Chapter 9 #3
“It started during summer training my rookie year,” I blurt out finally, keeping my eyes on Vinny.
Some days I think I know him better than I know myself.
If I pretend I’m only speaking to him, then maybe I can get through this without breaking down .
. . again. “The vets wanted me to go out drinking with them . . . to a strip club, and they wanted me to invite Dad. I said no. That’s when it started, and since then . . .”
That’s putting it in simple terms, but considering the situation I think it’s best I don’t tell them how nervous I was back then. How I could barely muster up the courage to say no.
I sigh again, already tired of the way everyone’s frozen in their seats, like they’re all stuck in that millisecond before springing into action.
I repeat everything I told Patrick almost a month ago—every instance I can remember when my teammates went from making fun of me to something meaner, every time they pinned a loss on me, every time their resentment for me shouted in the silence of the locker room after I played a particularly good game.
Then I explain how the practices started to become more brutal, how checks against the boards that were supposed to be light started to leave bruises, how no one ever said or did anything to stop it, including me.
Even though he already knew some of it, this is the first time Uncle Paul is hearing the details, and I can tell he’s taking it the hardest.
Which is ridiculous . . . and understandable.
Out of every single human in the world, his voice is probably the loudest and most powerful when it comes to hockey.
No other hall of famer, not a single team owner, no current player, and not even the fucking commissioner commands the fans and the industry the way the great Paul Wayne can with one single announcement, with a single post.
If I’d told him years ago, even three months ago, in theory he could’ve changed things for me very easily.
Which is why I didn’t.
I explain what happened tonight very quickly, and how I’m waiting for a fine from the Empire to hit my inbox, and then try to explain myself as best I can.
“The last thing I want—wanted,” I correct myself.
“Was giving them any more ammunition. I only wanted to play hockey. I only wanted to have that chance to fight to be the best. If I’d run to my family to fix this for me, then I would just have proven them right.
I’m a nepo baby who can’t get anything done on his own, who can’t succeed on his own.
I’m only riding all of your coattails, I’m too pretty to be a hockey player, I’m too big to be a center, I’m loved too much by fans to ever be one of the boys. ”
“Being one of the boys sounds like the worst life you could ever wish for,” Aunt Elle mumbles, that protective instinct few get to witness bright and alive in her eyes.
“Amen to that,” Ally agrees, her voice sadder than anything even though she’s smiling—she’s a great actress.
The biggest reason why I didn’t say anything flashes through my mind. I even open my mouth to speak before I can clamp it shut, get my brain and body back under control.
Telling them all that I was scared of Dad’s reaction, of what his love for the Empire would do to our relationship, would be a very shitty thing to do. If I ever do tell him, it’s going to be when it’s only us, not when our whole family is gathered around, already furious and ready for a fight.
Mom walks back to the table and slides a plate that’s full to the brim with steak, mashed potatoes, and salad. My stomach coils for a moment, it seems wrong to eat anything right now, but then the scent reaches me and I’m ravenous.
I let it all go for now, let them hold this shitshow for me while I stuff my face, and it has the added benefit of giving everyone time to digest—heh—everything I told them.
“You play on the twenty-seventh?” Vinny asks softly. I’m surprised he was the one to break the ice, but I nod while I finish chewing.
“Need to be back for midday training on Boxing Day,” I confirm once I’ve swallowed, then I go right back to eating because even if it’s simple logistics, I don’t want to talk anymore.
I don’t want to have to think.
“We’ll all fly back together.” Wolf speaks up next, his usual frown present and set in stone. I don’t think he’s talking about just flying, but again, I just nod.
“Let me see the schedule,” Hawk mumbles and takes out his phone. “You play San Francisco on the twenty-seventh, then fly out to Seattle to play them on the twenty-ninth, then Vancouver on the thirty-first, then you get back home to play against Montreal on the second, then Colorado on the fifth.”
I can see he opens his calendar app and starts putting all my games down with alerts and I’m touched down to my soul.
I know how important that calendar app is for Hawk, who can only remember to drink water if he’s reminded of it even with his meds.
When I look around, I see more of them doing the same. They’re all making sure I’m a priority for them.
I look down, focus on my food and on eating, and if a tear or two fall on my plate, well . . . no one says anything, so I pretend no one notices.