Chapter 13 ~ Minho
Shit just got worse in a day
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I never wanted to be like my dad or live in his shadow. I didn't care for the sport he played enough to want to do it professionally myself. Maybe that is a lie, because Yeseo and I used to play hockey for fun when we were kids, but I never wanted to pursue it after high school.
That, I know for certain.
So why did I say yes after agreeing to call my dad, whom I have not spoken to in person or texted for an entire year?
Well, the answer is simple. I was already planning a myriad of ways to get back at Bellamy when, lo and behold, one of his teammates tore his ACL.
I feel bad for whoever the guy is; I do, but his loss is my gain.
I’ll show off a bit, win a few games, outperform Bellamy, and when the season is done, I’ll leave the team, but not before I see the look of defeat on Bell's face.
Besides, my dad needs a new left winger and a good player who knows the game.
And of course, he wants me, so why not give aid when asked?
I am a good Samaritan after all; take last night with Bellamy for example. The look on his face when it became clear I would be joining Eden U’s Knights.
Priceless.
God, the other day was just weird.
I hadn’t meant to get in between Bellamy and his dad, but when I saw him, how uncomfortable he looked in his dad’s presence and then what he said—the abuse he and his mom went through by that man's hands—it fucking enraged me.
The scar I’d seen countless times before I left for Briarston, the one I always assumed was a hockey injury he had tattooed over, when all this time, his dad had given it to him.
I wanted to bash the old fuckers face into the wall for doing that to his own son, and then grabbing him like he had a right to be touching Bells.
Why hadn’t my dad told me what Bellamy and Victoria went through? Did Yeseo know? I shouldn’t care that they didn’t tell me. Why would they when I left?
The why of it all doesn’t matter.
What does matter is making sure I cover my tracks, which brings me to why I am waiting for my dad to pick up the phone when I should be focused on meeting my roommate, whom I know nothing about other than he apparently has a dog—not that his having a pet bothers me, it’s just interesting the way he brought it up when we texted earlier.
It wasn’t easy, but finding someone who lives near Eden U with a spare bedroom is a blessing when it comes to being able to get to my classes early, but also get some practice on the ice before the rink before anyone else.
Before I can focus on anything—like “make Bellamy miserable” by outperforming him—I need to talk to my dad. Last we spoke, he wasn’t convinced I am joining the team for the right reasons, which he would be correct about; I am not, but I need him to believe otherwise.
I haven’t played since my senior year of high school. I could be making an egregious mistake I can’t take back, but I could also piss Bellamy off so bad that he never talks to me again.
That would be perfect.
But not enough. I want to torture him the same way he has tortured me these last few days. Need him to know I will always outsmart, outperform, and outscheme him at every turn. And I don’t know why, but the image of him defeated puts a smile on my face.
I try my dad again when the call goes to voicemail, and when he picks up on what feels like my third try, I can’t help but wonder if he was pacing in his office or something before answering the phone.
“He finally calls his old man,” I hear him chuckle on his end, the sound static thanks to him being on speaker. “I am surprised.”
I roll my eyes.
Can I go back to kissing Rafe and not caring for anything else? I would rather do that than be on the phone with my dad.
Maybe I could get Tommy to let us tag along on his trip to Greece. I know he has a surfing event to attend this year.
“Minho?”
“You and me both,” I say flatly. “But let’s cut to the chase, you wanted to know why I am joining the Knights?”
He’s silent for a moment.
“You aren’t doing this because,” he pauses, and I can picture him playing with his wedding band nervously. “This isn’t so you can get my attention, is it? Because bud, I am sorry for how things went down; I have missed—”
“Save it, Dad,” I cut him off. I don’t need nor do I care for his apologies—not when he’s two years too late. He could have called when I first left. Unlike my mother, who disappeared off the face of the earth, I left him a voicemail before my Halmeoni took me to the train station.
He never responded to what I left. I don’t even know if he listened to what I had to say. I wouldn’t care if he didn't—whether he did or didn’t wouldn’t have changed anything.
