Of course he had. Papa watched every game, cataloging every mistake, every moment of failure.
“We won?—”
“Theywon. You were a liability out there.” He didn’t even pause for breath. “Two turnovers. That missed net in the second period… a ten-year-old could have made that shot. What is wrong with you?”
You are.I gripped the steering wheel. “I’m working on it?—”
“You’ve been ‘working on it’ for two months. It’s gettingworse, not better.” His voice rose. “Do you know what people are saying? The trade rumors are everywhere now. Boston, Toronto, even Montreal is talking about bringing you back at a discount because Colorado wants to dump you.”
My stomach twisted. “I saw the posts,” I said quietly. Fresh ones today, posted during the game.
Hearing Colorado’s patience with Savard wearing thin. Decision could come soon.
“Then you know you’re running out of time. Whatever is distracting you, whatever has you playing like this, you need to fix it. Now.” He paused. “Or you’ll be playing for someone else by Christmas.”
“I’m trying?—”
“Trying isn’t good enough! Savards don’t accept mediocrity. We don’t make excuses. We perform.” His disappointment was palpable even through the phone. “I raised you better than this.”
“Papa—”
“I don’t want to hear excuses. I want to see results. Play like a professional or don’t play at all.”
The line went dead.
Connard.
I sat there in the parking lot, phone still pressed to my ear, my father’s words echoing in the silence.
You’re running out of time.
Decision could come soon.
You’ll be playing for someone else by Christmas.
I dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and pressed my palms against my eyes.
Two months of terrible hockey. And somehow, everything was getting worse.
What if this was it?
What if Papa was right? What if I was out of time? What if I had to leave Denver and?—
I forced Papa’s words out of my head. Focused instead on Marco waiting for me. On what that night might bring.
By the time I pulled up to the curb in front of Marco’s house, my hands had stopped shaking.
The house was mostly dark except for the lamp by the couch and light spilling from upstairs. I grabbed my bag and headed inside.
“Marco?”
“Upstairs!”
I took the stairs two at a time and found him in his bedroom. Our bedroom, I supposed, at least for now.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, changed into sleep clothes—soft cotton pants and a T-shirt. His crutches leaned against the nightstand.
“Hey,” he said, and his smile was warm. Genuine. Everything Papa’s voice wasn’t.
