Page 171 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
“I’m not telling a shitty friend like you anything,” he growls. He reaches over and snags my hand, squeezing tight. “Take it from me—there are more important things in life than sports.”
He jabs the end button and wrinkles his nose.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Nah, that jackass had it coming.” He smiles. “I’ve got to get to morning skate. You want to come along?”
Surprisingly… I do.
Sometime last night, he and Carter moved their bags into my room. He pulls on sweatpants and a sweatshirt and waits for me to get dressed, too.
I text Dad that I’m coming with Penn to practice.
He responds with a yellow heart emoji.
At the rink, Penn brings me down to the bench then heads to the locker room. Dad stands with papers on a clipboard, and he seems to be marking down notes. I sit beside him, leaning against the plexiglass at our backs. The team emerges from the locker room and takes to the ice, and Dad glances my way.
“Glad to see you out and about,” he comments. “With Penn…”
I smile.
“Uh-huh. I don’t like that look on your face.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Happiness.” He leans over and kisses the top of my head. “A goalie making you happy, sweetheart? We’ve got to work on your taste.”
I laugh.
When Oliver takes the ice, my heart skips. He glances our way, then does a fucking double take.
His practice, it’s almost needless to say, goes terribly.
“I don’t suppose I need to castrate my captain,” Dad says casually, sitting beside me.
I choke.
“Because it seemed like you were dating. And then you shut down. And now you’re smiling at Penn Walker.” He pats my back.
“Yeah.” I wave him off. “Well, I don’t know. No, don’t hurt Oliver. He didn’t… it’s fine.”
He sighs.
“Dad?”
He tips his head in my direction.
“Do you think Mom is selfish enough to never come back?”
That gets his attention. He puts his hand on my knee, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve considered that. I’ve contemplated a lot of reasons for her to leave you. But the main theory I’ve reached is that she realized you are an adult, fully capable of living the life you want without her. You mentioned you were sending money home to cover rent? It’s possible your responsibility scared her.”
“So it’s my fault,” I murmur.
“That’s not at all what I’m saying, Sydney. It’s her problem whether she can cope with realistic situations. Such as a twenty-year-old woman flourishing in her own space.”
My cheeks heat.
Our attention goes back to the players, and Dad stands up. He steps down and blows the whistle, calling them all to him. I tip my head back and close my eyes, wanting to absorb what he’s saying but not deal with the stares.