The Pucking Player

28. Father Knows Worst

28

FATHER KNOWS WORST

LIAM

T he Defenders’ weight room is usually my sanctuary. Just me, the weights, and the gentle hum of the air conditioning. Except today it’s not working. Every rep feels like penance, every burn in my muscles a reminder of Sophie and what she must be going through since those photos with Olivia hit social media.

You did this to protect her.

But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. Doesn’t stop me from imagining what she must think—that I got bored, that I went back to my player ways, that everything I told her was a lie. The tabloids are having a field day: “Bad Boy of Hockey Returns to Form.” “O’Connor Spotted with Pop Star.” “Sophie Who?”

Good. Let them think that. Let everyone think that.

Including the Russian mob.

I load more weight onto the bar, hoping the physical pain might dull the ache in my chest. The mental image of her finding out—probably over morning coffee, scrolling through her phone—makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Or better yet, through Volkov’s face .

But this is the play. Keep her safe. Keep her away. Even if it means she hates me.

Even if it means losing the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I adjust my stance in front of the squat rack, bare feet planted firmly on the rubber mat. My workout shorts and compression shirt are already damp with sweat from the warm-up sets. Three plates on each side of the bar—three hundred and fifteen pounds. A decent weight for pre-practice legs, especially since Coach will probably make us do suicides later.

Closing my eyes, I focus on my breath. The weight room’s familiar scents settle me—rubber mats, chalk dust, that metallic tang of well-used equipment. Everything’s exactly where it should be, from the wall of dumbbells glinting in the fluorescent lights to the row of treadmills facing the windows. This is my domain. Under my control.

Unlike my love life.

Shut up. Focus.

I duck under the bar, feeling its knurled surface settle across my traps. Unrack the weight. Another deep breath filling my chest. Brace my core.

First rep. Down slow, controlled. Quads burning, hamstrings stretching. Hit depth, drive through my heels. Up explosive, powered by breath.

Sophie’s face when she saw me at her dorm that night, all flushed and beautiful...

Fuck.

The bar wobbles slightly.

Amateur mistake.

Reset. Another breath.

Second rep. Down. Up. This is meditation in motion. Each rep a prayer to the hockey gods. Each breath a? —

The way she bit her lip when I kissed her...

The weight suddenly feels twice as heavy. My form slips, chest starting to cave.

Control. Find your center.

But my center is currently prepping for a Stanford interview, probably hating my guts thanks to those photos with Olivia.

Focus, dumbass. Before you hurt yourself.

I rack the bar with more force than necessary, chalk dust puffing up in protest. This isn’t working. Maybe I should switch to deadlifts. Or just bang my head against the wall for an hour. Might be more productive.

The door slams open like a gunshot.

Coach Novak fills the doorway like an angry storm front. Even at sixty, he’s built like the defenseman he used to be—a wall of solid muscle and barely contained rage. His silver hair is shower-wet. He must have rushed here. A vein pulses in his temple as he stalks toward me, an envelope crushed in his white-knuckled grip.

“I knew,” he spits, each word dripping venom, “letting you anywhere near my daughter was a mistake.”

The weights suddenly feel like child’s play compared to the tension crackling through the room. I wipe my palms on my shorts, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

“Coach—”

He hurls the envelope at my chest. Photos spill out, fluttering to the rubber mat like dead leaves.

Oh fuck.

There we are, Sophie and me, crystal clear in glorious high-res. Leaving the B&B, hand in hand. Another of us kissing outside her dorm. More of her coming and going from my apartment building, timestamps telling their own damning story .

“PR stunt?” Coach’s laugh could strip paint. “That’s what you called it, right? Just for show?” He kicks one of the photos, sending it spinning across the floor. “Looks pretty fucking real to me.”

My chest constricts at the images. Sophie’s smile. The way she fit against me. The trust in her eyes that I’m currently betraying.

“Tell me something, O’Connor.” Coach steps closer, close enough I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Was this your plan all along? Seduce my daughter while playing the field with pop stars? Add another notch to your bedpost?”

The accusation hits like a blindside check. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” His eyes could freeze hell over. “Then what was it like? Because from where I’m standing, you’re the same player you’ve always been. Just found yourself a new game.”

“Sophie’s not a game.” The words rip out before I can stop them.

“Sophie is my daughter !” His roar bounces off the walls. “My baby girl ! And the thought of your sleazy hands anywhere near her makes me want to?—”

He breaks off, fists clenching like he’s imagining them around my throat.

I should keep my mouth shut. Should let him think what he wants. It’s safer for everyone if he believes I’m exactly the dirtbag he thinks I am.

