BENNETT
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She left me on fucking read.
For nearly two days.
Over twenty-four hours of silence following the kissy face I sent.
The. Fucking. Kissy. Face.
For fuck’s sake, why the hell did I send her a kissy face?
I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever been left on read by a girl, specifically one that I can’t stop thinking about, or maybe it’s just the first time I cared enough to even notice, which does surprise me.
But unsurprisingly, Merritt continues to humble the absolute shit out of me.
I almost double texted.
Almost.
I paced around my room like a fucking teenager, overthinking the stupid kissy face and message for an hour, and by that point, it was too late to unsend it. So she got a kissy face, and I got nothing back.
I truly have no idea what’s happening to me.
Then when she finally texted me back this morning, there was no mention of the text from Saturday night at all. She just asked if I could meet her at the pottery studio to work on our Creative Writing assignment after she’s done with the class she teaches there.
Not…
I can’t wait to kiss you again, Bennett.
Or…
Wow, Bennett, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.
I mean, realistically, she wasn’t going to actually say any of that anyway, but they’re called dreams for a reason.
And a man can dream.
I just would like to know I’m not the only one who’s losing their mind over a kiss.
A kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen. Because I took a vow to myself to get it right this time and to not let meaningless shit keep happening to fill a void.
But Merritt feels like anything but something to pass the time.
Plus, I’m telling myself that kissing is the exception. Only kissing.
Because I need that kiss to keep playing the way I need to. To win.
It’s the exception. The only exception.
Yes, I am actually trying to convince myself as much as it sounds like I am.
Fuck.
My phone vibrates in my hand, pulling me out of my head, and when I look down, Dad’s name is on the screen. I exhale as my thumb hovers hesitantly over the screen.
I need to answer.
I should answer. It’s been days, shit, maybe even over a week since I last spoke to either of my parents, but the last few times have weighed on me for days after.
And then I feel guilty for feeling that way and for dodging their calls.
I love my parents. Seriously, they’re the fucking best.
A bit over-the-top at times, but where do you think I learned it from?
They love me, and they check in constantly. My mom sends me care packages when I can’t make it home, and my dad calls me at least twice a week to catch up on what’s going on in my life.
But…
I hate that there’s a but.
To them, hockey isn’t something I’m going to make a career out of.
They’ve always been supportive of me, but they didn’t take my love for hockey seriously.
And when I didn’t get drafted, that really sealed their thoughts about it, it seemed.
That was about the point that they stopped asking about how hockey was going, when every single conversation turned into them asking about what my plan was when it didn’t work out.
A lecture about how graduation was closer than I thought, and I couldn’t put all my eggs in the same basket.
How I needed to prepare for the future. How I needed to be realistic.
It hurts, feeling like my own parents have given up on my dream. How instead of cheering me on, it feels like they’re shutting me down because to them, it’s no longer attainable.
I don’t know how else to tell them that hockey is my life and that I’m not giving up on something that I’ve spent my entire life working for, even if they think it’s too out of reach. Especially now that the draft is done.
It feels like when I do talk, it just circles back to the same thing.
So… I’ve been avoiding it.
I swipe and answer the call before I can pussy out, hitting the speaker button.
“Well, hell, my favorite son finally answered the damn phone.” My dad’s deep timbre echoes around the cab of my truck, and a smile flits to my lips.
I chuckle. “I’m your only son, Pops. Makes me the favorite by default.”
“Semantics. What’s been going on? Haven’t heard from you in a bit. Seems like you might be avoiding your old man.”
Guilt claws at my chest, and I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “Just been busy with class and hockey.” I don’t include the part about the fiery-mouthed, gorgeous girl who’s really been keeping me busy. Even when I’m not with her.
“I get it. You’re in college—these are the best years of your life, and your ma and I aren’t going to chase you down.”
A voice interrupts in the background. “He’s lying. I will absolutely chase you down, Bennett Jude! I’m your mother!”
Dad’s laugh booms through the speaker. “Let me clarify, I’m not going to chase you down. Clearly, your mother is a different story.”
