It was all a bit uncomfortable, especially knowing that the team at CSN was silently putting all the pieces around my suspension together.
He smiles down at me, pulling me closer as we chat with Callan and one of his teammates, who arrives after us.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and when I see my dad’s name, I automatically start to answer it. Then, with a look at all the fun happening around me, I hit decline.
As much as I love my dad, my conversation with Charlotte made me reevaluate my relationship with him. After a very poorly handled call in Paris, where I almost cried on a public sidewalk, I started seeing an online therapist who is helping me understand that my worth as a human and daughter can’t be solely centered on how well I perform at work. Which means, I’ve had to learn to enforce boundaries with him, including not dropping everything to answer his calls.
But we’re both working on it. Our first call, when I refused to talk about anything related to hockey, was the most awkward thing I’ve ever been a part of: there isn’t much we have in common without dissecting my games, so there were a lot of pauses. But they’ve gotten better since then.
I even found out he’s been dating a woman for almost a year now and never thought to mention it.
Though I didn’t ask.
It’s another uncomfortable truth I’ve been forced to face—as much as I want to blame my dad for making me feel like I had to be perfect to be loved,Ihelped build that narrative. Fortunately, I’m starting to realize I don’t have to sacrifice who I am to be accepted by those who care about me.
Beckett, however much he supports me in my decisions, talked hockey exclusively with my dad when we visited last weekend. He picked my dad’s brain about off-season trades and what each team needs to do in order to be in the running for the Cup next year.
Not joining in may have been harder than not making it to the playoffs this year.
“How is the hockey analyst gig going?” Callan asks.
“So good,” Beckett replies.
The man truly loves his job. Not that it’s surprising. It’s not that different than what we were doing when we first started spending time together: late nights watching hockey film.
I was worried Beckett wouldn’t find something to replace hockey, or that he’d come to resent the role I played in his decision to retire, but I don’t think that’s the case. He doesn’t seem to have lost anything. He actually seems like he gained something even better.
And I’m not just talking about us.
We talk with Callan and his teammate for a while before Beckett excuses himself, leaving me to argue with the Stallions’ kicker about the reasons our arena needs to be upgraded before their stadium. I just about have him convinced when Beckett calls to me from next to a bag board.
“Fin! Come play!”
I say my goodbyes before heading his way. “I call being on Charlotte’s team,” I shout when I see who he’s standing next to, surprised she came to Callan’s party. “She’s way too competitive for me.”
“Oo, I’m out, then,” Sage Sinclair says, giving Charlotte a quick hug. “You know I love you, but tonight is my only night off this week. I do not need competitive cornhole in my life.”
“I’ll play against Princess.” Callan takes a long drink from his beer.
“Don’t call me Princess, ball boy,” Charlotte snaps.
Beckett meets my eyes, and we both try not to laugh. I want to defend her, but Charlotte looks exactly like an American princess tonight, in white slacks, blue-and-white-striped sweater, and red loafers. She’s even wearing a strand of pearls.
As the two of them bicker, I stand next to Beckett, realizing just how relaxed I am. I’m not scanning to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be or preparing for every outcome.
“Girls versus boys?” I ask, confirming he’s okay with me being on Charlotte’s team.
“Sure,” he agrees. “What are we playing for?”
“How about a kiss?”
He taps his lip as if thinking deeply. “How about a skate date before you come home tomorrow night?”
As happy as he is with the next chapter of his life, Beckett does miss skating and playing hockey. Even though he’s trying to take it easy on his hip, he still likes to come to the practice facility and skate with me every once in a while.
“Will you help me with my slap shot?” I ask, smiling at the memory from so many years ago.
“Always,” he replies, pulling me into him to kiss me. “But this time, no pads. I want to be able to feel you up when I show you how to hold a hockey stick.”
