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“You’re doing everything right. That’s why I stopped because I was ready to rip off that leotard, shove you against the mirror, and watch your fingers try to grasp the glass while I memorized your expressions each time I drove inside you. But that’s not the kind of man you deserve.”
She raises her chin, and once again, her blue-green eyes collide with mine. Her voice strains to push her words out. “You don’t know me well enough to know what I deserve.”
“Cookie, it was a compliment.”
“Thank you, I guess. If you still want to study, call me at ten. If you don’t, that’s fine too.” She lifts to her feet, slipping her arms through her pink puffy jacket. She snaps it closed and says, “And quit calling me Cookie.”
So, it’s fine if she never speaks to me again? Screw that. What just happened? I was being a gentleman. Some guys aren’t meant to be gentlemen, and I must be one of them.
Chapter Twelve
BROOKE
Nothing works out for me. I don’t usually succumb to the woe is me attitude but after Reed rejected me, I was humiliated. In the days since, I’ve eaten two boxes of Apple Jacks without Caleb’s help.
Dating Reed isn’t an option anyway. Inwardly, I mock myself for wanting to have a normal relationship with him when I know it could never be anything more than a sexual experience. No getting to know each other because I can’t introduce someone into Caleb’s life unless I believe the relationship has legs.
I’ve worked from sun up until way past sundown—the café, then classes, teacher conference, teaching ballet, and then back to the café. Two people called in, and I couldn’t say no to overtime pay. I refuse to take money from my dad, wanting to make it on my own. It took a while for us to get back in a good space after he found out I was pregnant with one of his players donating the sperm.
It appeared that Dad was disappointed, or at least that was my impression. However, now I realize that parents desire for their children's lives to be perfect. I no longer harbor any resentment towards him of being gone all the time, which I thought was why my mother left.
It’s nearing midnight when I walk into my dad’s house to pick Caleb up, only to find a note and a Stallions hockey sweater laying on the kitchen table.
Exhaling a boatload of air, I read the note.
Sweetie,
Had to leave for the midnight game. Caleb is with me.
Wear this sweater and make your dad happy. One game, that’s all I ask.
Love,
Dad
Frustration consumes me as I snatch the hockey sweater and run to the bathroom. Why didn’t he tell me he had a hockey game tonight? I wouldn’t have picked up the late-night shift at the café.
Doesn’t he understand I can’t be around hockey players? They’re the cockiest group of men on every level. Even in elementary school, they walked around school like they were better than everyone else. Newsflash. Not.
But they are my weakness.
Thank God Reed isn’t a hockey player.
One reason we moved here was because hockey is not king. Dad was trying to protect Caleb and me. Hockey in Kentucky is like the fourth prince in the royal family—never going to be king—or get anywhere near the throne. But since my dad took over, the hockey team has improved, and this year, they’re undefeated.
I wash my face and take my hair out of the ponytail to brush it, having not been touched since this morning. There are three large creases running horizontally, so I put it back up and wrap a strip of hair around the ponytail, so you can’t see the yellow elastic band. Smoothing concealer on my face and a few strokes of mascara to hide my tired eyes. It’s all I have in my purse. It makes me think of Reed. All the things I have in my luggage and other than makeup, none of it is what a normal college student would have. No boogie wipes or children’s pain medicine.
Throwing the jersey onto my body, I head to the arena, my stomach churning with nervous energy. I know I’m not going to see Erik because Dad would have warned me.
I show my student identification, which gets me into the game for free. When a security guard comes in sight, I pull the coach’s daughter routine and ask where the locker room and his office are.
“They’re already on the ice, so I can’t let you in,” he responds. It reminds me that he doesn’t know me. My dad doesn’t share that he has a daughter, although his players could find out. I asked him to not display any photos of Caleb or me. I don’t want any hockey players knowing I’m his daughter.
As I peek into the rink, I look at the bench, and Dad stands by himself. Where is Caleb? He better not be asleep in the locker room by himself. I walk further up the steps, scanning the crowd, which is half full. I’m not sure if that’s more or less than usual. Finally, about ten rows up, I see a woman, not much older than me, holding Caleb in her lap.
“Mommy, Mommy,” Caleb shouts when he sees me. The music is blaring like it has at every hockey game I’ve ever been to. I prefer the soft music of figure skating to the pump-you-up, almost violent songs they play before a hockey game. How can they be one with the ice listening to this?
“Hi, I’m Kandy. You must be Brooklyn.”
