“Uh-uh,” my dad says, wagging his finger at me. “You can’t kid a kidder, Grover. I know exactly what’s on your mind.”
My father is the only person in the world who calls me by my given name, and I can guarantee he doesn’t know that my mind is alternating between two fantasies right now, hockey and French toast. My sex-starved brain could throw Liza into the mix, too, but dad would never guess that. He hasn’t made it to a game yet this season, so Dutton’s the only housemate of mine he’s met, and that’s because my friendship with Sparky goes all the way back to preschool.
As I swallow my last bite of salmon, I have the strange feeling that I’m being watched. My first thought is that maybe Liza started her shift early, but that’s crazy. She would have texted. And this isn’t even the restaurant she works at. My gaze darts around the room, looking for a familiar face, but it comes up empty. I’m starting to think I’m just paranoid until I turn back to my father and see his eyes pinned on mine. He’s not being accusatory, and he doesn’t even look pissed. But he is staring me down.
Shit. Maybe there’s honey-maple-whatever glaze dribbling down my chin. I dab at my face with a napkin and force my face into an easy smile. “What’s up, Dad?” I ask as casually as I can manage.
“Yep. You can’t hide it from me. You got wind of Kent Selkirk’s bachelor party, didn’t you? Probably heard about it on Facetalk. Jim and I go way back, you know. Even before we rushed Sigma Psi, we were friends at Avonworth. I’m sure I can give him a buzz and let him know you’d love to join the guys’ trip. The Selkirks are good contacts to have. I’ve nurtured that relationship over the years, and I’ll be happy to pass that torch to you when the time comes. Jim’s got a lot of diverse investments,but they pay off. Now, I’m not foolish enough to think you boys are going to be talking stocks and bonds all weekend,” Dad says with an exaggerated wink, “but that’s how deals get done, Grover. It’s high time you learned that first-hand. You go for a round of golf, you chat about your kids’ school play and the boat you’re thinking of buying, but what you’re really doing is laying that foundation so that when your clients are ready to make a move, you’re right there to guide them.”
Dad’s beaming at me like the little speech he just gave is the equivalent of him passing down generational wisdom. It isn’t. I’m not a total dumbass. I understand schmoozing and kissing ass. I just don’t like them. And I really don’t like Kent Selkirk. That guy’s a dickhead. I have no clue how he convinced some poor girl to marry him, but I’d bet my sweet ass he’s planning to cheat on her in Sin City. And I guaran-fucking-tee he’ll crow about the secrets Vegas keeps. He and his douchebag crew will chuckle about that for sure. But I won’t be laughing. And I won’t be with them.
“That’s nice of you to offer, Dad, but when is the trip again?”
“It’s sometime in mid-March. You’ll be glad for a couple days in the heat after the winter we’re having.” He drains the last of his martini and snaps his fingers in the air to signal that he’s ready for the check.
“I won’t be able to make it since I’m still in season. It’s probably the same weekend as Regionals.”
A shadow falls across my dad’s face, the same way it does anytime we talk hockey. He sighs loudly, then takes a drink of water. An uncomfortable silence falls between us because we have a deal, my dad and I. After graduation, I’ll head straight for grad school, maintain excellent grades, kiss all the ass I’m asked to, and join his investment firm. That’s the dream he mapped out for me before the ink on my birth certificate was dry. It’s not a life plan I’d ever naturally drift toward, but he’s my dad,and he’s provided for me my entire life. Taking over Halliday Financial is a foregone conclusion. It’s not optional.
I tried to buck the system my senior year of high school, and that didn’t go well. Dutton was entering the draft, and I was getting interest, too. I got caught up in the possibility of it all, the idea that playing my favorite game could be my actual job. Dad was quick to set me straight and let me know I’d be on my own if I dared to pursue that track. I was a hotheaded eighteen-year-old, so I thought about it. But hockey’s a risky career, and the competition is insane. Only the very best of the very best actually make it to the NHL. I may not love math, but I understand statistics, and the numbers aren’t in my favor. When you add in the chance of injury, it was an obvious no for me.
