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Fuck it. I’m going to brunch.
The drive to Versailles, where Logan’s sister and her family live, is about twenty minutes away. I try not to think about Brooke, but no matter what song is playing, it reminds me of her. She’s my coach’s daughter. The universe is against me. The one person I’ve ever been interested in as more than a friend, or a hookup is my coach’s daughter.
If he ever finds out what I did to his daughter, in public no less, he has the power to make sure I don’t play another minute. And what do I have without hockey?
Nothing. The answer is nothing.
As mad as I was when I saw Brooke in the stands wearing a hockey sweater from one of my teammates, this is worse. Worse that she was wearing a Stallions jersey with her dad’s name on the back. There’s no going back to her.
I make a U-turn on the busy highway. I’m not going to brunch; I’m going to the arena. After I stop by the house and grab my gear, I’m on the ice with a bucket of pucks within a half hour.
The rink serves as my sanctuary, even in my darkest days, I’ve always felt my true home is on the
ice. This is my second or third chance at finally getting it right, and I can’t blow it no matter how I feel about his daughter.
First, I skate the perimeter to get focused. I place the cones out in a zigzag pattern, slashing through them. I place the bucket beside on the right hand side and start with wrist shots into the goal. Moving to the center, I hit slapshot after slapshot with the last two hitting the cross bar, and I can’t contain my anger at myself—at her—at the situation, so I scream obscenities so loud, my body vibrates.
“Bauer.”
Coach’s voice calms me down. He skates to the goal, scooping the pucks and placing them into a bucket. He reaches over the board and places it on the bench. He leans his back side against the boards, tapping his stick against his chest.
“You wanna tell me why you’re back.”
Biting my tongue, I say, “Can’t be the best unless I practice to be the best.”
“Okay, true, but you need to rest your body after the amount of energy you used at practice this morning, not to mention at the game less than thirty-six hours ago.”
I skate across the center line.
“Bauer, we can either talk here or in my office. I took a chance on you, and you’re on thin ice that could shatter at any moment. What you’ve been through is awful and…”
I cut him off by breaking my stick over my knee. “Don’t pretend to know what I’ve been through. You couldn’t possibly understand how hard it is to function every day knowing what I did.” I didn’t put my pads or helmet on, so I don’t have anything left to throw or snap.
Coach Sweet slowly skates to me. It’s probably a good idea not to charge a bull. He opens his hands and folds them over my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. “You’re right. One thing I know is you’re one of the most talented players I’ve coached or watched for that matter. You can talk to me.”
No, I can’t. He’ll kick me off the team if finds out about Brooke. “Coach, sometimes I feel like I’m worthless. No matter how hard I try to make a new life, it never works out.” I shake my head and pop my gloves off. “Hockey is all I have. No mom or dad. No siblings.”
“Bauer, you have a father, and it’s your choice if you want to contact him. He helped you once.”
I throw my head back and burst into maniacal laughter. "Yeah, he supposedly convinced them to let me play hockey while I was in juvie. But did he ever call? No. Did he bother to care when my mom chose my stepdad? No. Did he ever reveal his identity to me? No."
My vision blurs as tears threaten to fall. I pinch them and shake off the emptiness inside. I look at my coach and see his eyes are similar to Brooke’s, but her freckles must be passed from her mom.
He pulls me into an awkward embrace. Hockey players only hug during celebrations, but I relax as he rubs my back for a second before pulling away.
“I know him.”
“Who?”
“You’re biological father.”
My mouth hangs open. “No one knows who he is. My mom never told me, and there was a lawyer who negotiated for him anonymously with the court to allow me to play hockey.”
“Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”
We walk into his non-descript office, and he grabs a wallet from the metal desk drawer. He fingers through a pocket, dislodges a photo, and hands it to me.
It’s an old photo of Coach and a friend when they’re close to my current age. After staring for what seems to be hours, I look at Coach. “Who is this?”
