Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“It feels like a betrayal to who I was to say yes, but…yeah. I’m not relieved hockey is over. That’s…” I clear my throat. “I’m relieved that the war I’ve been in with myself and my body is finally over.”
Her patient gaze finds mine. “You won’t have to pretend you’re okay anymore.”
All I can do is nod.
“And what of that nice young woman you brought here? Coach Rivers.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “What of her?”
“Well, I assume you’re fucking.”
“Christ, Cleo. Language.”
“I’ll be seventy-three next month. Who am I being polite for, the Grim Reaper?”
I press the space between my eyes. “You are not old enough for that joke, woman.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Now that you’re off the team—”
“Long-term injured reserve—”
“Are you going to stop lying about her identity when you take her out?”
“I doubt she’ll want me to take her out at all. I was a dick to her when I was in the hospital and told her not to call me or come around.”
“I think people in the hospital are allowed to be dicks. Encouraged, even. It’s good for blood pressure regulation.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works, but thanks for the support.” Sadie’s shiny brown hair, blue eyes, and smooth skin fill my mind like a pretty daydream. “She’s been nothing but patient, texting to check on me. I haven’t responded.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what to say other than nothing’s changed here, I’m still pathetic, how ’bout you?”
“Pathetic?” She peers left and then right, as if searching for backup. “Are we to feel sorry for a handsome man in his early thirties with a loaded bank account and nothing but time on his hands?”
I open and close my mouth. “Well, I’m not in tip-top shape, as you can see.”
“Not at the moment. But when you stop getting thrown around by professionals three to four nights a week, you’ll probably bounce back faster.”
It’s hard to argue with that. “I guess. But I don’t know what I want to do with all this time on my hands. Nothing sounds right.”
“Why do you have to have it all figured out overnight? You could bum around for a few years. It’s not like you have to worry about money. At least not for a long while.”
“I can’t just do nothing, even though I have no idea what I want. All I know is when my dad retired, he went on to star in the most popular show in hockey. And one of the more popular shows in all of sports commentating.”
“What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
My gaze snaps to the television, but the familiar, smooth-as-butter voice is coming from behind me. The chair scrapes as I turn around.
“Dad?” I rise to my feet. “What are you doing here?”
“You said your family was at your house,” Cleo inserts, “so I shot the bastard a text to see why he didn’t bother to join you to come see me.”
“And I was already almost here.” Dad lifts his phone. “We have location sharing, remember?”
I can’t help but laugh. “How could I forget?”
“I just landed an hour ago. Mom said you were out moping somewhere. I followed you here.”
Thanks a lot, Mom.
He takes me in an easy side hug and holds me there, careful not to disturb my arm.
I’m walloped by a powerful, unexpected mix of emotion.
All I’ve felt lately is old and washed up, but in the crook of his arm, I’m briefly a kid again.
I’m not competing with his legacy, or fighting to impress him, or hoping he didn’t see me fuck up, but simply…
cared for by my dad. “Thanks for coming. You didn’t have—”
“Yes I did, Leo. And when you’re a father, you’ll understand exactly why I’m angry with myself for not coming sooner.”
Cleo whips up his signature gin and tonic with a twist of lemon before Dad can order it, a reminder that they do indeed go way back. “You’re exactly right, Hugo. It’s about time you showed up for your son.”
“I’ve been overseas, if you can believe it,” he tells her. “Speaking to investors about some things I’ve got in the works. It’s all very under wraps right now, but if it goes well, it could be huge.”
It’s amusing how easily he slips into his Hockey Talk persona: energetic and peacock-y.
He reveals that some bigwig in Seoul wants to start a global hockey network and time its premiere to line up with the launch of a new hockey league over there. My dad is a critical piece of that puzzle. It’s all too big for my comprehension, but then, that’s Dad for you. Larger than life.
Cleo tents her hands. “Goodie goodie gumdrops, Hugo McLaren found a way to make more money!”
Dad’s television persona bursts like a bubble as he breaks into a warm, boisterous laugh. “I’ve missed you, Baxter. It’s good to see you again.”
“You, too. Make sure you bring the whole family up here before you head out. I’d like to see Eva again and hear more about this new endeavor. I mean that.”
He grins. “You got it.”
I managed to forget that this bar—my refuge—was a place my father loved first. It’s fitting.
