I drag myself out of bed to shower, regretting the shots more than I did last night as I wash in the dark, going through the motions of muscle memory. I wince when I have to flip them on, but I’m glad I did because the raccoon eyes I’m rocking from not taking the five minutes to remove my makeup last night are horrendous. The best I can muster right now is semi-presentable, and I hope Dad can’t tell I’m hungover. It’s like a sixth sense for him after all the years he’s been coaching at Wilder University, he always seems to know when I’ve been drinking.
I falter as I enter the building where I used to spend every day, but by the time I reach Dad’s office, I’ve composed myself. He’s already sitting at his desk, flipping through his prized playbook, but he at least smiles when he sees me. “I feel like this is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks.”
Because it is.I’m surprised he noticed with how busy I’m sure he’s been with pre-season games.
I shrug, offering him a small smile as I sit in the chair on the other side of his desk. “I’ve been busy with class. Macy and her boyfriend broke up again, so we’ve been nursing her broken heart.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but my hangover is giving me looser lips than normal. “Have you been going to parties?”
“Of course. Every single night,andI get shit-faced at all of them,” I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm, and Dad’s face is priceless.
“Al—”
“I’m joking, Dad. You don’t need to lecture me like I’m one of your players,” I reply, playing with the cuff of my sweater.
He frowns, and I know I shouldn’t have said it. Dad will never admit he puts them over me, but there’s no denying the truth. I can’t act entirely innocent, though. Bradley took advantage of the cracks in my relationship with him and turned them into chasms. “You’re not one of my players. You’re my daughter.”
Funny. Where was he during my last skating competition, then?
“What am I here for?” I ask, the smile falling from my face.
Dad rubs his face, and I wonder if pretending everything is fine is as exhausting for him as it is for me. “I wanted to hear how things are going. Are you liking classes?”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up because I can feel the direction this conversation is going to take. He’s going to ask if I’ve reconsidered skating. I have a voicemail on my phone from my old coach asking the same question.
“I’ve got friends. Classes are fine. I’m fine,” I reply, feeling my headache start to rear its ugly head.
“Coach Presley called me the other day and asked if you were still keeping up with your training? He’s held your spot for you in case you’ve changed your mind.”
I cross my arms over my chest as I sink lower into the chair, looking away. The thought of stepping on the ice is unbearable. It’s not like I haven’t tried. “I quit skating. I haven’t stepped on the ice sinc—” I’m interrupted by the sound of guys laughing inthe locker room right outside the office, and I take that as my cue to leave, standing up from the seat.
If anything, I love hockey, but I wish it didn’t take my dad away from me. I started figure skating as a way to get his attention after Mom wouldn’t let me try hockey, but I stuck with it once I fell in love with the feeling of being on the ice. It always felt like I was flying, and there wasn’t a better feeling. In my world of colorful chaos, I was disciplined the moment I stepped on the ice, waking up and spending countless hours training to be the best.
I wanted to prove to my dad that even though I wasn’t playing hockey, I could still be good enough to make him proud.
I know hockey is his job, but I’m his daughter. I would have thought it meant something, but he still missed more competitions than he made it to. The moments when Dad was there made up for all the ones he wasn’t, but I can’t help wondering sometimes how different everything might have turned out if he’d been at the competition when I quit.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to step on the ice since then, but I still keep my skates under my bed to make it easy when I sneak out in the middle of the night. It feels a little pointless, considering I haven’t done anything other than stare at the beautiful, glassy ice every time I mustered the courage this past summer to use the copy of my dad’s key to get into the arena. I’d sit there for hours, paralyzed by the memories of the last time I skated.
Dad’s asked countless times before now, wanting to know why I quit, but I can’t explain. I don’t know how to make him understand why I accepted a love that left bruises where they wouldn’t be seen. Why I put up with it for as long as I did, at the cost of nearly everything, including myself.
But that was last year.
This year is a blank slate, ready to be painted with a kaleidoscope of colors I hope to find in myself again.
I just haven’t found a way to skate again.
“Alondra, we’re not done here.”
I roll my eyes and pull my braid over my shoulder. “Your team is here, so I think we are, Dad.”
I retreat before he can say anything else, but I collide with a large figure in the doorway. “Woah, don’t think I’ve seen someone run out of Coach’s office this fast since Baxter had to tell the team we were bag skating.” Strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me as everything within me tenses, moving in slow motion when I look up to make eye contact with Jack. “Alex?” he asks, his eyes widening.
Oh fuck. Jack is a fucking hockey player?
“Schultz, get your hands off my daughter,” Dad warns, a surprising bite to his tone, and I step back as Jack’s handsome face pales. His hands fall quickly to his sides as he looks over my head to my dad.
Schultz? As in JackSchultz?
