Chapter Fifteen
TOMMY
“No way! Did you see that hit?!” My friend Jackson vibrated with excitement on the couch next to me.
We were watching the game between the Philadelphia Bolts and the New York Blades, and Alex Schneider had just Kronwalled the Bolts forward, Kyle James, for the second time in the same period.
Leaping from the couch, Jackson pointed toward the TV as James lay crumpled in a heap on the ice. “Do you think Schneider killed him?!”
Right at that moment, the Bolts captain dropped his gloves, making a beeline for Schneider.
It was a bad idea on the captain’s behalf. No one could overpower Alex Schneider—whether it was an on ice hit or a full-on tilt, otherwise known as a straight hockey fight.
The Bolts captain lasted all of thirty seconds before he hit the ice himself after Schneider landed an uppercut to the underside of his jaw.
I leaned forward on my elbows as Jackson continued to cheer at the TV.
Meanwhile, all I could think was how awesome the Blades enforcer was.
What it must feel like to be that feared, that powerful.
To be the one no one wanted to mess with in the league.
One of the refs finally pulled Schneider off his latest victim, and Jackson came back to sit alongside me on the couch.
I could already predict what he was going to say. The thought was written all over my friend’s face.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second as we both watched Alex skate toward the penalty box. Something that was a part of his game routine.
“Are you sure that you aren’t related to him?” Jackson nodded toward Schneider, and I watched as he threw his stick against the plexiglass in anger, multiple Philly fans jeering him while he continued to wind them up.
Jackson wasn’t the only one on our peewee team who had talked about my likeness to the Blades defenseman. The older I got, the more obvious it was. We shared the same everything physically. Hell, I even skated the same way as him.
I pressed my lips into a thin line, remembering everything Mom had told me about my father and how he’d died in Afghanistan. I knew the chances of Alex Schneider being my dad were crazy low, but a part of me hoped the living legend was my biological father.
No chance. Shit like that only happens in the movies.
“I told you,” I replied to Jackson, “my dad died years ago.”
“Jackson, you have got to stop making up ridiculous stories like that.” Jackson’s mom walked into the living room with a couple of sandwiches and Cokes and set them down on the coffee table in front of us.
She propped her hands on her hips and gave me an empathetic smile that I hated. They had way more money than Mom, and their house was bigger and in a nicer part of town. It was like she only allowed her son to be my friend because she pitied me or some shit like that.
My best friend sat back on the couch, crossing his arms over his chest in frustration. “I’m not the only one saying it, Mom. Everyone at school and on the team can see the similarities.”
She turned to look at the TV and then back at me. “And I’m certain that if there was even the slightest ounce of truth in what you’re saying, then Tommy’s mom would’ve let her son know. There are many people on this earth who look alike without sharing a shred of DNA.”
With that, she turned and left the room.
Jackson reached forward and picked up his plate, immediately tucking into his sandwich.
I didn’t feel hungry, but I also didn’t want to go home and be around Mom’s latest boyfriend. He was an asshole, and I hated him.
I snatched up the can of Coke and opened it, taking a large pull before setting it back down.
“I think you should ask him yourself,” Jackson said quietly. “Track him down and where he lives and go ask him if he knows who you are.”
A burst of my laughter filled the room. It was the craziest idea I’d ever heard. “Are you for real?”
He nodded his head. “Deadly.”
I pointed to the center of my chest. “I’m twelve years old. How the hell am I supposed to get on a flight to New York?”
Jackson winced. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“And how would I find out his address?” I continued. “Celebrities like that don’t give away where they live.”
Jackson looked more confident with his response as he said, “That part would be easy. Alex Schneider loves the media.” Dipping into the pocket of his jeans, he opened up the defenseman’s social media profile, one I’d looked at a ton.
He scrolled down a couple of times, stopping when he found a picture of him standing outside a large complex with two supermodels hanging off him.
“A hundred dollars says that’s where he lives.
Everyone knows that’s NHL player territory. ”
I could see the logic in what Jackson was saying, but I still had my doubts as he locked his cell and slid it back into his pocket.
“Let’s just watch the game,” I suggested, feeling frustrated that I’d probably never find out the truth.
I had to believe what my mom had said. I just found it strange that despite her telling me it was a onetime thing with my biological dad, she didn’t have a single photo of him to show me.
Jackson turned back to the game as the Philly powerplay wrapped up and Schneider rejoined the ice.
It must’ve been five minutes before either of us spoke again, even though our thoughts were louder than the noise in the hockey arena.
