Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
SUTTON
"So, you're living with five guys."
My dad's voice is calm as we walk across campus toward the hockey house. He arrived an hour ago for parents' weekend, and I've been dreading this conversation since he texted me his arrival time.
"Yes.”
"Sutton."
"Dad, it's fine. The housing office placed me there. It's totally normal. Co-ed housing happens all the time."
"With your ex-boyfriend?"
I wince. I might have forgotten to mention that detail. "Declan's different now. We're different."
"Different how?"
"We're older. More mature. We actually talk now instead of assuming the worst about each other." I stop walking and turn to face him. "And honestly, Dad? What happened during freshman year? That was on me. I overreacted."
"He cheated on you."
"He didn't. I saw something that looked bad, and I jumped to conclusions without letting him explain. Bree kissed him, and he pushed her away immediately. But I had already decided he was guilty."
Dad looks at me, looking for the lie. "You really believe that?"
"I do. I was young and insecure, and I self-sabotaged because I was scared of getting hurt. So I hurt myself first."
"That's very self-aware of you."
"I've had two years to think about it. And two psych classes."
He sighs. "Okay. I trust your judgment. But Sutton? If he hurts you again—"
"He won't."
"But if he does, I'm driving down here, and we're having words. Understand?"
I smile. "Understood."
We reach the house, and I lead him inside. It's cleaner than usual—the guys all made an effort knowing parents were coming. Declan is in the kitchen with Ashton, both of them pretending to cook something that smells suspiciously like takeout being reheated.
"Dad, you remember Declan."
Declan turns, and I can see the nervousness on his face. "Mr. Webb. Good to see you again, sir."
"Declan." Dad shakes his hand, his voice dropping a couple of octaves in an attempt to be intimidating. Everyone knows my dad is a big teddy bear. "Treating my daughter well, I hope?"
"Yes, sir. Absolutely."
"Good. Because if I hear otherwise, we're going to have a problem."
"Dad," I groan.
"What? I'm just being clear about expectations." But he's smiling now.
Ashton steps forward. "I'm Ashton Reid, sir—captain of the men's team. Just want you to know we all look out for Sutton here. She's family."
"I appreciate that." Dad glances around the kitchen. "This is a nice setup you boys have."
"We try to keep it clean," Declan says. "Sutton's raised our standards considerably."
That makes Dad laugh. "That sounds like my daughter."
The tension eases, and we spend the afternoon showing Dad around. He's impressed by the house, the facilities, everything.
The dinner that night is at a fancy downtown restaurant. It's supposed to be a pre-game celebration—families of the hockey players getting together before tomorrow's big season opener.
I’m dreading seeing Declan’s father. I’m hoping he’ll just stay away and treat me and my father like the trash he thinks we are. No need to pretend he likes us.
The second I see him, my stomach drops. He's sitting at the head of the table in an expensive suit, holding court with other parents. He has that same intense energy as Declan, but without any of the warmth.
"Mr. Hayes," I say politely when we're introduced.
"Sutton." His handshake is perfunctory.
His eyes flick to my dad, then back to me, and I can practically see him calculating my worth and finding me lacking.
Declan appears at my elbow, his hand moving to the small of my back. "Dad, you remember Sutton?"
"I do." Mr. Hayes turns back to the other parents without another word.
Real warm guy.
We find our seats—me between Declan and my dad, with Declan's father several seats away, thankfully. The dinner starts off fine. People are talking about the upcoming season, about the team's prospects, and about how excited they are for tomorrow's game.
Then someone mentions NHL scouts.
"I heard there might be professional scouts at tomorrow's game," one of the moms says. "Is that true?"
"Could be," Coach Davis says from the far end of the table. "We have some talented players this year. Scouts are always looking."
Declan goes rigid beside me.
"Declan's being scouted," Mr. Hayes announces proudly. “He’s sure to get a contract.”
I don’t know why, but this surprises me. It shouldn’t. Our men’s team is one of the best in the country. There are always scouts sniffing around.
But for some reason, I never really let myself think about Declan moving up—and on.
"That's wonderful," someone says. "Declan, you must be so excited."
Declan grunts something I don’t think anyone understands.
Mr. Hayes takes a sip of his wine. "My son has a real shot at the NHL."
My dad glances at me, then at Declan. "That's quite an opportunity."
"It is," Mr. Hayes agrees. "Declan has the talent. Always has. He just needs to stay focused." His eyes land on me for a brief second. "No distractions."
Declan's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing tight. I can feel how uncomfortable he is. My job is to support him. I squeeze his hand back, letting him know I’m there for him.
"Few players have Declan's skill set," Mr. Hayes continues. "The vision, the hands, the hockey IQ. He could have been drafted straight out of high school if he hadn't screwed around his senior year."
"Dad—" Declan's voice is tight.
"What? It's true. You were more interested in parties and girls than in your game. Your numbers slipped, you lost focus, and teams passed on you." He addresses the table. "That's why he had to go to college. To redeem himself. Prove he could be serious about hockey."
I feel Declan shrinking beside me, his hand gripping mine so hard it almost hurts.
"College has been good for him," my dad says carefully. "Education is important."
"Education doesn't get you into the NHL," Mr. Hayes counters. "Dedication does. Single-minded focus. Sacrifice."
"Declan's been plenty dedicated," Ashton speaks up from across the table. "He's our best player.”
Mr. Hayes refills his wine glass. "There was a chance two years ago, actually. Another scout came to see him. Phoenix, I think it was. Declan was having a stellar season."
Declan has gone completely still.
No one says anything, so Mr. Hayes keeps talking.
"He got injured in the championship game. Stupid mistake, really. Lost focus at a critical moment and took a bad hit. Separated shoulder. Was out for weeks." Mr. Hayes shakes his head. "The scout lost interest. These opportunities are fleeting. You can't afford mistakes."
"That injury wasn't his fault," Ashton says firmly. "It was a clean hit. Could have happened to anyone."
"Clean or not, it happened. And it cost him." Mr. Hayes looks at Declan. "Which is why tomorrow is so important. This is his chance to prove he's evolved past those mistakes. That he can perform under pressure without distractions."
There's that word again. Distractions.
The conversation mercifully shifts to other topics. My poor man. No wonder he’s been so stressed. His father is a piece of work.
The dinner drags on forever. I smile and nod. Declan barely speaks; he just sits there like he's being tortured. His dad holds court, talking about hockey prospects, NHL contracts, and career trajectories.
Finally, mercifully, it's over.
"That was nice," my dad says as we walk to his hotel. “Declan's father is intense."
"That's one word for it."
He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. "I'll see you tomorrow at the game. Try to get some sleep."
“See you tomorrow.”
When I get back to the house, it's quiet. Most of the guys are in their rooms. I find Declan in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.
I close the door behind me.
He looks up, and the devastation on his face nearly breaks my heart. “Oh, baby,” I murmur and drop to my knees in front of him. I grab his face in my hands. “I’m so sorry you’ve been dealing with that. I’m not going to ask if you’re okay or if you want to talk. Let’s just go to bed, okay?”
He stares into my eyes. I see so much turmoil there; it’s like I can feel the chains wrapped around him wrapping around me.
“Okay,” he replies. “Thank you.”
“Get in bed. I’m going to change, and I’ll be right back.”
“You’re too good to me, Sutton.”
I smile. “I’m just good enough.”