Page 106 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I can’t let go of his arm. My eyes burn, and my vision goes blurry. “Because Mom sold Grandma’s bracelet to a pawnshop. I bribed the owner to tell me who bought it, and he gave me Oliver’s name. But then I couldn’t find it in his house.”

A sob builds its way up my throat.

“I took pictures of his playbook because I was stupid and angry. And my roommate and I went to a party after—he was there, he recognized me. H-he said some things and I just got even more mad. So I sent them to Carter.”

I can’t look at Dad, even though I’m latched on to him for dear life.

“I’m so sorry.” I sniffle and wipe at my nose with my sleeve. I don’t have hands—one to keep Dad from leaving, another on my cup.

Dad sighs. He takes the coffee from my hand and sets it on the ice. His, too. And then he pulls me into a hug that might as well be tight enough to draw me into his skin.

And all at once, the tension leaves my body.

“It’s okay.” He strokes my hair. “You don’t apologize to me. I’ve done a lot of things wrong in regards to you.”

He offers me a tissue from his pocket. I curl my fingers around it and dab at my eyes, then blow my nose. So lovely and ladylike.

After a long moment, I put some distance between us. He picks up our coffees and puts them on the bench, returning with a handful of pucks and two sticks.

I take one from him.

“You remember skating around my practices as a kid?” he asks.

I nod. I still feel raw, but an invisible wall between us that I didn’t realize was there seems to have crumbled.

“I’d give you a stick and a puck, and sometimes you’d occupy yourself going around the outside. Other times, you’d get more daring and weave between players doing drills.” He laughs. “I was more in danger of being fired for bringing my six-year-old back then than I was after this last season. So ignore rumors that my job was on the line.”

He meets my gaze.

I nod, he nods.

He passes me the puck, a quick flick of his wrist. The puck slaps into my stick’s blade, cradling it so it doesn’t go rebounding off is almost second nature. I pass it back, and we both put more distance between us.

And then he ruins it by saying, “We should discuss your mother.”

Ugh.

“She’s never not come back,” I tell him. “But when I went to check on her, it was clear she hadn’t been around in a while. So the house is gone…”

House is a stretch.

He sends a pass farther up the boards, making me skate for it. When I pass it back, he’s watching me.

“Part of the reason my job might be a bit more secure than other coaches is because I’m an alumni. The Board is a little more lenient,” he says.

My parents were together until I was five, and then the shared custody happened. At twelve, Dad took her to court for something. Fifteen, he got remarried. Eighteen, I stopped talking to him.

The thing is, though, that nothing bad ever happened at Dad’s house. The three years between him getting remarried and me cutting off contact were good. If I actually think back on those shared moments, I can’t pick out any truly scary or negative moments. I had three hot meals, affection, respect.

Going home was the problem. Telling my mother everything about my weekend and having her pick it apart was the problem.

I’m going to fucking start crying again at the realization.

“She wasn’t a good mom.” I face him again. “I don’t know why I want to find her, because she sucked as a mother. And I think if I wasn’t living with her seventy-five percent of the time, if she wasn’t constantly in my ear, I would’ve kept up a better relationship with you.”

He winces.

“You never talked badly about her,” I add. Accuse. “Never tried to get me to see that side of her, even though you probably knew what she was doing.”