“I don’t think you just did it just for me, but I do think a small part of you realised you wasted precious time walking away from something you were genuinely good at because you didn’t want to be another me,” he adds, and it takes all my willpower not to hang up.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens as I count to three under my breath. “I didn't walk away from hockey because of you.”
“Then why’d you quit?”
Because I hate how much you love it when I play, hate how every goal I scored was his goal—because I wanted something that was mine, even if that thing was music or poetry, silly things he didn't understand or bother to.
But I don’t say any of that to him.
“I can’t do this with you right now,” I say instead. “I’m on the team, so you got what you wanted; go celebrate or something.”
“Did I get what I want?” His voice goes so quiet I barely register it as his. “Or did I find a way to push my son further away from me? Because that is not what I wanted; I just wanted us to bond over something, I wanted—”
“I have to go.” My thumb hovers over the screen of my phone, seconds away from hanging up, when I realise I’ve made it to my final destination anyway. “We’ll talk more soon.”
“Okay, talk soon, Minho.”
I hang up before I—before I say or ask something stupid, because why couldn’t he have said any of that before I left for Briarston? Why couldn’t we have a normal conversation without it turning into a fight or a lecture in which I listened and he talked?
When I park the car, I take a moment to breathe. I am going to miss waking up to the smell of Halmeoni’s spicy tofu and eggs, or her just coming to my room to wake me up. With a sigh, I pick up my phone, shove it in my pocket, open the door and go to grab my bag from the trunk.
My ass still hurts from whatever Rafe tattooed there, and I am hating myself for driving around now, because yeah, all I can think about is what the fuck he did; it’s killing me not knowing what it is, and it seriously stings when I sit down.
I know for a fact he wrote one word on each of my ass cheeks, but then there is something else there; I am unsure of what it could be.
I shake my head. None of that is important right now. What is, is that one other thing I know about my roommate is that he is friends with Roy, the guy who got injured—no thanks to one Jamie Gallagher—but we don’t talk about him; he’s a friend of the past.
What I am most interested in is how I managed to be bunking with the old left-winger's roommate—it’s bugged me all day how coincidental it feels, like something isn't quite right; I just can’t put my finger on it yet.
It is bizarre; I am taking Roy’s room, which also leads me to conclude he doesn’t plan on making a comeback to hockey or the Knights, which again helps my cause—well, that is just my assumption.
I could be wrong.
The inside of the building looks and smells like it could be a frat house the moment I step inside, stale beer clinging to the air and the carpet, which looks to have been vacuumed but still looks like someone threw up on it, makes me rethink my decision to live here.
The walls seem to have been painted over so many times that I bet they feel like sandpaper rather than smooth.
This place is a dump.
I take the elevator up in silence and press the fifth-floor button twice as the doors open and close on the third floor. When I finally get to my floor, it doesn't take long before I find the room, slide the key card through the reader and push the door open.
Jesus Christ.
I take in the disaster that is the living room, the moment you step inside, from empty pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table to the hoodie draped over the lamp like it's a coat rack. Hockey gear is scattered across the floor like a bomb went off in a locker room—it even reeks of sweat, even though there’s a window open.
And on the couch, controller in hand, eyes glued to the TV that is currently displaying someone getting wrecked in a shooting game—is fucking Bellamy.
He doesn’t look up, but I know it's him from the backward baseball cap, the tattoo along his neck, and the chain around his neck. “Took you long enough, Minho.”
I stop right behind the couch, my bag slipping off my shoulder and hitting the floor with a dull thud that could have been mistaken for a body.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
Bellamy’s character delivers a finishing blow before he pauses the game, setting the controller down and finally turning to look at me.
His jaw is set, his short blonde hair wet and spiky; no doubt he came here after a workout, and he’s wearing sweatpants that hang low on his hips when he gets up and nothing else, giving me the perfect view of tattoos I have never seen before.
The one on his ribcage catches me off guard—the Roman numerals that date the day we met; below is a tattoo of what I know, with all my gut, is the lighthouse where I first saw him, but I ignore it—all of it, even the hearts and butterflies.
I don’t want to know why the day we met is inked on his skin like a map of—I don’t even know, his weird crush on me?