Suck My Puck (Denver Bashers Series #3)

22. Braden

Chapter 22

Braden

T he arena buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game.

The home crowd goes wild as I skate over to my teammates on the other end of the ice to celebrate our win.

I crash into Xander, who’s hollering as he pulls Del into a hug.

“Fuck, yeah! Another win!” Xander hollers.

He turns around to me. “And this fucking guy!” He smacks my helmet and kisses it. I laugh.

“You were a motherfucking brick wall tonight, dude,” Xander says.

Del smacks my shoulder. “Seriously. Well done, man.” The grumpy fucker even cracks a smile.

I can’t help the cheesy-ass grin that takes over my whole face. We beat Minneapolis three to one. It sucked giving up that one goal, but I worked my ass off tonight to block everything else they threw at me.

Theo skates over and crashes into me. We fall on the ice together, and I can’t stop laughing .

“Dude! You kicked ass!” he yells as he helps me up.

He taps my helmet and hugs me. I’m drenched in sweat and totally exhausted, but I’m pumped and energized after winning against such a good team.

We exit the ice and head to the locker room. I’m selected for post-game press, so I head to the media room with a couple of my teammates.

“Braden, how do you feel about your performance tonight?” a reporter asks me.

“Pretty good overall.”

“Just pretty good?” The reporter smiles. “You managed more than thirty saves the whole game. I think that’s more than just pretty good.”

I crack a smile. “Fair point, thanks.”

“The one shot you that got through was on your glove side,” another reporter says. “Do you plan to focus on that more in your training?”

“Yeah, I could always improve my glove handling. Most goalies wish they were better with their glove.”

“Braden, your performance in the net has been nothing short of phenomenal, especially considering the way you started earlier this season,” a different reporter says. “What’s made the difference?”

I try not to grin when I think about Bella. I’m sure every reporter in this room is expecting me to say that I’m playing better because I overhauled my training or recovery regimen or diet.

I’d bet anything they’re not expecting me to say that the sole reason I’m playing so well is because I’m hooking up with my neighbor.

No way am I going to tell them that. So I give them the answer they expected.

“I’ve been working extra hard with Bashers goalie coach, Ron Sadler,” I say. “He’s helping me target my weaknesses and play up my strengths.”

That part’s true. But it’s not why I’m playing so well. Things didn’t start turning around for me until I met Bella.

I think about when I went over to her place last night. When we took Maizie to the vet last week, we found out she wasn’t chipped, which meant that she was likely abandoned. We put up notices at the vet and online with Maizie’s photo just to make sure we tried our best to find her owner. But in the meantime, we agreed to take care of her.

Each day, we trade off who takes care of her. Yesterday was Bella’s day, so after practice, I stopped over at her apartment.

After playing with Maizie for a while, she fell asleep. Bella took me to her bedroom, and we spent the rest of the night testing out the structural integrity of her new headboard.

I clear my throat and refocus on the question I’m answering. “So yeah, I’m just doing a lot of well-rounded training.”

“What do you think about what your dad had to say on the Tim Rhodes podcast the other day?” a different reporter asks.

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t mince words when Tim asked him what he thought about the turnaround in your performance so far this season.” The reporter scans the notes on his phone. “Your dad said that fans shouldn’t get their hopes up. That yeah, you’re playing well now, but all good things come to an end. What are your thoughts about that?”

Anger punctures a hole through the high I’ve been riding tonight. I do my best to school my expression so I hopefully don’t look as pissed as I feel. It’s bad enough that I’m finding out in front of a room full of reporters that my dad is shit-talking me on the most popular sports podcast in the country. I don’t want to give them any more gossip fodder than they already have on me and my dad.

He probably decided to trash-talk me because I refuse to speak to him anymore. Whatever. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“I don’t have any opinions about what my dad said,” I say.

The reporter frowns. “Seriously? You don’t think it’s pretty harsh for a dad to talk about his son like that?”

I grit my teeth before forcing myself to relax my jaw. I shake my head. “He can have whatever opinion he wants.”

Another report tries to ask about my dad, but I tell him I’m done answering questions.

Post-game press ends, and I head back to the locker room to get cleaned up and gather my things. I’m still tense and pissed about what my dad said about me.

I’m the last one in the locker room. As I gather my things, I eye my phone. I know I shouldn’t do it. All it will do is make me feel worse.

“Fuck it,” I mutter. I sit down in front of my locker and pull up the podcast interview on my phone.

I skim the show notes and find the timestamp for when my dad starts talking about me. I tap it and listen.

“Ivan, I gotta ask about your son Braden, who’s the goalie for the Denver Bashers,” Tim Rhodes says. “How do you feel about his performance recently? He’s one of the top goalies in the league.”

“He was until playoffs last season,” my dad says in his signature, unaffected tone .

The muscles in my neck and shoulders are instantly tense.

“Wow. Not mincing words, are we?” Tim chuckles.

“Nope. Never.”

“I’ve gotta say, Ivan. I know you’re a straight shooter. You always have been. That’s why you’re such a successful college hockey coach. But this is your son. And there doesn’t seem to be much affection in your tone when you talk about him.”

“I don’t operate that way. Never have. Never will,” my dad says sternly. “That sort of softness doesn’t do anyone any good.”

“I see. More of the tough love approach then?”

“If that’s what you want to call it. I just think that coddling your kids or your players does a massive disservice to them. No one becomes a better athlete by being babied and praised for every little thing. You improve when you know what your weaknesses are and how to fix them.”

“Your son is playing quite well now,” Tim says. “He bounced back from the rough start he had in the preseason. And during the Bashers’ final game of the playoffs last season too. Don’t you have any faith that he’ll keep at it? He’s played phenomenally these last few games.”

“All good things come to an end, Tim.”

A sting lands at the center of my chest.

The host stammers, then offers an awkward laugh. “Wow. That’s Coach Ivan Blomdahl for you folks. No nonsense and to-the-point, always.”

I exit out of the podcast, my entire body rigid with anger and frustration. A moment passes, that sting in my chest lingering.

It’s been a while since I’ve heard my dad say something harsh like that. I should be used to it. He’s said stuff like that about me, to my face, almost my entire life.

But the truth is, it kills me every single time.

I huff out a breath, waiting for that tightness in my chest to dissipate.

I knew I shouldn’t have listened to that podcast. All it did was remind me for the millionth time that no matter what I do, no matter how good I am, it will never, ever be enough for my dad.

I shove my phone in my pocket, grab my gear bag, and head out to my car. I drive in the direction of Spanky’s, determined to celebrate the win with my teammates and forget my dad’s harsh words.