But the words spill out before I can stop myself.

“I love her.”

My declaration hangs in the air between us, raw and real and completely fucking stupid to say out loud.

Coach’s laugh is pure ice. “Love? You wouldn’t know love if it cross-checked you into the boards. I’ve seen how you ‘ love’ women, O’Connor. Seen the trail of broken hearts you leave behind. And now, my daughter.”

He jabs a finger into my chest. “Starting today, you’re skating third line minutes. Every practice, you’ll stay late. Extra sprints, extra drills. I’m going to work you so hard you’ll wish I’d just cut you.”

I say nothing. What is there to say?

“And I’m talking to management about trade options. Maybe the Seattle expansion team needs a hotshot captain with commitment issues.”

“Coach, the playoffs?—”

“Oh, you’ll play. Can’t bench the Defenders star in the playoffs, can I?” His smile is all teeth. “But every minute you’re on my ice, you’ll earn it in blood and sweat. And if you so much as breathe in Sophie’s direction again,” He steps closer, voice dropping to a growl, “I’ll bury you so deep in the minors they’ll need a search party to find you.”

I should agree. Should nod and take the punishment. It’s what I need to do anyway, to keep her safe from Volkov.

Instead, I hear myself say, “That’s not your choice to make.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“The hell it isn’t!”

Coach’s fist comes out of nowhere. I could block it. Should block it. But some part of me thinks I deserve the hit.

Pain explodes across my jaw. I stagger back, tasting blood.

“Coach!”

Finn’s voice cuts through the red haze. He and Dmitri must have just arrived for early practice. They rush in, Finn grabbing Coach while Dmitri steps between us.

“ Blyad ,” Dmitri mutters. “What is happening here? ”

Coach shrugs off Finn’s grip, straightening his jacket. His voice is pure steel. “Practice starts in twenty minutes. Full gear, O’Connor. And clear your schedule, you’ll be running sprints until dinner.”

“Coach,” Finn tries, “playoffs are?—”

“The team needs a captain they can trust.” Novak’s eyes never leave mine. “Until then, we’ll see what kind of man O’Connor really is.” His smile is razor sharp. “Hope you’ve got good stamina, son .” He drawls the word menacingly. “You’re going to need it.”

His threats drive home how thoroughly I’ve fucked this up. Failed Sophie. Failed Coach. Failed everyone.

But at least she’ll be safe.

That’s what I tell myself as I watch him storm out, photos scattered at my feet like broken promises.

That’s what I repeat as Finn and Dmitri exchange worried looks.

Finn lets out a low whistle, bending to pick up one of the scattered photos. “Well, this is a shit show.”

“Teammates told you so,” Dmitri says, examining my split lip. “Many times. ‘Stay away from coach’s daughter,’ they said. ‘Man will kill you,’ they said.”

I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thanks for the recap, Dima.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Finn cuts in, but he’s fighting a grin. “Though I gotta say, for a guy who’s made a career out of avoiding commitment, you sure picked a complicated way to fall in love.”

“That obvious, huh?” I probe my jaw carefully. Nothing broken, at least.

“Bro, you’ve got it bad.” He smirks. “And look where it got you.”

“Speaking of which,” Finn squats down to gather more photos, “these are some quality surveillance shots. Like, professional grade. Who made these?” He straightens up, photos in hand. “Whatever’s going on, you know we’ve got your back. Even if you are a dumbass who couldn’t keep it in his pants around the one girl guaranteed to get you murdered.”

“Such supportive teammates,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

“Hey, we tried to warn you.” Finn shrugs. “Remember that time Caleb just looked at Sophie too long during family skate and Coach made him do wall-sits until he cried?”

“A full hour,” Dmitri nods solemnly. “Poor man couldn’t walk for days.”

“And yet here you are,” Finn continues, clapping me on the shoulder, “not just looking, but” he waves one of the more intimate photos, “definitely not wall-sitting.”

I snatch it from his hand. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Little bit,” Finn admits. “Though not as much as I’ll enjoy watching Coach run your ass into the ground at practice.”

“We should start a betting pool,” Dmitri suggests. “How many suicides before the captain pukes?”

“My money’s on twelve,” Finn grins.

“You’re both fired,” I tell them, but I’m fighting a smile despite my split lip. Trust these idiots to find humor in my impending death.

Dmitri squeezes my shoulder. “We should get ready for practice. Coach will be extra mad if we are late.”

“Yeah,” I look around at the scattered photos, evidence of everything I’m about to lose. “Wouldn’t want to make him mad now, would we.”

“Too late for that, my friend.” Finn starts toward the door. “Way, way too late.”