Chapter 26 Dominic
Dominic
Getting called into the coach’s office is never a good thing in my experience. At least once in my career, it’s resulted in me getting sent to a new team. I’m reasonably sure that’s not going to happen today, but you never know. I would’ve said the same thing a few months ago too.
My knock on Coach Boothe’s door is answered with a curt, “Come in.”
Coach is sitting at his desk, looking a little worse for wear than usual.
His eyes are bloodshot, his usually clean-shaven jaw has a shadow of gray hair, and his hair is mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.
On the wall next to him, his screens are filled with stats and plays, and one has a game paused like he was watching before I knocked.
“You wanted to see me after warm-ups?”
The team and I just finished our morning skate and check-ins with sports medicine. Some of the guys are still in the locker room, taking cold plunge dips or getting massages, and some have already headed home for a nap or food in preparation for tonight’s second game against the Hawks.
“Sit down.” He doesn’t indicate where, but I pick the chair in front of his desk that’s closest to the door as a strategic move. “I think you know why I’ve called you in here today.”
Honestly? No, I don’t. There are so many things it could be related to . . .
To thank me because Kipson is actually doing better, on and off the ice.
To discuss the changing team dynamics.
To dissect Anderson’s latest temper tantrum outburst.
To ensure Kipson and I are prepared to play our asses off tonight the way we should’ve last night.
Or you know, the obvious . . . that I’m in love with his daughter.
Playing it safe, I ask, “What’s on your mind?”
He glares at me, narrow-eyed and cold, silently waiting for me to break. I’m pretty sure it’s an interrogation technique I’ve seen in at least a few dozen movies. When I stay respectfully quiet, simply looking back at him, he exhales loudly and stands.
In front of his wall of screens, he points to one. “Know what this is?”
I look at the list of names. “Seems like tonight’s team roster.”
He arches a brow. “Notice anything unusual?”
I really wish he’d skip all this bullshit and get to the yelling. He’s angry, that much is obvious, but I’d like to know why so I can adjust accordingly. But I play along for now and read down the roster. Wait . . .
“I’m an alternate? You’re starting Tomville as left d-man?”
“Smarter than you look, aren’t you?” he quips snidely. “That’s my plan. Could be for tonight. Could be for the rest of the season. That all depends on you.”
I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “On me doing what?”
Coach deliberately steps back behind his desk and sits down. The whole time his eyes, which are filled with fury, stay locked on me. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. All moves designed to demonstrate the power dynamic in the room.
“Playing hockey for me requires a player’s full commitment,” he says evenly, but there’s a threat already developing his tone. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been particularly distracted as of late.”
He says the word as though I’ve been drunk or high, or out committing felonies as a part-time side gig, but at least we’re getting somewhere.
Though, in theory, he could still mean the whole team dynamic or Briar.
Testing that, I hum, “Huh. I thought our pregame get-togethers were helping, but I can cancel if you want.” I hold my phone up, thumb poised like I’m going to text the group chat right now.
Coach slams his palms to the desk, the noise jarringly loud in the quiet office, and stands, looming over me, though the desk is thankfully still between us.
“You are sneaking around with my daughter, Lee. My daughter!” he roars.
Digging his fingertip into a stack of papers, he asserts, “That. Stops. Now.”
I don’t so much as flinch. My face stays perfectly stoic, though inside I’m raging at this asshole who has neglected Briar for her whole fucking life and now wants to demand things like he has any right.
I lift my brows, cockily challenging, “Or what?”
I know the answer. That’s what his whole showboating thing with the roster was about.
If I kowtow to him, he’ll put me back as a starter.
If not, he’s going to play Tomville. But he doesn’t want to do that.
Not really. I love the kid and he’s damn good, probably even going to be great one day, but he’s not me.
And I don’t mean that arrogantly; there’s just no comparison between me and Tomville at this point in our respective careers.
“Or you can sit your ass on the bench tonight. Or all fucking season, for all I care. Or you could never play again. How about that?” He’s ramping up, each threat worse than the last, and louder too. “Make your choice.”
Choice? He thinks there’s a choice here? That’s what’s wrong with him in the first place, because I don’t see a decision to be made. Not at all.
“I’d still get paid, though, right?” I say with a shit-eating smirk.
He blinks, not expecting that response to his nuclear meltdown, which is exactly what I hoped for.
It’s time for me to tell Coach how I see this going down.
I stand, meeting his eyes as I plant my hands on his desk and lean in closer.
My voice hard, I tell him, “You can control what I do on the ice. You can control my position on this team. What you can’t do is control what I do outside this arena.
” I point toward the door, then drive my finger into his chest. “And what you’ve never done is give a single, solitary shit about what Briar wants or needs.
You left her when she was seven years old and never looked back, so don’t start acting like you give a fuck about her now. ”
I step back . . . move away . . . toward the door.
I need to get out of here before I do something I can’t take back.
I have listened to Briar talk about how she felt when her father basically abandoned her.
I heard the tears in her voice, understand the damage he did, not only with his own actions, but by leaving her vulnerable to a man like Tyler because as far as I’m concerned, Coach Boothe carries some responsibility for that too.
I have seen how alone she’s been since her divorce, without a bit of support from the man in front of me.
He is not a dad. He’s not a father. He’s the worst kind of man: a leaver.
Every protective instinct inside me is surging up, urging me to punish him for the ways he hurt her. To make him bleed for every time his daughter needed him and he wasn’t fucking there.
“Lee.”
