Lucky Mother Pucker (Hollis U #4)

1. Leo

Leo

“You played like shit last night.”

I clench my jaw to keep from responding to my dad’s insult. That’s exactly what he wants, for me to lose my cool so he can look like the calm, all-knowing hockey expert. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

So I just sit there quietly and sip my cup of black coffee.

I try not to wince when I swallow. Plain black coffee tastes like piss.

I’d give my left arm for a splash of milk or cream or a sprinkle of sugar.

But that’ll just earn me a lecture about nutrition from my dad, and I’m not in the mood for that.

“I scored a point and got three assists,” I say, my tone on the edge of pointed. He’s hell-bent on tearing me down, but I’m not going to take it. I’ve done that enough times. I’m not gonna cause a scene, but I’ll push back against his bullshit criticism.

His frown shifts into a glare. “Do you want a cookie, Leo? A pat on the back? A parade thrown in your honor?”

The muscles in my shoulders tense at his taunting tone.

“You’re supposed to play well. It’s in your blood. Anything less than an excellent performance from you on the ice is unacceptable,” he lectures.

I let out a slow, quiet exhale, wishing I could be anywhere but here in this coffee shop, getting my ass chewed by my dad.

If a stranger were to glance over at us right now, they’d think we’re a normal father and son, sharing a cup of coffee and quiet conversation on a busy weekday morning.

But we’re not. Not even close.

My dad’s always been like this. Hypercritical. Cold. Always ready with an insult about my skills as a hockey player.

Because that’s the first thing he sees me as—a hockey player. The fact that I’m in his son lands in a distant second.

I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s been like this my whole life.

The second I could walk, he had me in skates on the ice with a stick in my hand.

My destiny was written before I could even speak.

I was Rocco Peretti’s only son, so I was going to be a star hockey player, just like him. He’d make sure of it.

My dad was one of the top hockey players in the NHL until a knee injury ended his career when he was thirty-two.

Ever since then, he’s made it his mission to make me a top-level player.

My entire childhood was hockey. When I wasn’t playing in various leagues as a kid, I was always at the rink for lessons with coaches and trainers.

I spent my school breaks and summers at training camps.

When other teenagers were at parties or dances, I was at home resting between games.

Because if Rocco Peretti couldn’t have the long-lasting professional hockey career he planned for, he was going to make damn sure his son would.

“I’m not into celebrating people for doing the bare minimum, Leo,” he says, his tone low and hard.

“I know,” I mutter.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Coddling isn’t going to get you anywhere. Coddling isn’t going to make you play better. Coddling isn’t going to give you the thick skin you need to play professional hockey.”

I grit my teeth so hard that the back of my skull aches. I’m going to end up with a tension headache. Just fucking great.

“In less than a year, you’ll graduate from Hollis, and you’ll be playing for Vegas,” he says. “You think they’d be impressed at your performance last night?”

I shrug, glaring at him. “No one on the team reached out to me to complain about how I played. You’re the only one.”

His mouth curves up into a bitter smile. “I see. You’re a college hockey star, so that must mean you know better than your old man, right?”

He leans closer, careful to keep his voice down.

If there’s one thing my dad refuses to do, it’s sully his public image.

He’s a beloved hockey legend who everyone adores.

The public doesn’t know that he’s actually an asshole who’s never once told me he loves me.

They don’t know he hasn’t hugged me since I was a little kid.

They don’t know that I can’t remember the last time he complimented me.

The last time he told me “good job” after a game.

“You looked lazy out there last night against Syracuse,” he mutters.

“You were slow on your transitions. You were a full second behind their forwards every time you tried to cover them. You couldn’t guard the goddamn net to save your life.

You call yourself a defenseman?” He scoffs.

“I felt like I was watching a toddler try to keep up with the big boys.”

An angry, empty feeling courses through me. Nothing I do is good enough.

“You think you’re hot shit because it’s your senior year, and you’ve been drafted into the pros? You think you can slack off, huh?”

“That’s not what I think,” I bite.

He shakes his head and glances off to the side, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He hasn’t played hockey professionally in almost two decades, but you’d never guess it based on how he looks.

He’s still in top shape. He trains every day.

He’s probably one of the fittest, healthiest people in his age group.

I focus on his face—his face that looks exactly like mine. Same dark brown eyes. Same straight nose. Same hard frown that we always wear when we’re pissed.

Our hair is the same shade of black-brown. I’m as tall as he is—six-foot-four. I’ve got his build too. Broad and lean. I even play the same position he did.

My stomach churns. I hate that we’re so alike. I hate that I share so much with someone I can’t stand.

I hate that we can’t have a normal conversation like other sons and dads. I hate that no matter how good I play or how hard I try, I’ll never be good enough for him.

I swallow back the ache in my chest. “So this is why you wanted to meet for coffee? To remind me that I’ll never measure up to you?”

His gaze narrows. “I’m just trying to help you play better, Leo. That’s why I meet with you after games. I know the potential you have. If you weren’t so damn lazy—if you didn’t spend so much time with your teammates drinking and partying—”

“Leave my teammates out of this,” I snap.

He exhales sharply, that disapproving look in his mahogany stare. “I do this as a favor to you. So we can go over what areas you can improve on. So you can be the best.”

“I never asked you to.” My nerves are on edge from this angry stand-off with my father. “And these meetings you insist on obviously aren’t working if you always think I play like shit.” I down more coffee, hating the bitter taste as it coats my mouth. “I’m gonna be late to class. I need to go.”

