Chapter 41
Chapter
Forty-One
Hunter: Hey, man, can you pick me up from PT in an hour?
Cooper: Sure, no problem.
Cooper holds the door open to Bubba, his red pickup truck. “So, what happened to Natalie? Everything okay?”
He knows about her dad, so it’s kind of him to ask. I stash my crutches in the tiny backseat and nod.
“Yeah.”
No, actually, I don’t think everything is okay, but I don’t know how to explain. So I stare straight ahead as he starts up the car and cranks the heat. Christmas music blares on the radio and he turns it down, sheepish.
“Jasmine forced me to listen to that.”
I laugh at the thought of her messing with him. I love it. He’s whipped, but they are perfect together. They make each other happy.
Natalie played with my radio, putting it on the local oldies station, and I haven’t changed it back. God, I have it bad for her. But is it mutual? She likes me, for sure. She says she loves me, but is she all in? She just seems so distant lately.
Sighing, I take off my backwards hat and run my hands through my hair. Cooper glances over.
“I know you have a lot on your mind. Let’s go get a beer.”
I open my mouth to protest, but it sounds kinda nice. It’s a Wednesday, barely after five, so places won’t be too busy. I don’t have to worry about navigating a crowd with my crutches. I haven’t been out with Cooper in ages.
I shake my head, though, to be an asshole. “I don’t care if you take me hostage and drive me there, I’m not going to The Cactus with you.”
It’s the most disgusting bar on campus—smells like cigarette smoke and stale beer, but it’s his favorite. God only knows why. I love harassing him about it.
He laughs. “I’ll even let you pick.”
“O’Bryans?”
“Works for me.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, so I’m not inconveniencing him too much. He drives around the block to head towards the downtown Irish bar, pulling into the lot a few minutes later.
They’ve swapped out their normal Irish flags and Guinness adverts for Christmas lights, garlands, and bulbs. We pass a decorated tree in the entryway and head for the long wooden bar that lines the pub. Usually the lights are dim, and it’s packed with college students, but it’s a little early for that crowd. The fading December sunlight streams in through the open shades and a few old timers sit at the barstools. They don’t glance up from their drinks when we take seats there, too.
After ordering a Guinness for Cooper and a Harp for me, we sit in silence, staring at ESPN on the TV.
The bartender delivers our drinks, and I take a sip. The beer is cool on my tongue as the bubbles slide down my throat. God, it tastes amazing. I’ve missed this.
We both look up at a familiar voice.
My dad’s face fills the TV screen. It’s not the first time I’ve experienced this, but it’s no less surreal the more it happens. He’s in a suit, sitting across the desk from Stewart Scott. A ball of nerves lodges itself in my throat at the sight.
Cooper glances at me. “Uh, I can get the bartender to change the channel if you want.”
“No, that’s okay.” I’m frozen, my eyes glued to the TV. It’s the first time I’ve seen my dad since I told him to leave my hospital room. We’ve had no contact. There’s some weird part of me that feels compelled to watch, like he’d know if I turned it off.
Stewart Scott adjusts his glasses and stares into the camera. “Analyst, broadcaster, and former player James Thompson is here with us to talk about hockey. The NHL season is ramping up, and so is the AHL and college circuit. The draft isn’t for another few months, but who are the NCAA players to watch right now?”
The camera shifts to my dad. He grins, like he’s friendly and affable. What a lie. He’s always been good at turning on the charm and hiding his true self, though.
“Well, Stewart.” He smooths down his tie, drawing attention to his expensive pinstriped suit. “I can think of five players off the top of my head that the NHL should keep their eyes on. Eli McCormack at Harvard, Duncan Rodriguez at Michigan, Logan Richards at Michigan State, Troy Hawkins at Ohio State, and Cooper Edwards at Harrison.”
I look at Cooper out of the corner of my eye, but he keeps his face impassive. A muscle jumps in his jaw, though.
Stewart Scott raises his brows. “I admire your objectivity, but I have to ask—Cooper Edwards at Harrison and not your own son, Hunter Thompson?”
My cheeks burn, and Cooper motions for the bartender. “Let’s turn it off.”
I still his hand. “No, I want to hear what he says.”
My dad clears his throat. “Hunter’s a great player, don’t get me wrong. He was trained by the best.” He winks and my pulse thrums, roaring in my ears. “But after the injury that broke his leg, he’s an unknown entity. No one can say what he will be like when he comes back. If he comes back.”
I swallow, my throat dry. My dad keeps talking. “And Cooper is practically carrying that team single-handedly. He’s putting on a master class about the impact of a good team captain.”
“You’re the expert.” Stewart nods at the audience. “Thanks for joining us, James.”
The ESPN music plays, and they cut to a commercial about golf clubs. Cooper must get the staff to turn it off, because the screen goes black.
I don’t know what to say.
After gulping his drink, Cooper turns to me. “Don’t let your dad’s words get in your head.”
“He just told the world that he’s not sure if I’ll make it back on the ice.”
“Yeah, but he’s never played with you. He’s only seen stuff from the sidelines. He doesn’t know how determined you really are.”
My dad played professional hockey—I’m pretty sure he knows what he’s talking about. But Cooper’s speech warms my chest anyway, and I rub my sternum.
I bring my glass to my mouth to have something to do, and he keeps talking. “I can’t imagine being injured and not playing. It’s gotta suck so bad.”
“It does.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “I know you’re worried about your future. But we all are. I have no idea if anyone will sign me or if I’ll go back home and be a farmer.”
“But that’s the thing—you have a plan if hockey doesn’t happen.” I shake my head. “I’ve only ever considered the NHL.”
“What about your business degree? Did you think about that MBA thing? Could you work for a team in the front office or be a sports agent?”
I tap the bar, giving his question the thought it deserves. Business has only ever been my fallback plan, not my passion, so I don’t think I want to take the MBA route. But I’ve always assumed hockey is in my future. What would it be like, not being on the ice but interacting with players? My stomach pangs at the idea.
“I’d like to still be part of the sport, you know? But I’m not sure I can see myself with a desk job.”
“What about coaching? No offense to Russell and Bouchard, but you’re the one who’s built this team.”
I raise my brows. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it, man. Even before you were captain and a senior, you were the leader. You’d give guys pointers and advice, and they’d listen to you. You look at things like a coach.”
He’s right. It’s just something I do without thinking. I try to picture it—behind the glass, clipboard in hand. Wearing the team colors and barking out orders. Taking a group of individuals and forming them into a team. Making them into the best players they could possibly be.
Could I get over not skating out there? Not playing, but watching instead?
I don’t know. But it would be better than an office job.
“That’s not the worst thing you’ve ever suggested,” I tell Cooper, sipping my beer.
He gives me a lazy smile. “Then come on the road trip with us this weekend. Hang with the team and help out. What else do you have to do?”
Being with the team without playing still makes my stomach clench. But maybe getting out of the apartment more would be good for me. It’s not like I have plans with Natalie.