He clung to his glory days like they were the lifeblood that sustained him in this world.
“Shut the fuck up, Caden. And don’t tell me how to run my house.Idon’t need my kid telling me what my wife needs or how to take care of her.” The skin of his face and neck was flushed from exertion.
It had been years since he’d struck me. I could count the number of times he’d hit me on one hand. Dad was a man who preferred to vent his anger with the most cutting, vicious words you could imagine.
Conveniently for him, cruel words left no outward marks that could be noticed by well-meaning coaches and teachers.
Anything that did surface over the years was quickly shut down in favor of being able to claim that they once coached or taught “our very own hockey superstar.”
Even brushing up against the sidelines of money and fame was enough to turn most people’s heads away from the truth.
On the inside, I was nothing but scar tissue at this point, and I never allowed myself to acknowledge the pain in his presence.
Despite my height and slight weight advantage, I couldn’t hit him back. I didn’t possess the cruelty that riddled his mind and heart.
The only thing I could do was deny him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me—to cut short the taunts that would follow if he saw anything but stoic acceptance on my face.
I’d taken so many verbal beatings over the years that the only feelings I had left inside me were worry for my mom and a sense of failure at not doing enough to get her away from him.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Where do I sign?” I brought the hem of my shirt up to my forehead to staunch the steady drips of blood that had made a small puddle on my fabric-covered shoulder.
Wouldn’t want to get blood on the contract I didn’t even want to sign.
The smug satisfaction on Dad’s face—from bending me to his will once again—lasted long enough for him to shove a pile of papers across the clean, but worn, table where I sat.
A mix of disgust and distaste was quickly replaced by the pleasure of getting his way as he watched me carefully sign next to every little yellow sticky note, without seeing a word on any of the pages.
Getting drafted meant an even more demanding level of play to earn the salary the Hammerheads were offering me.
“Why do you have to make everything so goddamn hard, Caden? Jesus Christ, if I wasn’t on your ass all the time, you’d flush all your god-given talent down the drain without even realizing it.”
He was right, but not for the reasons he thought. I had two letters of acceptance for computer engineering programs from Ontario universities sitting in a purposefully mislabeled folder in my inbox.
Even though, at twenty-one, the deadline for acceptance had passed years ago, I used the possibility of a different life to get me through the now.
The only person who knew I’d applied and gotten in was Kait. She’d even gone so far as to pay my application fees to keep my dad from finding out.
The spark of hope I’d had at getting my degree while I played in the Ontario Hockey League this season flickered out.
Now I had less control over my life than ever.
two
ASHER
“I’m telling you, Asher. This is perfect. Sign on as a Hammerheads’ assistant coach, a consultant, or even ‘the guy with an injured shoulder,’ put in your time on the long-term injury reserve, and get your shoulder rehabbed without going out of your mind with boredom.”
Zane Wilder, my best friend and former teammate, waved his arms in a gesture around the Hammerheads’ practice stadium that made him look like he was auditioning forThe Price Is Right, rather than head coach of a big-time AHL hockey team.
I arched my eyebrow at him. “Really?” The sarcasm was evident in my tone. “You think the solution to my problems is staying here instead of rehabbing at a state-of-the-art facility down in Florida, and avoiding a Toronto winter for the first time in years?”
“Pfft.” He turned around, walking toward the administrative offices. “You wouldn’t last a week with all those happy people heading to the theme parks. Just think of all the crowds.” It was his turn to arch an eyebrow.
Damn. Having a friend who knew me too well was a blessing and a curse. Even though I’d been in the NHL for over a decade, and captain of the Titans for two seasons, this fucker knew Ihated crowds. It didn’t bother me on the ice because I had a buffer of solid plexiglass keeping the fans at bay.
But put me in a room on post-game media duty, filled to the brim with reporters and cameras, and I’d be sweating more from the audience than any hockey game I’d played that season.
I’d learned over the years that I needed to find a balance between my obligations to the team and keeping myself sane. I couldn’t just throw myself into new situations like I used to when I was in my early twenties.
