Chapter Twenty-Two
Gale’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he strode through the player’s entrance at the arena. He fished it out and saw it was
his dad’s care center.
A cold dread settled in his gut as he swiped to answer. “Yeah?”
“Am I speaking to Mr. Gale Knight?”
Something in the woman’s tone made his steps falter. “Yeah, how can I help you?”
A pause. Then: “My name is Rocio Perea and I’m a nurse practitioner over at Bluebonnet. I’m very sorry to inform you that
your father passed away around ten minutes ago.”
The world tilted on its axis. Gale’s vision tunneled, the corridor stretching into infinity. He vaguely registered his bag
slipping from his shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Mr. Knight? Are you there?”
Was he? He wasn’t sure. His body felt distant, disconnected. Like he was floating above himself, watching some poor schmuck
get the news that the father who’d walked out on him years ago had finally managed to make his disappearing act permanent.
“Did he suffer?” The word scraped out of his throat.
“No. He went peacefully in his sleep.”
Peacefully. Right. Because Jim Knight deserved peace after all the chaos he’d left in his wake.
“Mr. Knight, I know this is difficult, but there are some arrangements we need to discuss—”
“No,” Gale interrupted sharply. “I’ve done enough. Do what you need and send me the bill.”
He ended the call before she could respond, staring at the blank screen. The urge to hurl the phone against the wall, to watch
it shatter into a million pieces, was nearly overwhelming. Instead, he shoved it back into his pocket, bending to retrieve
his fallen bag.
As he straightened, he caught sight of his reflection in a nearby trophy case. For a heart-stopping moment, he saw his father
staring back at him. That fucking ghostly image that had been haunting him for months. The same sharp jaw, the same storm-cloud
eyes. Gale’s hands clenched into fists. He’d spent the last few years trying to be the dutiful son, handling his father’s
care when Brooke balked. And for what? So his dad could die anyway, with no closure in sight?
“Yo, Knight! You planning on joining us anytime soon?”
Orlenko’s voice cut through the fog in Gale’s head. He blinked, realizing he’d been standing there like an idiot for who knows
how long.
“Yeah,” he managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “I’m coming.”
He followed his teammate into the locker room, the cacophony of pregame rituals washing over him. Guys taping sticks, adjusting
pads, trash-talking across the room. It was familiar. Comforting. And right now, it felt like the only solid thing in Gale’s
world.
“Going to keep this new streak going?” Comeau called as he entered. “Nothing like a healthy scratch to scare a guy straight,
am I right?”
Friendly jabs, usually fuel for his competitive fire, barely registered. He grunted something noncommittal and made his way to his stall, focusing on the routine of suiting up. Each piece of equipment was a barrier between him and the weight threatening to pull him under.
“Earth to Knight,” Brandon’s voice pierced through his haze. “You good, man? Looking a little sick there.”
Gale forced a smirk. “Just basking in the glow of your ugly mug, Brandy.”
The chirp lacked bite, but it seemed to satisfy the center, who flipped him off with a grin before turning back to his own
preparations.
“Alright, listen up!” Coach’s voice boomed through the locker room, snapping Gale’s attention to the front. “We’ve got a chance
to climb back into a playoff spot tonight. I need every single one of you giving a hundred and ten percent out there. No passengers.
No excuses.”
His eyes locked on Gale. “Knight, you’re back on the second line with Comeau and Orlenko. Don’t fuck it up.”
He nodded, jaw clenched. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not when the ice was the only place where the world made sense anymore.
As they filed out for warm-ups, Tucker Taylor fell into step beside him.
“Glad you’re back in the saddle,” Tucker said, his voice muffled behind his mask. His head tilted, those sharp eyes taking
in more than he wanted to reveal. “You alright, man?”
“Peachy,” Gale bit out, picking up his pace. “Ready to play.”
The familiar rush of cold air as they hit the ice was a relief, clearing some of the fog from his head. He threw himself into
warm-ups with a vengeance, as if he could outskate the specters chasing him.
But as the national anthem played and the lights dimmed for player introductions, reality came crashing back. His father was dead. His mother was dead. Brooke was going to pretend like it was just another day. And Gale? Gale was expected to play the game of his life.
The puck dropped, and chaos erupted.
From the first shift, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a finesse game. The visiting team, the Salt Lake Scorpions, came
out swinging, clearly intent on using their physicality over puck handling for a win.
Gale ground his teeth, fighting for every inch of ice. His passes were a hair too hard, his shots just off the mark. With
every missed opportunity, frustration built in his chest like a pressure cooker ready to blow. Not again. Not when he was
finally back.
“Come on, Knight!” Brandon bellowed, skating past. “Get your head out of your ass!”
The truth was his head was full of ghosts.
Midway through the second period, with the Regals down by two, Gale finally caught a break. Orlenko won a battle along the
boards, sending the puck skittering toward center ice. Gale pounced, scooping it up and streaking toward the Scorpions’ net.
The defenseman never stood a chance. Gale deked left, then right, leaving the poor bastard twisted up like a pretzel. He was
in alone, nothing between him and glory but six feet of pissed-off goaltender.
Time slowed. In that moment, he saw his father’s face. Not the way it had looked in that final goodbye. No, this was Jim Knight
grinning as he showed a young Gale how to roof a backhander. Before leaving. Before the accident that scrambled his brains.
