He’s standing near the glass, his posture straight, with a clipboard under his arm. His hard voice cuts through the space. It’s calm but commanding. The kind that doesn’t need to shout to be heard.
“Again,” he bellows. “You hesitate like that during a game, and you’ll wind up pinned against the boards.”
A player mutters something under his breath. My father’s head snaps toward him instantly.
“You want to argue,” he asks, not raising his voice, “or you want to get better?”
The kid shakes his head and pushes off harder this time.
I sink lower in my seat, heart thudding, and let my gaze drift across the ice until it lands on the goalie.
He stands in front of the net, looking massive in all that gear. He tugs off his mask and reaches for the water bottle hooked along the back. He squirts some into his mouth twice before tipping his head back and spraying the rest over his face.
He shakes it off, and that’s when he sees me. His dark brows furrow. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to place me or if he’s confused by what I’m doing here.
Our eyes lock for a moment before a whistle cuts through like a blade.
“Rowden.”
The goalie’s attention jerks behind him to the ice. He grabs for his mask and pulls it back on, but not before a knowing smirkcrosses his mouth, like he caught me staring and isn’t about to let me pretend otherwise.
“Eyes up and on the puck. If you want to admire the stands, do it after practice.”
I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself.
Practice continues. I notice the goalie, who I guess goes by Rowden, looks up at me a couple more times. I try to ignore the way my breath hitches every time.
I’m not here to check out the players.
My father keeps moving through the drills. He’s intimidating and relentless. A hard-ass, if I’m being honest. He doesn’t coddle them, doesn’t try to soften his edges when he’s telling them what to fix.
But the longer I listen, the more I hear what’s underneath it. Each correction is met with an instruction. Each order is followed by a reason.
From the way he watches each player, it’s clear he’s clued into their weaknesses, and he refuses to let them hide behind them.
It’s strange to witness, seeing him give them this kind of attention. This kind of investment.
While I grew up, it was just my mom and me.
She worked hard for everything we had, doing the job of two people without ever complaining. I learned how to stand on my own two feet early on, how not to ask for much, and how to be okay with empty space where something or someone should’ve been.
Watching him now, I feel that old ache stir.
I wrap my arms around myself, the cold seeping in through my jacket, and wish maybe, just maybe, things could’ve been different.
I stay until practice winds down, and he calls the players over to huddle around him. I slip out before anyone gives me another glance.
Outside, the sun is starting to come out again. I sigh as it hits my face, shrugging out of my jacket before getting in the car. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before the air conditioner catches up as I make my way over to Broken Saddle, the bar listed in the apartment posting.
The name hangs in wrought iron on the outside of the brick building. The place looks like it’s been standing longer than most of the people who drink inside it.
The parking lot is mostly empty, except for a few cars near the corner of the lot. The door is heavy when I try to swing it open.
Inside, the bar is dim but warm. Old wood lines the walls and bar top, worn smooth with age. It feels familiar without feeling run down.
A man behind the bar glances up when he sees me step inside, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
