I sink onto the edge of the leather sofa, my legs feeling like they’ve been replaced by overcooked noodles.
Jake Morrison.
I know the name.
God, I’ve heard the name enough to last a lifetime.
In my house, "Morrison" is spoken with a tone usually reserved for saints or war heroes. He’s the Captain.
The prodigy.
The player my father trusted more than anyone else.
He’s the "only one with a damn head on his shoulders," according to my father.
But I didn’t know what he looked like.
I never wanted to.
Hockey has always been my father’s world.
Not mine.
Hockey took him from us.
It took his time.
His attention.
His affection.
It swallowed everything and left wreckage behind.
I don’t go to games.
I don’t watch the playoffs.
I don’t follow trade rumors.
And I blame my dad for what happened after.
Coming to Vegas was my attempt at escape—from the house I share with him and from the silence left behind by the person who isn’t there anymore.
It was my way of running from everything I resent about his life.
And now the irony is almost unbearable.
I ran to Vegas to escape everything my dad standsfor—
Only to marry the man who lives and breathes the exact same world.
The swearing behind the door stops.
The bathroom door opens slowly.
I brace myself, expecting a man in the middle of a breakdown, but the Jake Morrison who steps out is not the panicked, pale mess he was two minutes ago.
He is cool. He is calm. He looks like he’s just finished a pre-game ritual and is ready to take the ice.