“You had ten more days left on that trip,” I remind him.
He gives the top of my head an affectionate pat, the way he always did when I was young. “Not anymore, I don’t. I’m so sorry, son. I wanted to be here much sooner, but I knew you were in the best hands with your mother in the meantime.”
I ignore the burning behind my eyes. Surgery has made me soft. “You didn’t have to duck out on important business. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Oh yeah? Then why did I walk in to hear you whining that you have no idea what to do when you grow up?” His smile is pot-stirring personified. “Sounds like some kid angst to me. You may be worse than Milo.”
I cut him a look. “Something tells me you’re about to give me a lecture fit for an angsty teenager.”
“You bet your ass I am. How many times have I told you that what I do is for all of our benefit?”
I sigh. I’m pretty sure I know where this is going. “Many.”
“So why the hell would you worry about a job when you have an entire career waiting for you?”
I trace my thumb along the wood grain of the bar top. “You know me, Dad. Better than almost anyone. You really want to sit here and pretend like I have the personality for television? They love you. You’re hockey’s golden guy. And we are nothing alike.”
“That’s just it, Leo. You would be the perfect foil for me. The less alike we are, the better our banter will be. Plus, we examine the game from different lenses, bring different experiences to the table.”
I rub the space between my eyes.
“Honestly, Leo, I think they expect this of you.”
“Who’s they?”
“The fans!” He sweeps his hand in the air like he’s painting a picture. “Everyone knows you’re out. They’re waiting to see what you’ll do next. Now is the time to capitalize on what happened to you. You have to strike while the iron is hot—while people are still interested.”
My lips turn down. I try to sit with what he’s saying, really I do.
The problem is, no part of this appeals to me.
I won’t be making decisions about my future to appease the fans, many of whom I’ve grown to resent for how they’ve treated Sadie.
I know most hockey lovers are good, and only a loud minority make her life harder, but my knee-jerk reaction is to keep them all at arm’s length.
I certainly won’t be making a career out of bowing to their whims, or capitalizing on one of the most traumatic things that has ever happened to me—rivaled only by Mom and the twins’ accident.
Least appealing of all is the idea of spending my life performing. Because my dad does exactly that. He just happens to love it.
My arm twinges with pain. Weirdly it feels like a signal—like my body is reminding me that life is short and precious. It gives me the confidence to say what I need to say.
“I can’t do it, Dad. It’s not the job for me. Your faith that I could do it means the world, but…I’m not the guy for it.”
His brows crash together. “But you love hockey.”
I gently flatten my palm over my sling. “I know it might not make a lot of sense. Hockey gave me a wonderful life. I loved…” My words catch in a throat suddenly tight with emotion. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be this hard to talk about.
I take a deep breath and try again. “I’ve loved every second of it, even when it hurt.
But I think I need to let that chapter be just that: a chapter.
Hockey will always be in our family. It’ll always be important to me.
But if I’m going to continue loving it, I need it not to define my entire life.
I need to experience something else, just for me. ”
I swallow thickly, embarrassment flaming my cheeks. That was way too many fucking words spoken in a row for my liking.
All I can do is brace for his response.
Dad leans his elbows on the bar, watching me for a beat. “Then that’s what we’ll help you do.”
“That’s it?” I rest my cheek on my fist. “You’re not going to tell me I’m making a huge mistake and that I’ll wish I hadn’t squandered this chance when I’m irrelevant in a year? That you’re handing me the opportunity of a lifetime and I’m wasting it?”
“When you were little, you begged to play hockey. Do you remember that?” He sips his drink and sets it back on the bar.
“It was never something I forced on you. Your mother and I were careful not to, in fact. We knew it’d come with a lot of pressure and comparison.
But when you asked to try—presented me with my own skates like a puppy and begged me to take you to tryouts before you’d ever even shot a puck—I said the same thing to you that I say to the twins: if you’re going to do it, give it your all and leave nothing in the tank.
“Twenty years later and you’ve done exactly that.
You had a hell of a run, Leo. And it was all your choice.
Your effort. Your merit, no matter what people say.
Stats don’t lie. So now you’ll listen to that voice in your gut that’s telling you what to do next.
You don’t need my advice, or anyone else’s.
You’re your own man.” He tips his glass toward me. “And a hell of a good one.”