He gives me a flat look. “And I’m still your next of kin, but they wouldn’t do anything for me over the phone, so I drove my ass up here.”
“I’m sorry you had to make the drive.”
“I don’t mind making the fucking drive. Are you really okay? What happened? The message I got said something about getting hit with a puck? Is that enough to warrant a trip to the ER?” He knows my propensity to downplay injuries.
“I didn’t want to come in, but because I blacked out, they told me I could have a c-spine injury and couldn’t be cleared to play if I didn’t come in.” I hate having to explain it to him. It makes me feel fucking weak.
I hate that I let him do this to me so easily.
“I guess the team would need that sign-off for liability. Will you be able to play? Because after losing the conference final, if you miss a game, you’re going to freak out scouts. And if you’re out for the rest of the season, the draft…” He shakes his head.
“I’m fine. I can go back to normal activity day after tomorrow.” Not like I fucking chose to get hit with the puck.
“You know what a critical time this is. If you lose the final four.” He knows he doesn’t have to say it.
“It’s just a rookie contract. With how the draft is now, my second contract will matter more.”
“But you have to get on a team where you can show what you’ll be worth.”
“You think the only way I can show how good I am is by being on a good team? The more shots I block, the better I’ll be able to show off my skills. If I’m on a team that totally shuts down shots, I’m just standing there.” I’m fucking annoyed and bordering on disrespectful, but not like he can hit me in a hospital. And he’d never pull that shit in front of Archangel.
“I guess you got a point there.” He keeps looking between us.
“I’m not thinking about it. Just trying to get through the rest of the season.” I’m waiting for him to say something, but I don’t need to give him an opening.
“You two gonna need a ride back to the hotel?”
“No, I can get a car. You gonna head home?” I really don’t want him to be here any longer.
“Yeah, okay, I will.” He rubs his fingers over his mustache, choosing his words. “I guess the rumors are true then, huh?”
“What?” I ask, wanting to look at Archangel, but refusing to let my dad see any sign I’m not telling him the truth. If he taught me anything in my life, it’s how to stand up against interrogation techniques.
“I’ve heard rumors you two were a thing. I didn’t believe it.” The best and worst part of my father is that his anger was never explosive; it smolders under the surface. He’d never have gotten to where he was in the military or on the police force if he let his temper get away from him, but he’s calculating and pointed. He won’t reveal it now, but he won’t tolerate his son with a man.
“Who told you any such thing?” I ask, keeping my calm because I know there’s no other way to deal with him. The second I get disrespectful, he won’t give me an inch. And I need to know who told him. No one I know or even interact with would be in his circles.
“If you don’t think I have the boys check up on my son, you’re naive.”
“You have cops stalking me.” I shouldn’t be surprised. I hate that I didn’t think of it. Of course he would have people checking up on me. Like abuse of power isn’t his MO.
“Making sure my son is okay is not stalking.”
“Right. And how would IA feel about it?”
He laughs. “Since we all do it, pretty sure that ship sailed a long time ago.”
Of course.
We fall into an awkward silence. I don’t know how to tell him to leave or if he’ll even listen.
“Whens your next game?” Dad says at length.
“Day after tomorrow is the regional finals, and if we win that, we go to Vegas for the semi and final,” I add the second part because I know he’ll ask.
“Sure you don’t want me to give you a ride back to the hotel? Or get you both something to eat?” Dad slides his hands into his pockets.
He’s being too nice, and I hate it. I don’t know what to expect.
