His head snaps up. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about feminism when it’s about TRUST.”
“It IS about trust! You don’t trust me to make my own career decisions! You didn’t trust me before you knew about Zach and you don’t trust me now and the only difference is that now you have someone to blame for it!”
“I TRUSTED YOU WITH EVERYTHING.” His hand comes down on the counter and the sound cracks through the kitchen and my mom flinches but doesn’t move. “I trusted you to be honest with me. I trusted him to respect me enough not to—and you BOTH—for EIGHT MONTHS—” He breaks off, breathing hard.
“You are not to see him,” he says, low and controlled in a way that’s scarier than the shouting. “Not at the facility, not at his apartment, not anywhere. Not until this series is over.”
“Dad—”
“And you’re not coming to the games. I don’t want youanywhere near that arena. Tell the media team you forfeit your press pass.”
“You can’t DO that. I’m nineteen years old. I have a JOB at that facility?—”
“Then take a leave. Tell them you’re taking a personal leave. I don’t care what you say to them.” He straightens up and looks at me and he looks ten years older than he did this morning. “I can’t be on the ice thinking about you in the stands watching him. I can’t do my job if I’m thinking about that. If you care about this team at all—about this family at all—you will give me the space to get through this series without having to see you and him in the same building.”
I want to argue that I’m an adult and he can’t ban me from a public arena—my credential is through the team, not him—but I see my mom give a small shake of her head and I stop. I know that look. It’s the look that says “not tonight, pick your battles and this is not one you can win.”
“Fine,” I say. “The series. But?—”
“That’s all.” He picks up his keys from the counter. “I’m going for a drive.”
“Jack.” My mom finally speaks. “It’s midnight.”
“I know what time it is.”
He walks past me without looking at me and the front door closes and his car starts in the driveway. The headlights sweep across the kitchen window and then he’s gone.
Mom and I sit in the kitchen. She doesn’t say I told you so or I knew or anything that would make this easier to be angry about. She just sits there with her mug and her quiet and after a while she reaches across the island and puts her hand over mine.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
“Since the Christmas party. When Zach got here you were the only thing in the room he couldn’t look at. Then Barrett came upstairs and everything on all three of your faces gave it away.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because it was yours to tell. And because I wanted to see how you’d handle it.” She pauses. “I was hoping you’d handle it before your father found out like this.”
“Me too.”
“He’s not angry about Zach, Mackie. Not really. He likes Zach. He’s told me a dozen times that Zach is the kind of player he wishes he’d been at that age—disciplined, coachable, good head on his shoulders. The person he’s angry about is you.”
“I know.”
“You lied to him. For a long time. And your father can forgive almost anything but he can’t forgive being made to feel stupid. That’s what he can’t get past.”
I pull my hand back and press both palms against my eyes. My whole body hurts thinking about Zach alone right now. Calling him isn’t technically seeing him, but it still feels like breaking a rule.
I call him anyway.
“Hey, Mack.” He says quietly.
“Are you okay?”
“No. Are you?”
“No. He banned me from the arena,” I say. “No games for the rest of the series.” I press my forehead against the cold countertop and close my eyes. “Zach, I’m so sorry. I pulled you into that hallway. This is my fault.”
“Don’t do that.”
