Chapter 9
Hendricks. Hendricks. Hendricks. Hendricks.
The lead is comfortable, but I’m not because I can’t keep my eyes from flicking to the stands.
Not because Laura’s here.
She’s not.
Nope. I gave her that book and hugged her on the porch three weeks ago, and somehow, she’s been able to act like none of it happened. She sat next to me in class, sat next to me in the library while we finished our first assignment, and she’s giving me nothing.
Absolutely nothing. Not even an accidental foot brush.
Fucking best actress I’ve ever seen since she’s able to act like her life didn’t chasmically change after that day.
Mine did.
Can't say I'm surprised, though. I might be falling fast and hard for her, but like anything good in this world, she's making me earn every inch.
No, the reason I keep glancing at the stands is the circus taking up an entire row near center ice.
My father.
Unannounced, but impossible to miss.
He brought two cameramen, a sound guy, and Jerry, the producer of Hendricks Unchecked, with him. Something I really wish Coach McKibbon would ban, but he said his hands are tied by the higher-ups who want to use this as publicity for the school.
Publicity for the school—that's what I am to them. To everyone. Just a way to see my dad. The greatest hockey player who has ever lived. The guy no one can hate.
But some days…
No.
I push that thought out of my head. I don't hate him. He's given me every opportunity and more. He's rooting against his alma mater and wearing my jersey because he's supporting me.
Hendricks. Hendricks. Hendricks.
It’s just fucking hard when the crowd is chanting his name. Not mine.
Coach McKibbon motions for me to get back on the ice, and as I push out of the door, Erik knocks into me.
“You good, Mr. Stanley Cup?” Erik mutters beside me, his eyes on the referee.
“I'm great.”
“You don't look it.” He leaves me with that before skating to his position.
I don't look it. Yeah, I fucking know.
I’ve been off my game since my dad showed up, which makes it a miracle we’re still in the lead.
The ref drops the puck, and I win the face-off, sending it back to Brooks, but my timing is off. Rome U's center nearly intercepts it.
“Shit,” I mutter, skating hard to recover position.
For the next eight minutes, I'm a half-second behind on every play. Not enough that Coach pulls me, but enough that I know. Erik, Alex, and Brooks know. Even Dash sees it from the other side of the ice. Hell, the whole damn team knows I'm not playing my best.
Buzz.
The final buzzer sounds, and somehow we win, 4-2. I should feel relieved that even during my worst, we managed to pull through. Instead, I feel like I’m deadweight. Imagine how well the team would've done without me there to ruin it for them.
“Great game, boys!” Coach McKibbon shouts as we file off the ice. “Hendricks, nice assist on that last goal.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The assist was luck more than skill—Erik did all the work, and I just happened to be in the right place.
In the locker room, the guys are celebrating, but I'm already stripping off my gear as fast as possible. If I can just get out of here before—
“And here he comes! My boy, Scotty Hendricks, number ninety-seven!”
Too late.
My father's voice booms through the locker room, and everyone goes quiet. He strides in with a cameraman right behind him, the bright light from the camera making me squint.
“Dad.” I force a smile, very aware of my teammates watching and being filmed.
Bet they all hate being filmed in the locker room, but we have no choice if we’re in the main section after the dean signed a waiver for us.
I knew it was coming. Jerry can’t contain himself, but that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. “Thanks for coming.”
He wraps me in a hug before messing my hair up. “You know I want to make it to as many games as possible.”
Yeah, I do. Games—practice—fucking team bonding. You want to be there for it all.
He pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, positioning us so we're both facing the camera. “Folks, what you just witnessed was pure Hendricks magic. That assist in the third period—textbook play. Just like I taught him.”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”
He keeps his arm around my shoulders, still playing to the camera. “You know I can see the same fire in you, son.”
“Dad—”
I really don’t want to be dealing with this shit right now.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm embarrassing you, aren't I?”
A few teammates let out a forced laugh just as Erik moves beside me. He smiles at the camera.
“Mr. Hendricks?” Erik steps forward, completely blocking me from the lights and the crew.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Erik Steele. We met when Scotty moved into the dorms.”
My father shakes his hand, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, yes. The nutcracker, right?”
Erik’s eyebrows rise, and he glances at me for a quick second. “Oh, Scotty. You’ve been talking about me? I’m honored.”
