We’re talking abouttheKnox Mulligan here—the only guy at MU who doesn’t have a shy bone in his body and leads by arrogance rather than concerning himself with the opinions of sheep. He’s unshakeable. At least, that’s the act he puts on for everyone.
He’s thoroughly shaken now though, and by the hand of the man who wants to see him fall, no less. I can’t imagine having a parental figure who doesn’t support whatever career path you’ve chosen. I can’t imagine having a parental figure whose love comes with terms and conditions.
As I attempt the impossible and try to find Hassie in the endless rows of bleachers, my eyes scout a half-empty onedown in front, occupied by a man in a neatly pressed suit who stands out like a corporate sore thumb. A few chairs down, my friend is waving at me, already having ravaged the snack stand with her mountains of processed sugar.
Making my way over to my newly assigned seat, I register that some of the chairs flash “reserved” signage. This man—who’s about to become my roadblock—must be a scout of some sort. He’s wearing the wrong attire entirely, as if this hockey game is just a pit stop on his busy schedule.
I shuffle up to his outstretched legs, trying to make myself as small as possible. “Excuse me.”
His eyes are the first to hit me—bluer than a kiln fire and just as dangerous. Despite the heat of his gaze, there’s no cordiality to be found in the ice-cold rink. He’s staring at me with an undressed frown, mumbling a broken line of insults underneath his breath like I’d just inconvenienced him in the most inconceivable way. With no more than a grunt, he stands up to allow me safe passage, smoothing out the nonexistent creases in his ensemble.
My instincts kick in as I pass this mysterious spectator, and there’s a gnawing in my belly that tells me I have no business being in the presence of a man who crushes dreams just for the fun of it. When I make it over to Hassie, I’m still shamelessly staring at the magnate mongrel who couldn’t pick a worst place to spend his afternoon.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, gesturing to the abandoned stretch of seats.
“Heard something about one of the players reserving a few chairs for his girlfriend and dad,” she informs me through a mouthful of stadium popcorn.
Girlfriend? Dad? Surely that couldn’t have been…
I study the man to a disturbing degree—coiffed hair, bright blue eyes, bone structure that could cut through glass. The resemblance is uncanny, now that I think about it.
The opening anthem for the Mustangs blares around the rink—lights dimming and strobing—interspersed with a prerecorded track of a mustang’s neigh. But I’m only focused on the stupid source of my boyfriend’s worry.
“I think that’s Knox’s dad,” I whisper to Hassie, filling in the gaps my boyfriend’s grievances had inadvertently left, anger brutalizing my heart with studded gloves and the dexterity of an MMA fighter.
My fingers curl into the palms of my hands—leaving half-moon crescents in soft skin—and my tongue flirts with the idea of reading him to filth right here, right now, in front of everyone. Hell, maybe the Jumbotron could help aid in a little public humiliation.
Hassie—who I’m beginning to think doesn’t know what the wordsubtlemeans—follows my line of sight, gasping loudly when she latches onto my wavelength.
“Oh my God, you’re so right. They look nearly identical. What’s his dad doing here?”
“Probably trying to sabotage his game,” I growl, the rational part of me reduced to a captive bird with clipped wings, flying in circles. It makes way for my emotions to dogpile onto the scene, hell-bent on burying Knox’s sperm donor alive in a reckoning that’s twenty-one years too late.
Hassie says something that gets lost in the crowd, and before I know it, I’m occupying the seat right next to Mr. Mulligan.
He recoils away from me like my class status will negatively affect his reputation. “May I help you?” he sneers with a derision-soaked voice. His breath is minty and fresh and wholly antiseptic in the same way a hospital abuses bleach to clean stubborn bloodstains.
The game continues without my avid attention.
“Are you here for someone?” I inquire, trying my best to stay neutral while my entire being is contemplating legal waysto dispose of a six-foot-something body. Maybe I’ll just find a plot of land with a bunch of endangered plants, dump his rotting carcass there, and wait for them to grow over the burial site so that the government can’t dig him up.
“My son,” he responds flatly, pointing to—you guessed it—number six. Who, by the way, just scored the first goal of the night with some kind of fake-out trick.
Of course he has nothing else to add to that. Unlike the rest of the parents here who are actively rooting for their children, even going as far as painting half their faces in the school’s colors. My push-up bra provides more support than Knox’s loser of a father.
My words stick together with pride. “Knox Mulligan? He’s one of the best players on the team.”
Mr. Mulligan addresses me with the ceremony of stubbing out a cigarette butt—inconvenient, bothersome. “I know. I’ve taught him everything he’s ever learned. He’s going to make it to the NHL someday.”
Bullshit! You haven’t done anything to help your son. In fact, all you did was give him an ultimatum for your love. Youscaredhim into being a better hockey player. You don’t care about all the hard work and long hours he’s put into his career. All you care about is havingyourname attached to fame.
Thankfully, my ears have built-in muffs against idiocy. So, even with my stomach plummeting to the soles of my shoes, I continue to poke and prod until he gives up this ridiculous charade.
“You must be really proud of him.”
He barks out a laugh—the kind of laugh that’s only rich because of the illegal things he’s done in the dark. “Yeah, I mean, we’ve had some ups and downs. I just hope the ups continue.”
No wonder Knox used to come off so cocky. He learned it fromhis dad. He learned that his worth is connected to his accomplishments, so he didn’t bother with curating approachability. He learned that people will only listen if you’re at the top of your game.