“Fine,” he mutters. He plucks a few bills from his wallet and drops them on the table. “Don’t forget about the gala next month. I expect you to be there. Wear a tux.”

The last thing I want to do is attend that.

It’s a charity event for retired professional athletes here in Denver that happens every year.

They show up with their families, sign autographs, and schmooze with fans.

We’re expected to stand there and smile and pretend that my dad is this wonderful, wholesome family man when in reality, he’s the biggest asshole I know.

He stands up and walks out of the coffee shop. No goodbye. No hug. Not even a glance in my direction.

That ache in my chest deepens, but after a few seconds, it fades. I should be used to what a dick my dad is. He’s always been like this.

But the truth is that I’m not. And I never will be. It’ll always feel like a knife to my chest every time he reminds me how he’ll never be proud of me.

I push aside the pain and walk up to the counter to order another drink. Something with cream and syrup and sugar to get rid of that gross, bitter taste in my mouth.

I order a java chip mocha from the guy at the register, then stand off to the side and browse on my phone while I wait for them to make it.

A minute later, he calls my name and hands me the drink. I thank him and take a sip, then instantly start to gag.

I grab a napkin from the nearby dispenser and spit out the rancid-tasting liquid, coughing.

“Are you alright?” the guy who took my order asks.

I wipe my mouth. “This tastes rotten.”

The guy’s eyes go wide. “What?”

I look down at the drink. “It tastes like the milk has gone bad or something.”

He turns around and grabs a milk carton from the counter. He looks at it for a second, then purses his lips like he’s annoyed.

He turns back to me. “I apologize. One of our new hires was in charge of stocking the fridge today, and she must not have bothered to check the expiration date on the milk.”

He reaches out to me, and I hand him the drink.

“I’m very sorry. Let me make you another one.”

“No, it’s fine. I have to go to class,” I say, annoyed at how shitty this morning has been. First I get chewed out by my dad, and then I down a mouthful of rotten milk.

The guy looks disappointed, but he nods like he understands. “I’ll be sure to void the transaction on your credit card.”

“You should really hire better people. People who know how to throw away rotten milk instead of serving it to customers,” I mutter.

The second I say it, I regret it. I’m not usually this pissed off over something as small as a spoiled drink. But meeting with my dad first thing in the morning has put me in the worst mood.

“I apologize. I’ll have a talk with my employee.”

I walk over to the trash can to throw away my napkins.

“Lucy! Get in here!”

I whip around at the sound of the guy yelling at someone in the back room of the coffee shop.

“How many times do I have to tell you to check the dates on all dairy products before you stock them?” the guy snaps.

My brow lifts. Jesus. He’s a little intense.

I turn to look at him, but all I can see is his back. He’s standing in front of someone, but I can’t see her face. Just her shoulder and a ponytail of long, red hair.

When he moves to the side a little, that’s when I see her.

Damn. She’s really pretty. Big blue eyes and perfect, glowy skin.

She bites her plump bottom lip. “I-I’m sorry. I could have sworn I checked it.”

“Well, clearly you didn’t, seeing as I just served rotten milk to a paying customer.”

When he starts to lecture her, a pang of guilt hits me. I didn’t mean for him to rip into her like that.

I start to walk over to them. “Hey, you don’t need to go off on her like that,” I say.

He turns around to me, dialing back his angry expression. The pretty redheaded barista looks at me with wide eyes. A second later, she glowers at me. Shit. She’s pissed. I mean, I get it. I’m the reason she’s getting yelled at by her boss.

I open my mouth to apologize, but then my phone buzzes. When I see it’s a text from my sister, I check it.

Zoey: Hey, my car battery died. Can you give me a jump on your way to class?

Me: Jeff can’t do it?

Zoey: We had an argument, and he left.

Anger and frustration swoop through me. And protectiveness. I fucking hate my sister’s boyfriend. He’s a deadbeat loser who doesn’t deserve her. All he does is make her feel bad and start fights with her.

My focus shifts entirely to her. I head out of the coffee shop and walk to my car, which is parked in the front. I’m gonna be late to class to help her, but I don’t care. She needs me.

Me: Okay, I’m on my way.

Zoey: Thanks. Sorry about this.

Me: It’s fine.

As I drive, I quietly hope that my sister finally breaks up with him this time.

He doesn’t deserve her. She’s smart, kind, and loyal.

She has the biggest heart of anyone I know.

She works at a daycare because she loves kids.

Jeff doesn’t have a job. He’s not in school.

I don’t know what the hell he does all day.

He should be tripping over himself to help her whenever she needs him.

A sinking feeling hits my gut. I know she’s not going to break up with him. This is their pattern. They fight, then make up. It happens every couple of months.

I tug a hand through my hair and exhale sharply. What a fucking mess this day has been. And it’s not even nine in the morning.

I think about that barista getting chewed out. I feel bad that she’s in trouble because of me, but I can’t stress about that. Not when I’ve got a million other things to worry about.

Like how I’m gonna be late to class. And how I’m pretty sure my sister’s boyfriend is using her for a free place to live. And how I’m supposed to show up to some benefit with my dad in a month and pretend like we’re this perfect, happy father and son.

I tug a hand through my hair and exhale sharply. Whatever. I’ll figure out a way to deal with it, like I always do.