I don’t stop, the doorknob in my hand. “See ya later, Coach.” I sneer the honorary label I have said to many men that I’ve respected to varying degrees over the years, but none I’ve respected less than Coach Boothe. “Guess I’ll be riding the pine.”
“You will not see her again!” he bellows.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see how red-faced and furious he is. “See, that’s the difference between you and me. You picked hockey. I’ll pick Briar every. Single. Time.”
He flinches at the dig, but it’s only for an instant before his face hardens and he opens his mouth to give some anger-fueled, snappy reply.
Probably that I don’t know the whole story, or I don’t understand what he was going through, or whatever justifications he’s spoon-fed himself over the years.
Repeating them over and over, so many times until he started to believe his own bullshit.
Not wanting to hear any of it, I cut him off. “Fuck this.” I mutter it under my breath, but intentionally still loud enough for him to hear. “Bye.”
With that, I walk out into the locker room. There’s at least a dozen guys standing there, eyes wide in shock, having heard every word. Sabine recovers first. “Dom?”
“Apparently, Coach is pretty serious about his ‘no distractions’ rule,” I spit out.
“Probably has something to do with the fact that you’re in love with his daughter,” Kipson offers dryly. I meet his eyes. He warned me. He knew this would happen. And we both know exactly who sold me out. I give him a nod, trusting that he’ll handle things appropriately.
Spying Tomville looking shell-shocked in front of his locker, I point at him. “Team call is five. Be here at three thirty so we can get you ready. You’re debuting in the first line tonight, brother.”
I might not be starting tonight, but I’m not abandoning my team. That’s not the kind of man I am.
I’m supposed to be heading home for my pregame routine of fuel and nap. Instead, I send Briar a text that simply reads: Incoming. Don’t talk to your dad, before driving to her house as fast as I can.
In front of her cute little house, I take a deep breath. This is going to suck. She thought her dad was finally coming around with the zoo thing, especially when he named Hadiah for her. But he hasn’t changed a bit.
Hockey first, last, always, and only.
But I don’t play like that. I don’t live like that.
Well, to be fair, I used to. Hockey has been my priority for my entire life.
I have missed school events, birthday parties, family dinners, and more because I was on the ice, for either a practice or a game.
But for all I’ve given to hockey, it has given me back an entire life filled with celebrations and sorrows, skills and lessons, teammates and brothers.
The most important thing I’ve learned is: It’s a game. On my deathbed, I will look back on hockey fondly, but what I will want to see and feel and experience again and again is . . . a life with Briar and Harley.
I don’t have to knock. Briar is already opening the door, as though she was listening for my truck. “What’s wrong?” she asks instantly.
“Let’s go inside,” I say, ushering her back into the house. “Sit down,” I tell her, guiding her to the couch.
“You’re scaring me,” she whispers. “Is Dad okay?”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Depends on your definition.” She pales and I quickly say, “Sorry. He’s fine. Just . . . your father.”
I see the moment she understands in real time—her shoulders round, her perpetual smile evaporates to be replaced with a frown, and her eyes cloud over. “He knows about us.”
Nodding, I tell her, “Yep. And he told me that if I want to play hockey, I have to leave you alone.” I shake my head, still not able to believe his bullshit.
“Oh.” Her chin falls to her chest and she fidgets with her fingers. Swallowing thickly, she says hollowly, “I understand. I knew this would happen. Hockey isn’t just what you do. It’s who you are. Hockey first, no distractions.”
I can see every time Coach Boothe told her that. It’s not only a pall over her, but rather, it’s woven through her, in her very DNA. And she apparently thinks I’m just like him.
A leaver.
“What the fuck?” I hiss. “Has a single thing you’ve learned about me given you any indication that I would do that to you? That I would respond well to an ultimatum like that?” I shouldn’t talk to her like that, but I’m pissed that she would think so little of me.
Her eyes lift, hope trying to blossom but being tamped down by her demons. “What?”
“I told him to fuck off,” I snort. “That I’d ride the pine tonight because I wasn’t gonna stop seeing you.”
“What?” she repeats. “You chose me? Why?” She seems legitimately confused by the idea.
My heart breaks for her. She truly thought I was going to choose hockey over her when I would never choose anything over her. She’s my first priority.
I drop to my knees in front of her, cupping her face in my hands and dragging her eyes to mine. Nose to nose, I tell her, “Briar, I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”
“You’re not?” she says softly.
I shake my head. “Woman, you couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to. I’m a teeny bit stubborn, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I don’t want to get rid of you. You’re my albatross.”
All the tension that’s been inside me since Coach’s bullshit decree melts away. He can fight this if he wants to, he can punish me, he can yell and scream in useless rage, but Briar and I are a team.
Us. Me, Briar, and Harley. And he can’t do a fucking thing about it.
“I’m your albatross,” I echo, laughing at how that somehow became our thing, but I will wait for this woman as long as she needs me to. Now, tomorrow, the day after that, forever. I can be patient for her. It’ll be worth it to have a forever with her.
I press a kiss to her lips, promising a lifetime of never-leaving and demon-slaying for this sweet, silly woman who brings so much sunshine to my life.
When I finally feel the beast in my chest subside, I put our foreheads together.
“So you don’t have to come tonight if you don’t want to. I’m gonna be benched.”
She pulls away, meeting my eyes with a surprising flintiness in her blue ones. “Agree to disagree. I’ll be there, proudly wearing your jersey. I have a few things I’d like to say to my dad too.”