Unannounced, but impossible to miss.
He brought two cameramen, a sound guy, and Jerry, the producer ofHendricks Unchecked,with him. Something I really wish Coach McKibbon would ban, but he said his hands are tied by the higher-ups who want to use this as publicity for the school.
Publicity for the school—that's what I am to them. To everyone. Just a way to see my dad. The greatest hockey player who has ever lived. The guy no one can hate.
But some days…
No.
I push that thought out of my head. I don't hate him. He's given me every opportunity and more. He's rooting against his alma mater and wearing my jersey because he's supportingme.
Hendricks. Hendricks. Hendricks.
It’s just fucking hard when the crowd is chantinghisname. Not mine.
Coach McKibbon motions for me to get back on the ice, and as I push out of the door, Erik knocks into me.
“You good, Mr. Stanley Cup?” Erik mutters beside me, his eyes on the referee.
“I'm great.”
“You don't look it.” He leaves me with that before skating to his position.
I don't look it. Yeah, I fucking know.
I’ve been off my game since my dad showed up, which makes it a miracle we’re still in the lead.
The ref drops the puck, and I win the face-off, sending it back to Brooks, but my timing is off. Rome U's center nearly intercepts it.
“Shit,” I mutter, skating hard to recover position.
For the next eight minutes, I'm a half-second behind on every play. Not enough that Coach pulls me, but enough that I know. Erik, Alex, and Brooksknow. Even Dash sees it from the other side of the ice. Hell, the whole damn team knows I'm not playing my best.
Buzz.
The final buzzer sounds, and somehow we win, 4-2. I should feel relieved that even during my worst, we managed to pull through. Instead, I feel like I’m deadweight. Imagine how well the team would've done without me there to ruin it for them.
“Great game, boys!” Coach McKibbon shouts as we file off the ice. “Hendricks, nice assist on that last goal.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The assist was luck more than skill—Erik did all the work, and I just happened to be in the right place.
In the locker room, the guys are celebrating, but I'm already stripping off my gear as fast as possible. If I can just get out of here before—
“And here he comes! My boy, Scotty Hendricks, number ninety-seven!”
Too late.
My father's voice booms through the locker room, and everyone goes quiet. He strides in with a cameraman right behind him, the bright light from the camera making me squint.
“Dad.” I force a smile, very aware of my teammates watching and being filmed. Bet they all hate being filmed in the locker room, but we have no choice if we’re in the main section after the dean signed a waiver for us. I knew it was coming. Jerry can’t contain himself, but that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. “Thanks for coming.”
He wraps me in a hug before messing my hair up. “You know I want to make it to as many games as possible.”
Yeah, I do. Games—practice—fucking team bonding. You want to be there for it all.
He pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, positioning us so we're both facing the camera. “Folks, what you just witnessed was pure Hendricks magic. That assist in the third period—textbook play. Just like I taught him.”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”
