“No, actually, you didn’t.”
Not that I’m surprised. The woman is only a year or two older than me, and it was clear from the start that she didn’t give a shit about my dad—outside of how much money was in his bank account—and he didn’t give a shit about anything more than her bra size. That’s how it goes with my father. I’ve lost track of the number of times the man has been married. I’m not sure why heeven bothers. He cheats on all his wives, anyway, so what’s the point of legally binding yourself to someone? It just means he pisses away more of his money with every divorce settlement.
Ryder watches me curiously, but I shake my head. The other guys know all about Owen Byrne—cheater, narcissist, and serial groom—but Ryder is a newer addition to our group, so I suppose I’ll have to tell him all about my dad later.
“Ah, well, irreconcilable differences and all that,” my dad says with a chuckle. As if all of this is hilarious and notsad.
“I’m sure you’ll meet someone new next week.” I mutter the words low enough that I don’t think my dad hears. If he does, he ignores me.
“When are you going to settle down, son?”
“Dad, I’m not going to talk about this with you. I gotta go get ready for the game.” As if my words have summoned him, Coach Fry chooses that moment to walk into the locker room and clap his hands. “Coach is here. Have fun watching the game with your buddies.”
“Make sure you win.” And with that parting shot, my dad disconnects the call without so much as agoodbye.
“You good?” Ryder asks under his breath as Coach starts his pep talk.
I nod, needing a second to compose my thoughts before I can answer. Because I’m used to my dad’s bullshit. He’s been like this for as long as I can remember. And after my mom left us, it was the closest I got to encouragement or affection. Still, even after all these years, I can’t deny how hollow I feel every time I hang up the phone with him.
Clearing my throat, I force a smile to my lips. “I’m good, man. Just ready to get out on the ice.”
Ryder claps my shoulder. “I’ve got your back out there.”
“I know.”
Chances are, I’m going to need him to have my back tonight, too. Irritation morphs into aggression, and I’m ready to slam some Stags into the boards. I’ll imagine they’re wearing my dad’s face, and it’ll be easy.
“All right, men, tonight’s the night. The home start of a new season. We overcame a lot last year and made it farther than anyone expected. This year, we’re going all the way.”
My teammates and I clap and cheer as Coach Fry grins. He’s looking dapper for the first home game of the preseason in a charcoal gray suit, Rogues’ gold tie, and a brand-new haircut that highlights his strong features and how young he is for being a head coach. Mike Fry is in his forties and took over toward the end of last season when our former coach found out Ryder Hanson was dating his daughter. It was a shitshow of epic proportions, but Fry never let the situation eclipse the team.
I respect the hell out of the man.
His skin is a darker shade of amber than it was at the close of last season, and he glows like he just got back from a Caribbean summer home. Maybe he did, the lucky bastard. Running a hand over his close-cropped fade, Coach Fry smiles widely at us all.
“I’m proud of every single one of you. You’ve busted your asses training for this game, and I know you’re just as hungry to dominate this season as I am. So, get out there and play like hell. Your family, friends, and the people that keep this organization running are filling those seats. Let’s give ’em a helluva show.”
The guys all cheer, and for a moment, I wish I had someone sitting in the seats who was there just for me. What would it be like to have parents that showed up just because they loved you? Or even a brother or sister? Maybe a wife?
Fuck. Where did that thought come from?Not letting myself go there. Nope.
“Ready?” Griffin claps me on the back. His eyes glitter with anticipation, and that’s all it takes to clear my head of thoughts that won’t get me anywhere.
I nod. “Ready. Let’s kick Denver’s ass.”
The crowd gaspsas I slam Denver’s defenseman into the boards. It’s been a physical game, which is exactly what I was craving. Despite anticipating the kind of garbage my dad would end up spewing when I answered his call, it still digs deep beneath my skin, stinging and irritating, until I feel like I’m about to explode.
Dad’s probably watching and congratulating himself for hyping me up with hispep talk. After all, the man loves to take credit for my successes while dodging any responsibility for my struggles. I doubt it would even cross his mind that the reason I’m playing so aggressively is because I’m pissed at him. Then again, even if it did, he wouldn’t care.
Growing up with a famous NHL star for a father sucked. Every team I joined from grade school through college, my teammates couldn’t stop talking about how amazing my dad was, that he was their favorite player, that it was no wonder I was so good, and how lucky I was to havetheOwen Byrne for a father.
It wasn’t until I joined the pros that people stopped treating my hard work and success as some byproduct of my dad’s own wins. Well, for the most part. My first couple of years in the NHL saw a few guys who loved to claim I won my spot on the team because of who my daddy was.
I loved showing those guys how wrong they were when I slammed them into the boards, then scored on their goalies.
But then I landed here, in Minneapolis, and finally found my family. These guys are more than just my teammates; they’re the brothers I always wanted. Maddox, Griffin, Sebastian, and even Ryder couldn’t care less who my dad is. They don’t give two shits about where I got my last name. Hell, the times they’ve met my dad, they made it pretty clear they thought he was a giant asshole.
They have my back because they care about me, and they’re the reason I work so hard to be the best. Not because Owen Byrne lectured me or because his fucking reputation is on the line. I fight to be the best because I want to make a name for myself. One outside of my father. And because my brothers deserve to call themselves champions.
