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“Dude. It was hand-me-down hockey gear, not like, a kidney.”

“Still.”

“Still nothing.” I cracked the cap of my water bottle and took a long drink.

Then I told him about juniors and the long bus rides and the cheap hotels and how I’d learned to sleep sitting up because I was so fucking tired all the goddamn time and I just needed five more minutes to not be awake.

I honestly didn’t mean to talk that long, but through every story—every weird memory of something I hadn’t thought about in years—Cally was locked in, his head tilted to the side in a way I’d learned meant that he was fully absorbing everything I was saying.

It felt … good. And yeah, maybe it made me think I was a little bit special. But it’d been a long fucking time since I’d had someone’s undivided attention.

Eventually I asked him about prep school. The only thing I had to go on was that old Dead Poets Society movie my mom pulled out every couple of years, and it was so far removed from anything I’d ever experienced that I genuinely couldn’t begin to imagine it.

“Did you have to wear a suit and tie to class?”

He pulled his head back slightly. “What? No.”

I scratched my nail over a divot in the table. “Oh. I think I saw that somewhere. Maybe a movie or TV show.”

“Oh. Well. Not at mine. Though there were things we weren’t allowed to wear to class.”

“Like what?”

Cally smiled, leaning back and hooking his hands behind his head, showing off his biceps. “No athletic gear, for one thing.” He looked down the length of his body.

“Ugh, fuck no. Hard pass.” I lived in sweats or track pants. Jeans never fit right—at least the ones I could afford. Hockey butt was a real thing, and the clothing industry had simply not caught up with what we were working with back there.

“I get it though,” he continued, his voice turning thoughtful. “They didn’t want us looking like we’d just rolled out of bed. They wanted us to behave like adults. To prepare us for the real world.”

“What does that even mean—behave like adults? You were literal kids.”

I thought back to how I’d been at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. My friends and I were pretty much feral at that age, some real Lord of the Flies shit. I didn’t imagine rich, prep school boys being any better. Hell, they were probably worse.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Just things like how to dress properly for dinner and sit at a table with adults and contribute something worthwhile to the conversation. How to talk to someone important without embarrassing your family.”

I made a gagging noise. “That sounds awful.”

“It wasn’t bad. And you knew going in what you’d signed up for.”

“Did you, though? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, teenagers are kind of stupid.”

He chuckled lightly, his eyes drifting past me to stare at something over my shoulder. “I knew my dad expected me to go there. That was enough.”

I’d been hearing bits and pieces about Cally’s dad for a couple of weeks now, both from him and the other guys on the team—guys who’d grown up idolizing their local team’s star goalie—and I’d decided that Robert Callahan sounded like a bit of an asshole.

“So what—you just went along with it because it’s what your dad wanted?”

“Of course I did.” Cally’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “He’s my dad.”

I couldn’t help the snort I made. “Who never asked what you wanted.”

“He’s a good dad,” he argued, though I didn’t miss that his voice had lost a little bit of its heat.

“Is he? Because from everything I’ve heard about him, he sounds like a hard man to please.” I picked at a sticker on my water bottle. “Especially where you’re concerned.”

“It’s not like you would know anything about it,” he bit out. But then his eyes went wide, and his shoulders curled in on themselves. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I leaned back in my chair, hooking my arm over the back, my pose relaxed while my heart whirred loudly in my ears. I tried not to let shit like this get to me, but every so often, I couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because I’d have rather had an asshole dad than no dad at all. I was sure a therapist could have told me. Maybe if I made the team, I’d finally have insurance that would let me see one.