“You’ll never stop wondering—you know that, don’t you?” Jackson broke the silence.
The shrug I gave him was indifferent. I was trying not to let it show that this whole conversation had bothered me.
“Whatever,” I breathed out, grabbing my can of Coke and taking another large gulp. “If he is my dad, then he clearly doesn’t give a damn about finding me, so why should I?”
The memory of that afternoon with my former best friend, Jackson, had never been so vivid as it played out in my dream.
Lying in bed for way longer than usual—since at this time in the morning, I’d normally be in my home gym—I couldn’t help but wonder where Jackson was now.
I heard he had taken a job as a PE teacher since he had always been sports crazy.
He was a good friend that I had until I turned eighteen and left for college, and after that, we lost touch.
I grew apart from a lot of people back in my hometown in Minneapolis. No one else from my team was drafted into the league, and all my teammates either quit hockey and eventually settled down with families or fell off the face of the earth entirely.
Rolling my lips together, I internally smirk at thoughts of where my dad is today. Shortly after I confronted him, he went totally dark himself. I don’t know how much of that was to do with me, and honestly, I wish I could say I didn’t care.
They say that losing a parent is the worst thing that can happen to a kid, and I don’t doubt it is.
Losing a parent when they’re still walking this earth though?
Now, that’s a whole new level of pain. The fact that they know their own flesh and blood is out there but don’t care enough to make an effort cuts like a blunt knife, no matter which way you try and spin the reality of their rejection.
Or how you try and justify that their absence is for the best.
I don’t buy into that kind of bullshit—the school of thought that dictates that you’re better off without toxicity in your life, no matter who they are to you.
The only way a person is better off is when they get the chance to avenge the wrongdoing.
I saw my dad for who he really was that day—a heartless prick who didn’t care about anyone but himself.
Yet it was me who still got rejected. It was me who got the apartment door slammed in my face when he got bored of our conversation and kicked me out onto the Brooklyn streets.
Truthfully, I shouldn’t care where he is right now or what gutter he’s probably lying in.
But I do. Because all I want is another thirty minutes in his company.
A half hour where the roles are reversed and he’s the one sitting on the end of my couch, in my fancy fucking apartment, listening to me lecture and castigate, making him feel like the worthless piece of shit he really is.
Voicing the thoughts I should’ve said when I was seventeen would make me feel a whole lot better. Having the chance to reject his love would purge our poisonous relationship from my veins forever.
When my phone receives a text, I reach over and pick it up, half expecting it to be from Mom. Her attempts to contact me usually increase around my birthday, and as I turn twenty-four today, she’ll no doubt send me the usual blanket message.
Hellion
My car smells of wet dog this morning, and given that I don’t have a pet, I can only conclude it’s the stench you left behind the other day.
This is way better than a generic birthday message.
Me
How do you have my number, Jenna?
Hellion
It was detailed on the order receipt for my leggings.
Satisfaction curls inside me. She wants me again.
Me
That’s stalkerish behavior.
Hellion
So, I’ll assume you went ahead and deleted my number, like I’d asked you to?
Me
Of course not. I hate it when girls play hard to get. Especially when they don’t mean it. You wanted me to keep your number, and you know it.
I can see it now: you lying in bed each night, holding your phone as you will it to ring with a booty call from yours truly.
As I roll out of bed and head toward my en suite, I chuckle at my last text, knowing it will rile the shit out of her.
Hellion
The only thing I’m holding is my nose when I climb into my car. I need you to pay for a full detail. The smell isn’t fading.
Me
The car is worth less than the cost of a full detail. How about I buy you a new one?
Hellion
I would rather never drive again.
Me
Tell me, have you ever expressed gratitude for anything in your life, or are you a bitch around the clock?
Hellion
I’m grateful to people who are worth my thanks.
Me
How was the curry?
Hellion
Fucking terrible. I gagged on the first mouthful.
Standing fully naked in front of my bathroom mirror, I open the Camera app and take a quick shot of me posing.
Me
*picture attached* It won’t be long before you’re gagging on something else.
Hellion
Never again. Ever.
Me
I somehow doubt that. You also said you’d never speak to me again, but here you are, texting me.
Hellion
Because my car stinks!
Me
That’s bullshit, and you know it.
If you want to come by later, we can fuck after I get back from practice.
Hellion
Find some other victim to torment and lose my number.
Me
I’ll see you around 7 p.m. then.
Hellion
Fuck off.