Or an escape fund to move to another province and start over, my inner voice supplied, unhelpfully.It’s that or use it to fund three-quarters of a computer science degree at any university that would take you as a mature student.
As much as I wished I’d been brave enough four years ago to tell my dad to “fuck off” and just leave Sudbury to go to school, the guilt and responsibility I felt because of my mom’s MS had crushed that idea without Dad even finding out about my acceptance letters.
People talked like it was the simplest thing in the world to say, “fuck it all,” and choose your own dreams. But the reality was that a statement like that had never, nor would it ever, apply to my life.
If anything, I was more trapped now—financially and emotionally—than I had been at eighteen. Dad hadn’t had a steady job for more than two months at a time in recent years. Without any kind of health benefits provided by an employer, all of the services that really helped Mom when she was in a flare-up had to be paid out of pocket.
And that was on top of the mortgage, utilities, and all the other monthly bills. My dad kept me in the dark about how my hockey money was allocated for the family’s expenses, which meant that, unless my mom told me specifically about something she needed, all of the decisions about her care defaulted to Dad.
With all of my family stress hanging around my neck, it was a wonder I could ever think about anything else. But in the hours that had passed since sneaking into the arena, I’d done nothing but stare at the ceiling in my room and worry about what Asher thought of me after last night and this morning.
Usually, I had too much going on to consider anyone’s judgment other than my dad’s. Between hockey, my job at the local rec center in the off-season and shuttling my mom to hervarious doctor appointments when I was at home in Sudbury, my schedule didn’t allow me to dwell on shit.
You’ve also never embarrassed yourself in front of your personal and professional hero twice in less than twenty-four hours, either.
Even ten hours later, while squeezed into a large corner booth between Kovac and Hawkins, my cheeks still felt heated with embarrassment.
It also didn’t help that I had an unobstructed view of the man in question, despite the number of tables the restaurant had cobbled together to accommodate so many of us.
“Doing okay, Caden?” I felt more than heard Kovac’s low-pitched question through where our shoulders mashed together in the booth inside the pub.
“Yep. No problem,” I replied quickly. After the excruciating, albeit good-natured, attention I’d received this morning, I didn’t want anyone else focusing on me for any reason.
“If you say so.” In my peripheral vision, Kovac lowered his chin, likely to keep his comment between us. “It can be a lot, the first day on a new team. Especially this one. Coach Wilder isn’t what you call. . .low energy.” A chuckle spilled into his last few words.
“What’s that, Kovac? Got a question?” Coach Wilder’s voice boomed from the other end of the table.
“Nothing, Coach!” Kovac raised his volume above the multiple conversations around us before bringing his hand in up front of his mouth. “I’m not convinced he doesn’t have superhuman hearing,” he added for me alone. “Or he can read lips, I’m not sure which. Something to keep in mind for the locker room for sure.”
But he didn’t sound at all bothered at the prospect that Coach might have somehow heard him.
I opened my mouth to say. . .something, but one of the other rookies I’d met this morning, Greyson Romero, raised his hand midway down the table, like he was asking a question in school.
“Romero, you might be the youngest player on the team, but you’re done with school, bud, and I’m certainly no one’s teacher.” With Coach Wilder’s attention successfully drawn away from Kovac and me, my shoulders retreated from their position under my ears.
“Except as an example of what to avoid, for sure. You could teach a master’s degree on that, Coach,” Asher interjected irreverently.
I sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for Coach’s reaction. The majority of my coaches over the years barely so much as cracked a smile, let alone allowed themselves to be the butt of jokes.
“I will not be undermined in this way,” Coach Wilder said, slapping the table with his palm. The laugh that accompanied the action countered any pretend anger in his expression. “Or I’ll make the daily coaches’ meeting at six a.m. instead of seven-thirty.”
His threat had Asher miming zipping his mouth closed, but his eyes remained filled with mirth.
Zane Wilder wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met before. No one on this team was.
I let out a quiet breath. Even when I wasn’t involved at all, any kind of conflict had my nervous system on fire just by being in the immediate vicinity.
“Now, Romero. Back to your question . . .” Coach Wilder waved a hand for Romero to jump in.
“Okay.” He looked around the table. “Um, I was just wondering if anyone knewwhythe team is called the Lakeside Hammerheads?”
“You mean, because Lakeside is . . .” Hawkins piped up from beside me, but was cut off by one of the other defensemen, Hugo Lavoie.
“On a fucking river.” Lavoie’s statement had Romero nodding. “And hammerhead sharks live in . . .”
“Salt water,” Hawkins finished for him.
Romero looked between our two teammates and nodded again. A few seconds of silence around the table followed.