I did retain one victory from the battle, though. I agreed to his terms, one one condition. I secured myself four glorious years of college hockey. That’s the compromise we agreed on. So even though he wants to make a dig about my schedule or explain that a boys’ weekend in Vegas will serve me better in my future than chasing a puck around the ice, he can’t do it. I promised not to bitch about following his orders, as long as he doesn’t comment on my hockey career, short-lived though it is.
You’d think most guys in his position would want to brag about their son and his team’s accomplishments, and I’m sure he uses it to his advantage whenever he can. But around me? It’s like hockey doesn’t exist. Like it’s my mistress and he’s choosing to turn a blind eye to my affair.
It’s so fucking weird, but it’s my life.
My dad wads up his linen napkin and places it on the table, drawing my attention back to our meal. Our waiter approaches the table, check in hand, and that means I have about five minutes left before I can get out of here.
Until my father opens his mouth. “It was chewy and overcooked,” he says, pointing to his nearly empty plate. “Yes,I ate it. I had no choice. I motioned for your attention several times, Jake,” Dad says, peering up the server’s name tag.
They go back and forth for a few minutes, but I tune them out completely so I can check my phone and make it to the Wolf’s Den in time for our meeting and for conditioning afterward. I’ve watched this play out a million times and it always ends the same way: with my dad winning. He doesn’t shout or draw attention to himself. That’s not his style. He doesn’t even care about the money. That’s not what motivates him. And he knows damn well there was nothing wrong with the food. That’s why he practically inhaled it.
What he’s pissed about is being ignored. He tried to flag down our server a few different times, and couldn’t. My dad is not a patient man and he wholeheartedly believes that the customer is always right, and if the servers don’t appear within seconds and if they don’t cater to his every desire and basically read his mind, then they aren't doing their job.
And his job is to set them straight.
It’s embarrassing as hell, and I’m not sticking around for it. I motion to my watch before flinging my thumb over my shoulder, indicating that I’m going to be late, so I need to hustle.
My dad nods absently and waves me off. He’s far more interested in dressing down a waiter and making sure that the cost of his meal comes out of the poor kid’s paycheck.
I can’t deal with my dad’s bullshit today. Nope. I’ve got a year and a half of freedom left and I’m going to soak up every second.
“All right, hive mind, gather round,” Ollie announces as we shuffle into the weight room. Our meeting is over, and since some of the guys came in for morning workouts, they’ve alreadyheaded home or to the dining hall. Lucky bastards. But those of us who chose to sleep in this morning have to hit the weights now.
It’s not so bad. We have state-of-the-art equipment, and we have enough team comedians to keep us entertained for hours. Honestly, like most of the guys in this room, I love a good workout. There’s something about putting the work in every day and seeing results that keeps me motivated. The other thing is the fact that, come game day, guys who are every bit as big as I am will be barreling down the ice at full speed. I have no desire to get run over, and that's all the motivation I need. I prefer to be the steamroller, not the steamrolled, and that’s what keeps me in this gym day in and day out.
But I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to right now, because our team captain is holding court and he’s enlisted our help for who the hell knows what. Because it’s Ollie, it really could be anything. He could just as easily be asking for recommendations for a world language tutor, or he could be asking us all to vote on which tie he should wear for his next job interview.
Bound by responsibility and curiosity, we convene around his weight bench like we’re trying to answer some strange riddle, and he’s got a hint for us.
“What’s up?” Dime, one of the freshmen, asks.
Ollie eyes each of us for a beat, apparently finds us all worthy, and opens his mouth. “I need to know where to take Fallon for our anniversary.”
No one says a word, but we’re all wearing the samewhat-the-fuck?expression. Unsurprisingly, my bestie, Dutton, is the one to call Ollie on his shit. “Your anniversary isn’t until Halloween, jackass. And it’s still January.”
“Technically, we got married at one o’clock in the morning, so our anniversary is November first,” Ollie corrects him.
