“That's fantastic. I grew up with posters of him in my room. My parents and I followed his career and watched every game. The wrist shot he perfected, no one could touch it.”
“I know,” I agree as he excitedly continues fangirling over my dad.
“I didn't realize he had a family. You grew up with him?”
“Not exactly,” I murmur. “Why don't you read the card?” I tilt my head toward the box, trying to distract him from his line of questioning.
He looks into my eyes. “What am I missing, Amelia?” he asks softly, his smile fading. He waits.
“I… my mom was a hockey groupie… a puck bunny... whatever it's called,” I stutter, embarrassed. “She followed various teams from city to city. Ultimately, she got pregnant. But when it became apparent that a baby was a hindrance, she accepted a payoff from my sperm donor and abandoned me shortly after I was born. I don't know where she is, and I've never met her."
I glance away. Saying it out loud makes it feel uglier.
“It could've been any one of multiple players, but a paternity test confirmed it,he was the father. The unlucky one who got left holding the unwanted baby. He was resentful toward my mother, but I paid the price."
His jaw tightens, and the silence stretches for a beat, but I force myself to keep going. Why stop now?
“He was always on the road or away, so my grandmother raised me. He was around occasionally, but never as a father, just someone who coasted in and out of my life. I don't think he wanted to acknowledge me, but he couldn't avoid his mother."
My hands twist in my lap as I laugh derisively.
“When I was younger, I worshipped the ground he walked on… I idolized him. He barely noticed me; he didn't even try to go through the motions of being a father."
Bash shakes his head, still holding the puck but now looking as if it's offensive to him.
"Ugh," I groan, putting my head in my hands, "you didn't ask to hear all this.”
“It's all good,” he breathes, voice low. “I want to get to know the real you, Amelia. I don't want you to hide anything from me.”
I look down at the floor, my neck burning with shame.
“I'm sorry if I ruined the moment. That wasn't my intent when I gave you the puck. I know you look up to him. Hewasan incredible athlete, just a crappy dad."
I shrug.
“He was a player, on and off the ice. It's not his fault he got stuck with a daughter he didn't want.”
Bash shakes his head again, firmer this time. “No. It is his fault.Hisirresponsibility made him your father, and he should've treated you like you mattered. His choices are on him.”
I look away again, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
“That's one of the reasons I'm so mad at my husband,” I whisper. “He knows how I feel about how my dad treated me, and women in general as if they're disposable, unimportant, or merely a means to an end. And yet, he's callously modeling after him. He knows the damage that kind of man can do… has done… to me. And then he turns around and does something even worse… to me.”
“You deserve better,” he growls, his voice grounding me. “From both of them.”
He pulls me into his arms as tears trickle down my cheeks. I don't say anything, I melt down into his strength, letting those words penetrate. Letting myself believe them.
I pull back, wiping my eyes. “Anyway, read the card.”
Bash picks up the envelope, pulls out the card, and reads it.
I just want to thank you for reminding me what it feels like to laugh again. Merry Christmas, Bash.
Love, Amelia
