Page 103 of Caught from Behind

Riggs got us club-level seats, which means that fourteen-dollar beer could have been directly delivered to our seats (and I bet Riggs already covered the cost for the night…even though his dad doesn’t deserve the courtesy).

“Row ten,” he sniffs.

I roll my eyes. “It’s my favorite place to sit.”

He pauses mid-step, glances over at me, eyes and tone sharp when he asks, “Why?”

“It’s high enough up to be able to see all of the ice, but still close enough to hear and keep track of the small plays.”

He starts walking again. “Like what?”

I shrug, keep my pace beside him. “Digging the puck out along the boards, finishing checks, who’s screening who in front of the net.” I shrug. “All of the things that make a game a game, aside from scoring, of course.” I nod at the row, start making our way over to our seats. “Which you can see well from here also.”

Todd follows me across the row, sitting down in the seat next to me with a grunt. “Maybe,” he says, eyes on the ice. The overhead lights are slowly brightening as the maintenance crew finishes setting the nets, getting the rink ready for warm-ups.

“It’s dark in here,” he grumbles.

“It’ll be bright soon enough.”

A grunt as he takes a sip of his beer. “Ugh.”

I lift an eyebrow.

“All foam,” he mutters.

I roll my eyes, settle in and enjoy my fourteen-dollar beer. That’s not all foam.

He sighs.

“What?” I ask, amused as I wonder what his next complaint will be.

“Just wondering if Riggs is going to pull his weight tonight.”

That sends my brows shooting up almost to my hairline. “Excuse me?” I ask setting my beer in the cupholder and shifting in my seat to stare at Todd.

“Lake and Knox are producing. They’re top forwards in the league.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of the beer, apparently tasty enough now that he’s complaining about something else. “I keep telling Riggs that he needs to step up. He needs to work as hard as your brother does.”

“Have you watched any of the games this season?”

Todd scowls. “Of course I have.”

“And did you miss the part where Riggs is the second leading scorer on the team?” I flick my eyebrows up again. “Even higher than my hardworking brother?”

“I—”

“You do realize the hours Riggs puts in right? The extra time and workouts?”

“It’s not enough,” Todd snaps. “He’s not a good outlet on the breakout and his passes are shit and?—”

I sigh. “And you like to point out everything that goes wrong instead of any of the good things. You like to tear him down instead of zeroing in on the parts that will build him up, will build on each other and make him play better.”

“This isn’t a kids’ sports team where everyone gets a participation trophy.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s just what your son has chosen to make of his life, and I don’t discount that likely he’s made it this far because you helped him a lot along the way. But here’s the thing, Todd-o-Rama, your brand of help”—I hold his eyes—“it’s not something that Riggs is going to keep around forever. He’s tired and sad and hurt, and sooner or later you’re going to cut too deep, create a wound that won’t be able to heal”—my dad’s face flashes through my mind—“and when that happens, you’ll lose him forever.”

“Excuse—”

“You have a chance to do better.” I lean back in my seat, lift my beer toward him in salute. “So make sure you don’t squander it.”

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