Chapter Seven
Monroe
The apartment is too quiet. I’d been anxious all day, and it didn’t go away as the hours went on, despite all of my best efforts.
Now it’s past ten and I am trying desperately to sleep. I try to read a book. I even attempt to mindlessly scroll on my phone—but articles about last night’s game keep popping up, the fight in the locker room, the speculation about Rhodes and his temper.
Looks like his agent wasn’t able to keep it completely under wraps.
My name isn’t mentioned, but news outlets are already running wild with the story.
Someone leaked a video from the locker room—so that will be fun for my dad and the Wolverine’s PR team to untangle—and it’s all over the place.
The headlines are nasty. I wince internally.
It feels like my fault he’s in hot water.
I flip my phone over, face-down on the couch, and stare at the ceiling.
Rhodes broke Jax’s nose. Defending me.
That shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
I groan and throw an arm over my eyes, repeating words I assume a therapist would tell me if I had one. This is not my problem. I am not responsible for how other people react to or for me. I didn’t ask Rhodes to go all caveman in the locker room.
But even as I tell myself that, it doesn’t feel true.
A knock at the door makes me jolt.
It’s late, too late for visitors—not that I get visitors at normal hours, either. I debate ignoring it, but then the knock comes again, firm and expectant.
I drag myself up from the couch, padding to the door. I check the peephole, because as much as my life is a mess, I’d prefer not to add murdered in my own apartment to the list.
My dad stands on the other side, still in his Wolverines jacket, exhaustion written all over his face. I exhale through my nose, unlocking the top lock and opening the door wide.
“I figured you’d be awake.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation because he’s my dad, and we don’t stand on ceremony.
“What gave it away?” I mutter, shutting the door behind him.
“Well, it’s not like you have a boyfriend to disturb,” he remarks.
Okay, rude. “You don’t know that,” I scoff.
He levels me with a look.
“Okay, fine,” I grumble.
“Guys you bring home from a party don’t count, Monroe.”
Oh, for the love. Enough with the hits already, Dad.
“First of all,” I snap, “I don’t bring those guys home. That gives them the impression I want to actually talk to them the next day.”
He snorts, shaking his head, but his expression sobers.
I miss talking with him. We’ve always had an open line of communication.
He never shied away from discussing all the things a teenage girl needed to know.
Where my mom avoided any topic that wasn’t proper, my dad was frank and to the point.
There is a pang in my chest at the closeness we’ve lost over the last year. Entirely my fault, too.
“Dad, why are you here?” I don’t mind seeing him, but it’s late.
“My hockey captain broke the nose of one of his teammates last night,” he says, moving the throw pillows aside and sinking onto my couch.
I hesitate. “Ah,” I say, shifting uncomfortably. “That sucks?” It comes out as a question.
“Yeah, Monroe. It sucks.” He exhales a breath, rubbing his jaw. “My captain put another player in the hospital. The GM is pissed.”
Guilt stirs low in my stomach, but I shove it down, unsure how to respond. “Okay.”
“And the story I’m hearing,” he continues, voice laced with warning, “is that you’re the reason Rhodes broke Jax’s nose. Any comments on that, daughter of mine?”
Oh. Shit.
I keep my face neutral, my voice even. “Nope. I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t even know Rhodes.” I shrug as naturally as I can.
It’s not convincing. My dad watches me closely, trying to sniff out the truth. I look anywhere other than his face.
“Are you,” I tiptoe around the question, “going to keep Rhodes on the bench?”
“For defending you against an asshole?” His gaze flicks up to mine. “No. I’m not benching Rhodes. He shouldn’t have resorted to physical violence, but I can’t bring myself to punish him. I’d probably have done the same.”
I swallow. The air in the room feels tight.
“Are you going to punish Jax?”
“He and I had a very frank conversation.” My dad’s voice is sharp, leaving no room for argument. “Either he shapes up or he won’t be part of this team for long.”
I nod, processing.
“What a lineup this season, huh?” I murmur.
My dad lets out a short, dry chuckle. “That’s one way to put it.”
Silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s…nice, in a way.
Then my dad exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m sorry, Monroe.”
I look over at him, confused. “For what?”
He hesitates for a moment, then continues.
“For putting you in the locker room. I’m sorry you had to hear the guys talk about you like that.
Trust me when I say, I’ve fully laid down the law.
And so has Rhodes, apparently.” His lips press into a thin line.
