Chapter 10
I smell the whiskey before I see him.
"There's my NHL star!" My father's voice carries across the room right before the entrance of the locker room, slurred and too loud. "Big game today, right?"
Every muscle in my body locks. He's not supposed to be here. Not supposed to know about this game. Not supposed to ruin this too. "Dad?"
One of the assistant coaches approaches cautiously, catching me calling this old drunk lad dad. He glances at me as he says, "Mr. Thompson?" I nod at him that he’s correct. This drunk idiot is my father. He continues, "This area is players only—"
"That's my son!" Dad lurches forward, grabbing my jersey. "Got his mother's eyes but my right hook, don't you, Knoxy boy?"
The team goes silent. They know pieces of my story – grew up rough, alcoholic father, hockey as my only way out. But they've never seen it up close.
The last time I saw my father at a hockey game, I was sixteen.
He showed up drunk to my championship match, picked a fight with another player's dad, and got escorted out by security.
That night, I found mom crying over broken dishes and empty bottles.
The next morning, she was gone – leaving nothing but a note saying she couldn't do it anymore.
I stayed until graduation, if you could call it staying.
Dad would disappear for days, then weeks, surfacing only to raid my hockey equipment fund or pass out on our porch.
I worked two jobs between practices, learned to dodge bill collectors, and kept my dreams of the NHL alive on protein bars and pure spite.
The only reason I made it to university was Coach Evans seeing something worth saving during a showcase game.
Now Dad surfaces every few months like a bad luck penny – usually when he sees my name in hockey blogs or draft predictions.
He'll show up sober, full of promises about getting clean, about being there for my big moment, about being the father he should have been.
It never lasts. But this is the first time he's shown up before a game.
I'm trying to figure out how to handle this without violence when a clear voice cuts through the tension.
"Mr. Thompson?" Kennedy appears between us, somehow making her five-foot-seven frame seem larger. "I'm Kennedy Walters. Why don't you come with me? The seats I reserved are much better than standing around here."
Dad blinks at her, thrown by her calm confidence. "Seats?"
"Of course." She loops her arm through his like they're old friends. "Knox mentioned you might come. I made sure to get a spot where you can really see the game."
It's a lie. A beautiful, perfect lie delivered with such conviction that I want to worship the ground she walks on.
"That's... that's real nice of you." Dad's voice softens, like they all do around Kennedy. "You're Richard Walters' girl? The one dating my boy?"
Great. That’s why he’s here. He must’ve seen some shit about me in the news alongside the big Walter name.
"I am." She catches my eye over his shoulder, and I silently thank her. "And I'd love to hear some stories about Knox growing up while we walk."
Just like that, she leads him away. I watch them go, her designer coat next to his worn jacket, her smooth lies calming his drunk anger.
"Dude." Ace claps my shoulder. "My sister is good."
It's not real, I want to say. But the words stick in my throat.
The game starts rough. I'm distracted, knowing my father's in the stands with Kennedy. Knowing all the shit he could say to her. All the ways he could destroy this careful thing we've built.
"Thompson!" Coach barks after I miss an easy check. "Head in the game!"
Yeah. I throw myself into it, channeling everything into clean hits and smart plays instead of my usual bruiser tactics. No fights, no penalties – just controlled power and precise movements.
It works. We're up 3-1 by the third period, and I've managed to protect our guys without throwing a single punch.
"Looking good out there." Coach catches me between periods. "Much more disciplined. Like you've finally found your balance."
I scan the stands automatically. Kennedy's still with my father, but now they're surrounded by other players' families. Protecting her even when I can't.
The final buzzer sounds on a 4-1 victory. I'm halfway to the locker room when I spot them.
My father's crying.
Not angry drunk tears, but the quiet, broken kind I remember from childhood. Kennedy's hand is on his arm, her expression gentle but firm as she speaks too quietly for me to hear.
Something cracks in my chest.
"She's good for you, man." Ace watches his sister handle my drunk father with more grace than he deserves. "I've never seen you so... steady. Better control. Even after he showed. I thought for sure you’d be out of it for the game. Even Coach noticed."
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "She's... yeah." Everything.
Kennedy and Dad spot me and walk over. Ace walks on.
"Good game, son. Real good game." He's still drunk, but something's different. Softer. "Your girl here, she thinks maybe I could... maybe I could try again. Getting clean."
"That's... that's good, Dad." I glance at Kennedy, suddenly worried about what direction this will go. She’s witnessing the piece of shit man who raised me, and I pray she doesn’t think I’ll end up just like him.
"I'll help him get home," Kennedy says, reading my face perfectly. "You have team obligations."
"Kenny—"
"Trust me." Her hand brushes mine, barely a touch but enough to ground me. "It's okay."
I watch them leave, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
"Knox!" Harvey calls from the locker room. "Post-game breakdown!"
The team meeting passes in a blur. All I can think about is Kennedy with my father. How easily she stepped in. How naturally she handled him. How she saw exactly what I needed and just... did it without question.
She's waiting at my house when I finally get home.
Ace walks in. "Hey, sis. You good?"
She nods. "Yeah. Good game."
He kisses her forehead and then leaves us.
"He's safe," she says before I can ask. "Got him home. Left him with AA pamphlets and the number of a good counselor."
"You didn't have to do that." And I want to say she shouldn’t have. She shouldn’t have hope that he’s going to change. He’s far too gone.
"I know." She steps closer, reading the tension in my shoulders. "But I wanted to."
"Kenny..."
"Don't." She presses her hands to my chest, and just like that, the rage I've been carrying all night starts to fade. "Don't shut down. Don't push me away. Just... let me help."
I should step back. Should remember this is fake. Should protect myself from how much I'm starting to need her.
Instead, I kiss her.
Not like our usual kisses – all heat and possession and performance. This is slower, deeper, heavy with things I can't say. Her hands slide up to my neck, holding me like I'm something precious instead of broken.
When we break apart, her eyes are soft with understanding.
"It’s going to be okay," she whispers.
And just like that, she's demolished every wall I've built.
Because she sees me. Really sees me. Not the enforcer, not the bad boy, not the charity case dating a senator's daughter. Just... me.
This time I smash my lips against hers, dropping my duffle bag to the ground, and carry her to my room. She makes that sweet sound I fucking love. I shut the door behind me and release her.
I pull her to my bed and turn on the TV.
"A movie?" I ask.
She nods politely, curling against my side while I scroll through stupid movies that we’re going to pretend to watch. When she steals the remote, I study her face, memorizing every detail.
This is dangerous.
The draft is in eight weeks. I can't afford distractions. Can't risk everything I've worked for. Can't let myself need someone this much.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.
I pull her closer. "Maybe another time. That one’s a good movie."
When she falls asleep on my shoulder, I kiss the top of her head and wonder what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into.
I know it's too late.
Kennedy Walters has become as necessary as breathing.
And I need to take everything she’s willing to give me.
Because I can’t lose her.