Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
DECLAN
We're down by three with five minutes left in the third period.
I'm skating hard, trying to set up plays, but nothing's connecting. My passes are off. My timing is shit. The whole team feels disjointed, like we're all playing different games.
Coach calls a timeout.
"What the hell is going on out there?" He's not yelling. That's worse. "Hayes, you're supposed to be setting the pace. Ashton, where's your defense? Pierce, I've seen better positioning from a freshman!"
We huddle together, breathing hard.
"We need to tighten up," Ashton says. "Stop playing like individuals."
"Easy to say," Crew mutters.
"Then let's actually do it." I look at each of them. "Five minutes. We can turn this around."
We can't.
The final buzzer sounds with us down three.
The locker room is silent.
We lost to a team we should have demolished. A team that's currently sitting at the bottom of our division.
Coach doesn't even come in right away. He's probably too pissed to talk to us.
When he finally appears, his face is stone.
"That was the worst game I've seen from this team in three years. Every single one of you should be ashamed of that performance."
No one argues.
"I don't know what's going on. I don't know if it's personal drama, distractions, or if you all just decided to forget how to play hockey." He looks at each of us. "But you'd better figure it out before the next game. Because if you play like that again, you're done. Understand?"
A chorus of "Yes, Coach" echoes through the room.
"Get out of my sight."
We shower in silence. Get dressed in silence. Walk out of the locker room without the usual conversation about where we’re going to celebrate or grab a drink.
I can feel my dad's calls vibrating in my bag. I ignore them.
When we finally get back to the house, someone produces a case of beer, and we all grab one without discussion.
We're sprawled across the living room—Ashton on the couch, Pierce in the armchair, Crew and Holden on the floor, and me leaning against the wall.
"That was pathetic," Ashton finally says.
"Completely pathetic," Pierce agrees.
"I missed three open shots," I say. "Three."
"I let their center walk right past me," Ashton adds. "Like I wasn't even there."
"I turned over the puck four times," Crew says. "Four."
We sit there cataloging our failures, drinking our beers, and feeling like shit.
"It wasn't the finger," Ashton says, looking at me.
"I know."
"You played fine. We all just sucked."
"Yeah."
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out to silence it and see fifteen missed calls from my dad.
"Your dad?" Ashton asks.
"Yep."
"You should probably call him back."
"Not a chance. I know exactly what he's going to say."
We're on our second beers when the front door opens.
Sutton walks in, still in her work uniform. She stops when she sees all of us sitting there in various states of defeat.
"I heard," she says quietly. "I'm sorry."
I pull her into a hug. She smells like grease and coffee, and it’s the most comforting scent I’ve ever smelled.
"It wasn't the finger," I tell her immediately. "Before you even think it—it had nothing to do with my hand."
"He's right," Ashton says from the couch. "We all played like garbage. His hand wasn't the problem."
Sutton looks around at all of them, then back at me. "You're all taking responsibility?"
"Because we all screwed up," I say. “We were off. It’s happened before. Sometimes we click, and other times it’s like we put on someone else’s skates.”
She searches my face like she's looking for a lie. "Your hand didn't affect your playing at all?"
"Honestly? I barely noticed it." I flex my fingers. "The tape keeps it stable. The pain's minimal."
She deflates slightly. Like she's been carrying this weight and doesn't know what to do now that we're not letting her carry it anymore.
"Okay," she says quietly.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I believe you." She kisses me softly. "I'm going to shower. I smell like French fries."
"I like French fries."
"You're weird." But she's smiling as she heads upstairs.
The guys continue their post-game analysis. Picking apart plays. Discussing what went wrong. Planning how to fix it for next time.
I can see my phone lighting up inside my pocket.
"You should probably answer that," Pierce says.
"I really don't want to."
"He's just going to keep calling.”
“Or show up here,” Ashton says.
I know he’s right. I do not want to see my father right now.
I head to the kitchen for privacy.
"What?" I answer.
"What?" My dad's voice is ice cold. "That's how you answer when I've been trying to reach you for two hours?"
“I was busy.”
"I watched the game, Declan. What the hell was that?"
"A bad game. It happens."
"A bad game?" He laughs without humor. "You played like a junior varsity reject."
"We all had a bad night."
"I don't care about the rest of them. I care about you."
"I had an off game. It's not the end of the world."
"It is when you're trying to prove you deserve a spot on an NHL team!" His voice rises. "Do you have any idea how hard I've worked to get you these opportunities? Do you know how many strings I've pulled? How many favors I've called in?"
"I didn't ask you to do any of that."
"You didn't have to ask! I'm your father! It's my job to open doors for you!" He takes a breath. "But you're making it very difficult when you keep sabotaging yourself."
"I'm not sabotaging anything."
"Really? Because from where I'm sitting, you've done nothing but sabotage yourself since that girl moved into your house."
And there it is.
"Don't," I warn.
"Don't what? Don't point out the obvious? You broke your hand in a fight over her. You're distracted, unfocused, and playing like garbage. All because of her."
"It’s a broken finger. Been there, done that. It’s hockey, not powder-puff football."
"This isn't a request. Get rid of her now, before you lose dev camp. Before you lose Seattle. Before you lose everything."
"I'm not breaking up with Sutton because you think she's a distraction."
"She IS a distraction! Can't you see that?"
"What I see is you trying to control every aspect of my life! My career, my relationships, and my choices!" My voice is rising now. "I'm done letting you dictate who I can be with!"
"You're being ridiculous. I'm trying to protect your future."
"You're trying to protect your future. Your legacy." I'm pacing now, my free hand clenched into a fist. "Everything I do has to serve your agenda. Everything I want has to align with your vision. You've never cared about what I want. Only about what you want me to want."
"I care about you not throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity over some girl!"
"She's not some girl! I love her!"
"Then you're a fool."
“I guess I am.”
I end the call and exhale.
The man is never going to stop.
But neither will I. I know what I want, and it’s not his dream.