“You aren’t to be messed with. And if it happens again, the consequences will be severe. ”
I swallow.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I want you to find your footing again, but not at the cost of feeling like you don’t belong here.”
That hits somewhere deep in my chest. I open my mouth, then close it. I don’t even know what to say to that, so I just settle on, “Thanks, Dad.”
Quiet falls over my living room again. I think we both get lonely and just don’t know how to tell the other one.
After a beat, I glance at him. “Want to watch a movie?”
“At ten-thirty p.m.?”
“Yeah.”
He nods. “Yeah, okay.”
So we do. And it’s really nice.
* * * *
My shoes tap lightly on the floor of the hall as I head to Elsie’s office. I assume I’m being given either more tasks or a new set of tasks altogether. I haven’t missed or been late to a shift in the full week I’ve been working.
I also haven’t had a drop of alcohol since my dad’s ultimatum. No parties. No drugs. And my body hates me for it. I’m currently sitting firmly in the “why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?” and “is cold turkey really effective?” phase of sobriety.
My sleep right now is a joke—I’m exhausted but wired at the same time.
Some nights I find myself staring at the ceiling until dawn, unable to keep my mind from racing.
Other nights, the nightmares come instead.
Both are terrible. My hands shake all the time, and I am sweating constantly. The worst part is the headaches.
I’ve traded ruining my liver with alcohol to ruining it with ibuprofen.
I wonder how long I’ll have to work here before I’ve proven myself trustworthy again in my dad’s eyes. Probably at least through graduation. I’m going to have to prove that I can follow through with at least one commitment.
Dad is worried about me backsliding, I can feel it in the way he carefully watches me, checks in regularly.
He’s careful but not overbearing, like he’s scared I’ll bolt.
Which, to be fair, is something I definitely would have done a few weeks ago.
But what he doesn’t know is how little desire I truly have to go back to the place I was in before.
Once you reach rock bottom, the only way out is up.
Whether I was happy about it or not, this was my way up.
Didn’t mean I had to be all sunshine and rainbows about it, though.
I knock on Elsie’s door, a soft tap tap tap.
“Come on in, Mo,” Elsie calls. My heart constricts. Only two people in the world were allowed to call me that, Dad and Elsie. No one else.
I gently twist the doorknob and let myself into the office. It was simple, like Elsie. Bare tan walls, filing cabinets lined the back wall, a wooden desk and a black rolling chair. The computer monitor casts a blue light on Elsie’s face, and the screen reflects in her reading glasses.
“Have a seat.” She looks down the bridge of her nose at me and gestures to the chair in front of her. “How are you doing?” Her eyes narrow at me as I start to answer. “Don’t bullshit me, either.”
I huff out a laugh. Caught before I could even begin.
“Uhm.” I flex my fingers in my lap. “I’ve been better. But I’ve also been worse,” I reply honestly. She nods her head at me tersely, like I passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
“Good.” She pulls out a flyer from a desk drawer and slides it across the desk at me. “’Cause you’re gonna be pissed here in a minute.” I look down at the paper.
AbrAMS PROFESSIONAL SKATING CLUB PRESENTS: YOUTH SKATING CLINIC
4-Week Skating Clinic
Where: Abrams Skating Center, Main Rink
Ages: 5–11 (grouped by skill level)
Registration: outhskateclinic/
Lace up your skates and hit the ice!
What to Expect:
Fundamental skating techniques (balance, edges, turns)
Jumps, spins & artistry development
Small group instruction & individual feedback
Fun on-ice games & confidence-building drills
A final performance showcase for family & friends!
Ready to skate? Spots are limited—register today!
For more details & sign-ups: Contact Elsie Patton in the front office.
I stare at the sheet. The rink did clinics like this a few times a year, some for figure skating, some for hockey, sometimes combined.
It just depended on the level of skaters.
Usually one of the Wolverines ran the hockey clinic, and one of the Nationals team girls ran figure skating.
I had run clinics like this myself half a dozen times. I actually really used to enjoy it.
“Why am I reading this, Elsie?” I shoot her a sharp look.
“You know why,” she says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.
“No.”
“I want you to run the clinic for me.” She is serious, all business.
“Find someone else,” I snap. “I haven’t been on the ice in over a year. Find. Someone. Else.” Each word is punctuated as I stand up, nearly knocking over my chair in the process.
“Sit down, Monroe.” Suddenly, I’m twelve years old again and I’m getting in trouble for stealing concession snacks to share with all my friends.