you Papi?”

He barked out a laugh, giving me the biggest smile, clearly happy for the subject change. The smile didn’t dim as he tucked my hair behind my ear, trailing his fingers down the column of my throat, leaving a trail of raised skin in their wake.

“You could probably solve all my issues if you called me Papi in bed.”

FORTY-THREE

DALTON

WHY AM I SWOONING OVER FICTIONAL CONVERSATIONS?!?

Me:

What’s the point of living with my girlfriend if I can never find her?