“He talks about you all the time.”
Erik drags me toward him, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Well, we are besties.”
When the cameraman tries to get me in the shot, Erik moves to block him again. Typical Erik. Always wanting the limelight. He can fucking have it. I don’t want it, and I never asked for it.
I roll my eyes, and they land on Alex, who raises an amused brow.
“Sure, we are,” I say sarcastically.
My dad’s face lights up. “Well, I’m glad Scotty has some good guys around him. You played phenomenally today, son. You should be proud.”
“Thank you, sir,” Erik says enthusiastically. “We’re lucky to have him on this team.”
Just as I slip out of Erik’s hold, he whips his head in my direction. His brows furrow as his eyes drift to the exit and then back to me.
“Scotty is one of the hardest working, most dedicated teammates I’ve ever had. What with training and the show. You know, if he ever needs a break—” He gives the last word more emphasis, his eyes widening and still trained on me.
His head tilts slightly to the exit again.
That’s when it hits me.
He’s trying to help me out.
How did he know?
“—I’ve got a great idea…” Erik pushes me out of the way entirely and wraps his arm around my father’s shoulders before launching into what I’m sure will be a five-minute monologue designed to get more camera time.
He’s doing me a solid though, and I take the opportunity to escape into the showers for a break.
The water is scalding, but I don't adjust the temperature. I just stand there, letting it beat down on me, trying to wash away the frustration.
He means well. He always means well.
That's what makes it so hard.
When I finally emerge from the shower, towel around my waist, the camera crew is filming Erik demonstrating some drill while my dad narrates. Several other guys have clustered around, clearly hoping for their own moment in the spotlight.
No one else sees how annoying this is.
Why would they?
They have a fucking Stanley Cup winner in the locker room, putting them on his TV show.
None of them really see me, do they? I’m just a fucking glorified mascot. Make room Crushie. I'm coming for your job.
Shaking my head, I dress as quickly as possible, grab my bag, and slip out while they're distracted.
The area around the arena is quiet now, and I can see my breath with the temperature drop. I get into my truck and ignore my phone ringing. A few texts come through, and I just know they're from my teammates and my dad. I just…can't.
I start the truck and have every intention of heading back to my dorm, but I find myself driving toward Laura's neighborhood instead.
I don't have her number. She's made it very clear she's not ready to give it to me, but right now, I need to talk to someone who sees me as just Scotty. Not Scotty Hendricks, son of hockey legend. Not Mr. Stanley Cup. Just… me.
This is stupid. I'm being stupid.
She's probably not even home, but I keep driving, straight to her.
I’m at her house.
The lights are on, but I’ve been sitting in my car staring at the house for the better part of twenty minutes. This felt like a good idea when I was trying to run away from my father, but now that I’m here, I feel like a stalker.
She acts like there’s nothing going on between us. She hasn’t shown up to my game. She didn’t kiss me on the porch, yet I still feel myself being pulled into her orbit.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone’s been ringing, but I haven’t attempted to answer, knowing it’s not my father. No. He has his own ringtone, which makes it easy to ignore everyone else.
Welp, I better get the fuck out of the truck if I don’t want her to call the cops on me.
I open the door, hop out of my truck, and head down the walkway. The wood groans under my weight as I step toward the door. I lean over and look through the window, but I can't really see much through the lacy curtain.
Should I do this? Should I bother her?
Knock. Knock.
I guess my fist decides for me.
I hear someone say, “Coming,” on the other side, and I take a step back.
Shit. What the hell am I doing?
Proving I'm a fucking stalker, that's what.
I take a few steps back and turn, hoping I can disappear into the night before anyone sees me.
“Scotty?” Her voice makes me stop. “What are you doing here?”
My shoulders slump, and I turn back around.
She’s here.
Suddenly nothing else matters.
With no makeup, her hair’s down and a little wild as her body is wrapped in a cardigan and silky blue pajamas. As always, she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and she doesn't have to try.
“Would you believe me if I said I was out looking for a princess? Realized I only know one, so it kind of narrowed down the search.” I smile, but I can feel how forced it is.
She looks back into the house before stepping onto the porch. “Is everything okay?”
I can smell her perfume, and my hands itch to touch her. To haul her into my arms and hold on to something real. To feel the same way I felt the first time we touched.
“Turns out you were right.”