Chapter 1
one
CADEN
“If you would just think of someone other than yourself for one goddamn minute and listen to me.” The volume of my dad’s voice rose with each word.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dared to do something as forbidden as consider myself in my father’s house.
“Are you listening to me, you little shit?” My dad’s face was flushed with anger, his eyes darkening at the thought that he didn’t have my full attention.
That was the joke of the century, since I hadn’t made a decision for myself in years. Everything was about what he wanted for me. More like what I could get for him.
“Yes, sir. I’m listening.”
Just tell me what you want so I can get away from you already.
“Fuck. It’s like talking to a bag of rocks. How many times do I need to tell you? Acknowledge me when I speak to you, Caden. Don’t sit there with that fucking I’m-too-good-for-everyone look on your face.” The frustration on his face had morphed into a derisive kind of sneer.
Just play the game. Tell him what he wants to hear.
“I trust your opinion, Dad. If you think I should sign with the Hammerheads, I will.”
There. I’d agreed to leave my hometown of Sudbury and head south to play for an AHL team just outside of Toronto.
Unlike every other kid I’d played hockey with, I’d never dreamed of playing in the NHL. Even my best friend, Kait, had been crushed to find out there wasn’t an all-female professional hockey league for her to play in when we were growing up.
But I’d been drafted by the Toronto Titans while playing my second year in the OHL in North Bay. And now, here I was, moments from signing a contract with the Lakeside Hammerheads.
For Dad, it was proof that everything he’d put me through over the years was warranted. He was a success because he created a pro hockey player, one step removed from the NHL.
For me, it siphoned off the small pockets of freedom I’d carved out around the endless schedule of conditioning, practices, and games.
The last two years had been bearable. I hadn’t minded the short distance because I could make it home to visit Mom and could sometimes drive her to her frequent doctor and therapy appointments.
Despite being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis only a few years ago, her physical pain and limitations progressed more quickly than any of the doctors had predicted.
It hadn’t escaped my notice that her symptoms had gotten worse just after I left home. The stress of living with my dad was enough to make me sick with nerves. For my mom who needed—and deserved—all the support she could get, it had to be worse even if we never spoke about it.
“Are you listening to me?” he barked.
He’d caught me out. Despite the sharp edge that always accompanied his tone, I’d tuned out for the last I-didn’t-know-how-many minutes.
“Yes, sir.”
It was a bold lie, one he could have easily called me on. I chanced a look into his eyes. When he was like this, I rarely risked direct eye contact, usually opting to stare at my hands where they were clenched in my lap or on the table in front of me.
“Dad, don’t you think it might be worth it for me to be a little closer to home? I know you’re so busy with work, and I don’t mind taking Mom to her appointments, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
I looked toward the hallway in our small two-bedroom house that led to my parents’ room. I hoped Mom had her earplugs in while she rested. She didn’t need to hear any of this.
The sudden, powerful backhand across my cheek was forceful enough to cause my body to knock my chair a couple of inches across the floor.
The pain didn’t immediately register. I blinked dazedly for a second before I registered the hit. A hot, wet stream of blood trickled down to pool in the corner of my eye before it dripped down my cheek.
Despite the sting just above my eyebrow, I did nothing to wipe away the evidence of his violence.
He’d cut me with that fucking ring on his finger. He wore that damn high school hockey championship ring on the hand he’d just used on my face, its edges still rough enough to cause damage to my skin.
Probably because it was a piece of shit knock-off instead of the “solid gold” like my dad always claimed.
He clung to his glory days like they were the lifeblood that sustained him in this world.
“Shut the fuck up, Caden. And don’t tell me how to run my house. I don’t need my kid telling me what my wife needs or how to take care of her.” The skin of his face and neck was flushed from exertion.
It had been years since he’d struck me. I could count the number of times he’d hit me on one hand. Dad was a man who preferred to vent his anger with the most cutting, vicious words you could imagine.
Conveniently for him, cruel words left no outward marks that could be noticed by well-meaning coaches and teachers.
Anything that did surface over the years was quickly shut down in favor of being able to claim that they once coached or taught “our very own hockey superstar.”
Even brushing up against the sidelines of money and fame was enough to turn most people’s heads away from the truth.
On the inside, I was nothing but scar tissue at this point, and I never allowed myself to acknowledge the pain in his presence.
Despite my height and slight weight advantage, I couldn’t hit him back. I didn’t possess the cruelty that riddled his mind and heart.
The only thing I could do was deny him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me—to cut short the taunts that would follow if he saw anything but stoic acceptance on my face.
I’d taken so many verbal beatings over the years that the only feelings I had left inside me were worry for my mom and a sense of failure at not doing enough to get her away from him.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Where do I sign?” I brought the hem of my shirt up to my forehead to staunch the steady drips of blood that had made a small puddle on my fabric-covered shoulder.
Wouldn’t want to get blood on the contract I didn’t even want to sign.
The smug satisfaction on Dad’s face—from bending me to his will once again—lasted long enough for him to shove a pile of papers across the clean, but worn, table where I sat.
A mix of disgust and distaste was quickly replaced by the pleasure of getting his way as he watched me carefully sign next to every little yellow sticky note, without seeing a word on any of the pages.
Getting drafted meant an even more demanding level of play to earn the salary the Hammerheads were offering me.
“Why do you have to make everything so goddamn hard, Caden? Jesus Christ, if I wasn’t on your ass all the time, you’d flush all your god-given talent down the drain without even realizing it.”
He was right, but not for the reasons he thought. I had two letters of acceptance for computer engineering programs from Ontario universities sitting in a purposefully mislabeled folder in my inbox.
Even though, at twenty-one, the deadline for acceptance had passed years ago, I used the possibility of a different life to get me through the now.
The only person who knew I’d applied and gotten in was Kait. She’d even gone so far as to pay my application fees to keep my dad from finding out.
The spark of hope I’d had at getting my degree while I played in the Ontario Hockey League this season flickered out.
Now I had less control over my life than ever.