Muscle memory took over. His stick flashed, the puck soaring over the goalie’s shoulder. The red light flashed. The horn blared.
The crowd erupted.
And Gale? He felt nothing at all.
His teammates mobbed him, whooping and hollering. He went through the motions, bumping fists, nodding at the congratulations. But inside, he was hollow. Empty.
What was the point of it all if the one person he’d been trying to impress his whole life wasn’t around to see it? If his
mom wasn’t in the stands, cheering louder than anyone?
The goal should have been a turning point. Instead, it was like picking a scab. As the third period wore on, his temper frayed.
Five minutes left on the clock. Gale battled for position in front of the Scorpions’ net, jockeying with their burly defenseman.
An elbow caught him in the ribs. Once. Twice.
“You like that, boy?” the D-man sneered. “Bet your daddy never taught you how to take a hit.”
All the rage, all the grief he’d been holding back, erupted in a savage roar. Gale’s gloves hit the ice. His fists connected
with flesh.
He was only vaguely aware of the linesman trying to pull them apart, of the crowd’s bloodthirsty cheers. All he could see
was his father’s face, sneering down at him. All he could feel were fifteen years of abandonment pouring out through his knuckles.
When the refs finally managed to separate them, Gale’s opponent was a bloody mess. But it was the look on Coach’s face that
really registered. Disappointment. Disgust.
The ref’s arm shot up, signaling a game misconduct. Gale didn’t bother to argue. He just skated to the box, then headed straight
down the tunnel to the locker room.
Inside, the silence was deafening. He stripped off his gear with savage efficiency, barely feeling the sting of torn knuckles
and bruised ribs. His thoughts were a hurricane, memories of his father swirling with the disappointment of letting his team
down.
What would tomorrow’s headlines say? How many more chances would they give him before—
The thought choked him. He couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t face the possibility that he might have just flushed his career down the toilet. All because he couldn’t keep his shit together for one game.
He wanted to leave, to get in his truck and not look back. Cross state lines. Head for a horizon. But he had to stay. Take
whatever Coach was going to dish out after the game.
“Knight.” When it was time, Coach did that quiet thing. Controlled. Somehow, that was worse than yelling. “You want to tell
me what the hell that was out there?”
Gale’s throat worked, but no words came out. He just needed to say his dad was dead, but it felt like an excuse, like a crutch.
Because his dad wasn’t a regular dad who you could mourn in a normal way. His dad killed two people, wrecked his brain, ruined
his family, destroyed his legacy.
“I asked you a question, son.”
Don’t call me that. The words rose up, bitter as bile. Gale swallowed them down. “No excuse, sir,” he managed.
“Damn right there’s no excuse.” Coach’s voice gained heat. “I put you back in the lineup because I thought you were ready.
Clearly, I was mistaken.”
Each word was a dagger, slicing between Gale’s ribs with surgical precision. He wanted to argue, to explain. But the words
wouldn’t come. They were locked away somewhere, trapped behind the lump in his throat and the steel bands constricting his
chest.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Coach continued, “and frankly, I don’t care. You leave that shit at home, you hear
me? When you step on my ice, you’re a hockey player. Nothing more, nothing less.”
My ice. The possessive stung more than it should have. This was the only home Gale had left, and he’d just taken a wrecking
ball to it.
“You’re suspended for the next two games,” Coach said flatly. “I suggest you use that time to get your head screwed on straight. Because I promise you, Knight, you’ve run out of chances. Now get out of my office and out of my sight.”
Gale didn’t know how he got to his truck. He sat there in the parking spot for a long time, staring at nothing. The sounds
of the city filtered through the rolled-up windows—muffled laughter, a horn. Life going on without him.
Eventually, he shoved the key in the ignition. He caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror and froze.
It was happening a-fucking-gain.
Jim Knight stared back at him.
It wasn’t just the physical resemblance, though that was striking enough. No, this time it was the look in his eyes. That
mix of anger and fear, of defiance and shame. The look of a man who knew he was fucking it all up but couldn’t seem to help
himself.
Gale’s stomach roiled. Was this how it started for his dad? A bad game, a worse decision, and suddenly you’re on a downward
spiral you can’t pull out of?
He couldn’t ask. Because his father was dead.
The thought was like ice water in his veins. He’d spent years running from his father’s shadow, determined not to repeat his
mistakes. And here he was, following the same self-destructive playbook.
“I’m not you,” he hissed to his father’s ghost, the words tasting of ash and broken dreams.
But denial was a child’s game, and Gale was running out of lies to tell himself.
What terrified him most wasn’t the anger—it was the uncertainty. The not knowing what lurked in the depths of his own heart.
How could he trust himself when his veins pulsed with his father’s blood? The same blood that had fueled both tenderness and
cruelty.
Unbidden, a memory surfaced: his father’s laughter on a sun-drenched afternoon, strong arms lifting Gale high above the Gulf’s waves. For a heartbeat, love eclipsed the pain. But the shadow returned, relentless. If his father could be both monster and protector, what did that make Gale?
He straightened, a marionette with fraying strings. The game was lost, but that was the least of it. He’d bared his teeth
at the ref, tasted blood on his knuckles. Loved a father who’d taught him both how to hit a puck and how to shatter a family.
Here he was, barely holding it together, wondering when everyone would finally see through him. Harriet deserved someone whole,
not someone who kept searching her face for the moment she’d realize he wasn’t enough. Wasn’t worth the effort.