We spend the next few minutes talking about my classes, and the conversation veers to where it always does. What I’m thinking for next year. What’s going to happen after graduation.
It’s hard to believe I’ll be completely done with school after this, but hopefully, the next step is signing with a team.
“Sorry about missing your game last week. You know how hard it is for us to get there with work and trying to find flights for your mom and I. I wish New Hampshire and Louisiana were a hell of a lot closer, son.”
I clear my throat when he trails off. “Yeah, I know, Dad. No big deal.” The lie tumbles easily past my lips, the same one as always.
I hate that I’m lying to him.
Because it is a big fucking deal to me that my parents never show up to games. That they’re no longer invested in me the way they once were, not taking my career in hockey seriously. No, that they don’t take me seriously.
No one ever does.
Especially not my parents when it comes to hockey. Just because I’m a go-with-the-flow guy who likes to joke and have a good time doesn’t mean that I’m not serious about my future. There’s always something happening with work, their schedules being tight, not being able to take time off.
And I get it, I really do.
He’s a children’s oncologist, for fuck’s sake. He spends the majority of his life in the hospital working shifts taking care of sick kids.
I can’t be mad at him for not being able to jump at the drop of the hat.
I just wish that when I talked about the most important thing in my life… that they’d listen. Both of them.
Even if they don’t agree, I just want them to believe that I can do it. Believe in me.
“Well, I’ll let you go, son. I won’t keep you. Just missed you. Come home soon?”
“Yeah, Pops, I will. As soon as I can. My schedule’s kind of crazy right now.”
There’s a brief pause, and I can practically see him sitting in his old brown recliner in the den that he refuses to part with, even though Ma has threatened him a thousand times, thumbing through the newspaper, wearing those magnified reading glasses that make his eyes look huge.
Mom’s probably somewhere nearby, making fun of him for needing to wear them in his old age.
I miss them both, and I miss home. I just wish things could be different.
“Love you, kid,” he says, and just like I guessed, I can hear the sound of paper rustling faintly through the phone.
“Love you too, Pops.”
“Love you, honey!” I hear Ma call in the background, and I laugh.
“Love you too.”
I’m about to press the End button when Dad calls my name, halting me.
“Yeah?”
“I forgot to tell you, but I spoke with Ned at the investment firm, and he said that once you graduate, he’s got a spot for you at the office. He said he’s ready when you are, and he’d love to have you on the team.”
There it is.
It never fails.
It’s always the same conversation with the same outcome.
“Dad…” I breathe, reaching up to rub the ache that’s forming behind my eyes.
“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “Look, I know you’re trying to play hockey after graduation, Bennett.
I just… I want you to keep your options open.
You need to have something to fall back on in case it doesn’t pan out the way you hoped it would.
Son, you know the chances of becoming a professional hockey player is one percent.
You know the odds. You know the level of work it requires to step over the threshold to make this a career, the amount of hard work and commitment.
The draft is done. Is it… Is it not time to take a hard look at what comes next since that might not be hockey? ”
Yeah, I do, and why can’t you believe that I could be part of that one percent, however low the odds are, Pops?
Why is it so hard to believe in me?
I want to say all of it, but I don’t. I never do. Not anymore.
It’s not worth arguing with him anymore or trying to get him to see what I’ve worked my entire life for if he hasn’t already. He never will.
When I don’t respond, he adds, “Finance is safe, kid. People will always need someone to handle their money, and you’ve got a job waiting for you. All you have to do is take it.”
I’m trying to think of what to say, what I could possibly fucking say that would get him to understand, but it’s the same song and dance.
Every single time.
Thankfully, I don’t have to because the front door to the pottery studio opens, and people begin to spill out, signaling that the class is over and it’s time for me to go in for my study date with Merritt.
Saved by… the wheel.
Isn’t that what they use in pottery?
“I’ve got to run, Pops. I’m late for a study session. Call you later.”
I tap End on the screen before he can respond and blow out a shaky, uneven breath that I’d been holding in my lungs and causing them to burn.
This is why I don’t answer.
I take a few more deep pulls of air to try and get my head under control before climbing out of my truck and opening the door to the studio.