Page 44 of Coaching Prince Charming

Dad slammed the glass against the foldable table in front of himself and pointed a threatening finger at me. “I have been more patient with you than any sane person would have been. You betrayed me, you stole from me, and you lied to me. Not only that but you got involved with a man twice your age, a man I used to call my friend, just to hurt me. I’m trying to be a bigger man, Carter, but you’re making it very difficult.”

“Not everything’s always about you, Dad,” I said in a voice so hollow and devoid of emotions that I might have been speaking from beyond my grave. “But if you want to talk about the things you’ve done, be my guest. It’s not like I have something to do.”

“You are an ungrateful little brat. Do you hear me?” He wagged his finger like a TV housewife. It was better than the alternative, where he was waving his fist. His knuckles were red, and I hoped they hurt. “First, I’m putting a stop to this guitar nonsense. You have the talent you need and the easiest shot at the NHL because of me, so you can say goodbye to being some rich asshole’s entertainment.”

I wondered if he was aware that he was the definition of a rich asshole. I hadn’t allowed myself to see him that way before, but I really had nothing else to do with myself. Recontextualizing my father’s image was as fun as eating salted peanuts while the plane was grounded. Not that. I was not doing this on purpose. What was happening here was me becoming aware that my father was not a very good man.

“I’ll coach you myself if I have to,” he droned on as if I would ever believe he was capable of spending time with me. Even if it was on guard duty with me as his prisoner. He had relegated that task to Nate Partridge throughout my life. When they were off, Dad did whatever the hell he liked, and Nate was the one telling me the stories from the ice, from the trips, and from his vivid imagination.

Nate’s big heart had forged me into the person I became. Could I have fallen in love with anyone else? Had I even had a chance?

“…confiscate that piano. You have no need for it. It’s a distraction, and your mother never should have encouraged you to have a hobby.” He said that with a straight face.

A laugh burst out of me. Only my father could imagine a life without a hobby was the preferable choice. “Dad, you can stop talking,” I said. “You’re getting tired.”

He glared at me.

“If you need to refuel, the bathroom’s that way.” I pointed to the front part of the plane.

Dad stood up furiously and bent down, bringing his face close to mine. The stench of alcohol was nothing like that faint, sweet aroma I loved on Nate’s lips. This one was like the fermenting rot in a tooth cavity. “I’ll teach you some fucking manners if I have to beat them into you.”

I gazed at him, unimpressed. “It’s true, right?”

The anger it dragged out of him was more than enough to confirm even the wildest tales I’d read. “What are you talking about? Shut your mouth, boy.”

“I heard you snorted cocaine off a hooker’s ass in Belize,” I said with a sinister note of amusement.

Dad grabbed my wet shirt and yanked me out of the seat. “I should have left you there so he could do whatever the hell he wants with you.”

He should have. I wouldn’t have minded being Nate’s anything, his everything. “Let go,” I said politely, pushing his fists off my shirt. I dropped back in my seat, and Dad fell into his. “Just…leave me alone,” I said. The thought of being back with Nate and letting him do whatever he wanted made my throat constrict and my eyes sting. “I’ll do what you want. You won, Dad. You threatened him, and he chose himself.” My voice quivered slightly, but Dad was too selfish to notice anyone’s feelings. “You can tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I don’t care. But you can’t make me enjoy it.”

I closed my eyes and sank lower into my chair. Dad said nothing. It was an agreement we could both respect and hold on to. He would shove me back into the rink, and I would hate my life. He would take away my music, and I would hurt.

Hurting would remind me I was still alive.

And I will be alive, I thought spitefully. I’ll be alive when we hear that your heart exploded. And on that day, I’ll be free. Without Nate for the rest of my life, yes, but I would eventually be free of the warder of my prison, too.

I shut Nate out of my thoughts. He had tossed me aside, and I couldn’t do anything about that. I was on my own. If I wanted to cry, I wouldn’t do it in front of Dad. So I bottled it all up. I pressed it down, all my rage and sadness and the dust that remained from my shattered heart, and I pushed it all the way to the pit of my stomach.

I wouldn’t let it out even if it killed me.

I wouldn’t be weak.

I wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

THIRTEEN

Nate

Beckett put his hands on his hips while a frown contorted his face. “What the fuck happened to you?”

I turned away from him, sauntering from the front door to the nearest armchair in the living room. Wearing pajamas from two nights ago and cloaked in a bathrobe, I knew I wasn’t the prettiest sight. “Don’t make me regret buzzing you in.”

My nephew shut the door and followed me into the living room. “I would have called the cops if you hadn’t.”

I extended my arm to the plain, glass coffee table to pick up my half-finished drink. I’d waited until five in the afternoon to pour myself the first one. Admittedly, I hadn’t left the bed since last night except when the delivery of Chinese takeout had arrived. “What do you want, Beckett?”

He stood in the middle of the living room, in front of me, with the piano a little further behind his back. My nephew was a tall young man, taller still when he did that trick of inflating his chest and straightening his back.

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