Chapter 22 #2
I shrug. “Maybe at first it was fun, when I was a junior in high school and got recognized, but now it feels like a chore, one I do because it makes you happy.”
“Y-you only do this to make me happy?”
“Yeah. Do you really think I enjoy my most embarrassing moments being aired on TV?”
“We’ve never aired anything embarrassing, have we?”
“Yeah, we have. Do you remember when I asked Fiona to prom?”
“Oh, yes!” Erik laughs. “He broke her arm with a promposal gone wrong.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Classic Junior behavior.”
I point my thumb in his direction. “Do you see, Dad? People I didn’t even know in high school know about my most embarrassing moment.
I’m tired of living a life for other people to consume.
I’m not a product. I’m a person. A college student who just wants to see his girl without everyone knowing about it. ”
My dad looks at me closely, his expression shifting, the confusion giving way to understanding.
“I’m—I’m sorry, son. That was never my intention. That was never—I never wanted you to feel that way. I just wanted to share our life together. To show people what it's like being a hockey family. I thought you were proud of it. Proud of us.”
“I am proud.” The words come out rough. “I'm proud of you, of everything you’ve accomplished. I just—” I take a shaky breath. “I want to accomplish something that's mine. Not ours. Just mine.”
He sits with the feeling longer than I can handle watching, right up until Erik drapes an arm over his shoulder.
“Mr. Hendricks, I've got a good idea for a segment.” He grins. “And let's be real, ever since I made that appearance last season, the fans have been asking for more.”
“Have they?” Dad asks bluntly.
“Wow.” Erik blinks. “Now I see where your son gets his deadpan humor from.” He recovers quickly, steering Dad toward the rink. “Anyway, the guys are just finishing up their session. I bet they'd go crazy if you surprised them with a visit. Have you met Henry yet?”
“No.”
“Ah, well, I think you'll like him. He has Torjussen's number tattooed on his ribs.”
“Torjussen?!” Dad barks out a laugh. “As in my biggest rival when I was playing?”
Erik nods.
“Why the hell does he have his number on his chest? The guy only has two Stanleys to his name.”
“You should ask him,” Erik says, already moving them down the hallway.
Jerry pipes up, “That could be some great B-roll…”
“Plus, Coach McKibbon's there today,” Erik adds. “Didn't you play with his uncle or something in high school?”
“Cousin,” Dad corrects, but he's already turning toward the practice rink. “That's not a bad idea, actually. We could get some locker room shots, maybe catch part of the session…” He glances back at me. “You okay with this, Scotty?”
Erik catches my eye over Dad's shoulder. “Don't want to keep Cinderella waiting, do we?”
Cinderella.
Shit. He's talking about Laura, isn't he?
He knows. He fucking knows where I'm going.
And he's always known, hasn't he? He just hasn't said anything because he's respecting my boundaries.
“Y-yeah.” I clear my throat. “You're right. If you could film with the guys today, that would really help. I'll join you for dinner after.”
“Sure thing, son.”
“Come on, Mr. Hendricks,” Erik says, already halfway down the hall. “I'll introduce you to everyone. Fair warning though—Henry's probably going to cry when he meets you. Oh, and there are these super hot new ice girls…”
Their voices fade as they disappear into the rink, and I stand there for a moment, staring at the empty hallway.
Erik just saved my ass.
Erik—who I've frozen out for a year. Who I blamed for ruining everything with Laura. Who I've barely said two words to outside of hockey plays.
The guilt hits me in a slow, heavy wave, tightening something in my chest. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake it off, but my brain’s already spinning in a dozen directions.
I pull out my phone as I run for the parking lot.
Scotty: Thank you. Seriously. I owe you.
I'm in my truck, engine already running, when my phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen before pulling out.
It's from Erik. But the message thread is almost empty—the last text between us is from two years ago, some stupid meme about Coach McKibbon's clipboard.
Two years of silence I enforced.
Erik: No problem, Mr. Stanley Cup. Go get your girl.
He sends me a photo of Dad staring at what must be Henry's tattoo, laughing at it. Henry’s smiling, as are the rest of my teammates.
I grin, tossing my phone into the passenger seat as I pull onto the main road.
The drive feels endless. Every stoplight hits at the worst possible second. I keep flicking my eyes to the clock. If they started on time, Laura’s going up in twenty minutes.
Maybe less.
I finally pull into the lot and shove the truck into park.
Truck off.
Door locked.
No hesitation.
I jog toward the rink entrance, the same place I saw her with her sister for the first time. My heart’s pounding hard, and it has nothing to do with skating or games or pressure.
Laura’s in there somewhere, ready to take that stage and blow everyone out of the water.
And there is no universe where I let myself miss that.