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“Look at what happened with Crosby. He was out for nearly an entire year but with rest, you might be able to—”
She placed her hand over his. “No, Dad, it’s not gonna happen. I’m done with pro hockey.”
His watery blue eyes stared at her for several long moments and she saw her own pain reflected in their depths.
“Are you all right with that?” He more than anyone knew how much the game meant to her. Her talent on the ice had defined her for so long that she didn’t know anything else. She was lost and he knew it.
“No,” she said softly. “I’m not.”
He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you pumpkin.”
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. None of this was okay. What was okay about a fifty-four year old man suffering from dementia? A man who had protected, loved, and raised three little girls on his own? A man they all looked up to, and now? Now, half the time he didn’t even know his own daughters.
Bobbi had told her that their father had good days and bad…good weeks and even months at a time, but this was the first solid conversation she’d had with him since returning home and she didn’t want to waste it talking about a career that was never going to happen.
Sh
e tossed the spoons into the drawer and slammed it shut, the noise echoing into the quiet room and making her father jump.
“Sorry, I…” she sighed.
“Are you recovered then? Is there anything I should know?”
Billie pushed away from the counter and turned to her father. How could he look and sound so normal when only a few days ago he’d come after Logan with a shotgun? Oh, how she had needed him months ago.
“I’m fine.”
At his arched brow she shrugged, and attempted a smile. “I mean I haven’t had a dizzy spell in weeks, the headaches are gone and my motor skills are A-1. If I was a Crosby or a Gretzky I’d be playing right now.”
Her father stared at her without saying a word and she knew it wasn’t because he couldn’t remember, or form a coherent thought. He felt her pain.
“The doctors in Sweden were topnotch, my trainers, all of that. Everything is good, it’s just,’—she hated hearing the words—‘the fear is that I’ll get hit again and it won’t be good and after assessing the risks, uh, I decided it wasn’t worth it.”
Wow, she’d become a great liar because the truth was, she would have done anything to keep playing, but the team had never given her the chance. That last hit had weakened her in the eyes of management and most of the players. It was the excuse they needed to pay out her contract and send her home. Another boys club where she didn’t quite fit.
Trent leaned against the countertop, his face worn out, his expression as sad as she felt inside.
“I’m sorry, babe.”
[i]Don’t cry. Don’t cry.[i]
“I know.”
“I wish I could have been there for you, for…everyone.” He glanced away and she swallowed thickly when she spied the wetness that filled his eyes. Her dad never cried. Herschel had told her once that the only time he’d seen his son cry was at their mother’s funeral. The girls would have been much too young to remember, they’d been barely three.
“I’m not well, but I suppose you know that.”
“Dad,” she began and took a step forward but he cut her off.
“I have a hard time remembering and I’ve lost days, weeks even.” He glanced up at her. “Maybe months.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But you’re good right now?”
“I’m feeling pretty good,” he nodded, palms outstretched.
Billie was across the room and in his arms within seconds. Shocked as she was at his frailty, the feel and smell of him was all she needed.
