I’m going to be a doctor in a few months. And while I don’tneedmy parents to support my choices anymore—I?—
With a choked little growl, I pick up the menu and glare at the choices in front of me.
Agreeing to have dinner with my estranged father was a mistake.
But it’s not one I’m going to exacerbate by causing a scene.
And he’s already pulled out his phone, so the part of dinner where he pretends to care about my life and gives me a lecture that he thinks passes for advice is over. He can tell my mother that he tried, but I’m hopeless, and intent on living in the hellscape that is Los Angeles for the rest of time.
If I don’t order dessert, we can be done with this charade in forty-five minutes. I’ll find the nearest bar, order myself in a glass of Prosecco (pretending it’s expensive champagne), and re-commit to not doing this again for another three years. Or even better, maybe never.
My father and I have never, will never, have anything in common.
CHAPTER 3
LOGAN
Coach
Think hard about the choices you make tonight
I stare at the text message from Coach Wilson again, furious with myself for letting him get under my skin.
I only ever make excellent choices.
And it’s my fucking birthday.
But it’s not like being born on New Year’s Eve has ever been good luck before. Why start now?
Sometimes I think I’m cursed, because I’m the only one of my siblings who was conceived in a year our father didn’t make the playoffs.
But I’m also the Granger kid who has only ever played regular season hockey. My three brothers? They’ve all played playoff games. Even our baby sister has had a taste of hockey excellence, at both collegiate and Olympic levels.
Not me, though. Not the kid who was conceived in the first week of April, instead of June like everyone else.
Coincidence? I don’t think so.
So now it’s New Year’s Eve, aka my birthday, and for the tenth year in a row, my team is dead last in the division.Destined to not make the playoffs,again. It’s not because I suck at hockey, either. I’m on pace for forty goals this year. Or I was, before my asshole coach healthy scratched me out of yesterday’s game, because he didn’t like my performance before and after the Christmas break.
I take a screenshot of the message, and then start to type out a question to the two guys on the team I’m closest with, Coop and Toth.Did you get this message from Coach?
But then I delete it before hitting send.
I don’t want them to think I’m pissy, even if I am.
And if he did send it to everyone…fine.
If he didn’t, and it actuallywaspersonal…I don’t want to fucking know that tonight.
The plane ride to Vegas was tense. I know I should shake it off. Tomorrow is another game. We’re halfway through the season, and at this point, it should be routine. I’m getting paid well to play hockey for a living. I know that I’m lucky.
Ishouldbe out with my teammates right now. Given our shitty performance lately, everyone is grateful that we didn’t have a curfew tonight.
If the rest of them didn’t get a nastygram from Coach, it might be because he thinks I’ll police the others.
Joke’s on him.
I’m not going out with anyone else. My choices tonight? They’re for me and me alone.
