I didn’t think I’d miss this stadium as much as I have. We have three games in New Orleans before we have an away game. I don’t remember this rigorous a schedule when I was in high school, but maybe it’s been long enough for my mind to forget.
Santo and I are still talking in messages, and he’ll send me photos with Levon occasionally now too. They’re cute together, and I can see how well they get along. I still don’t know where I fit as their scent match, but I suppose I’ll need to find out soon.
Dad moves over to sit by me, his eyes on the ice and his players.
“Tell me what you see,” he says urgently, lips pursed.
“I see a coach that’s stressing too much,” I say mildly.
He gives me a thumb down, making me roll my eyes.
“Fine,” I murmur, watching as the team scrimmages. “Troy is about two seconds delayed on his reaction time. He’s distracted. Conroy is a freaking demon, and he’s helping Troy pick up the slack it seems. Number…fifteen? Crap, his name is escaping me. His footwork could be tighter.”
“Anything else?” he grunts.
Getting comfortable, I give him a running commentary, knowing I can take the break from recording. I have enough content from practices.
“Okay,” he breathes. “I can work with all of that.”
“Dad, they’re doing great,” I tell him. “I’d tell you if they weren’t.”
“Hmm,” he says, standing. “Alright, let’s call it! Troy, can I talk to you for a second?”
Inwardly, I wince. I heard Troy arguing with his wife on the phone a few days ago. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was walking by and he was yelling. His wife, Ella, doesn’t believe that he was taken advantage of. Somehow, someone from the hotel staff leaked that there was evidence of duct tape in the room.
While this is true, it wasn’t for the kinky fuckery the sleazy media rags are pretending it was. Shuddering in disgust, I begin to put my stuff away. The Zamboni comes through the practice rink as we finish up, and I mindlessly watch it until my dad drops a bag beside me.
“Lace up,” he grunts, before talking to the assistant coach.
Ugh. Is this his version of a heart to heart? Are we making this a thing now?
Opening the bag, I pull on my skates, nodding at the Zamboni driver as he leaves the rink. The ice is polished and perfect, waiting for me to mess it up.
Dad sits down and pulls on his skates quickly in jerky movements, as if he’s angry.
“What is going on?” I ask, confused. His scent even smells burned, which is a sign that he’s not simply annoyed, but really upset about something.
“In a second,” he grumbles. “On the ice, let’s go.”
Dad follows me on the ice as I begin stretching my muscles slowly. Rolling my neck muscles slowly as I skate, I begin releasing any bad energy I may be feeling, despite the angry alpha skating behind me.
He’ll talk when he’s ready.
“The Scorpions are playing near New Orleans tonight before they play against us tomorrow,” he says slowly.
“Mmhmm,” I say, deciding to make him work for it.
“You’re such a shit,” he groans.
“I’m aware,” I sing, picking up speed to jump and crash back down.
Dad picks up speed so that we’re side by side, and I wait for his next words.
“It’s about a forty minute drive,” he continues. “You should offer that information and see if they want to meet up. I’m not saying I like any of them, but scent matches are important, Cae.Just be sure to also let them know I’ll remove their knots from their bodies with your knife if they hurt you.”
“Um…What?” I ask. “You…I…”
“I’m not hitting you in the back of the head like I do my players when they’re broken,” he warns with a smile.
