Page 102 of Caught from Behind

I turn into my neighborhood, the truth settling heavy on my heart.

Apparently, my dad isn’t going to hear me. Not now. Not ever.

“I’m going to drop you off and then I’m going out.”

Another scowl. “Where?”

I shrug. “I’ve got pregame shit to do.”

He opens his mouth then clamps it closed, not pushing me for once.

Sort of.

Because the next question out of his mouth shows off exactly how much gall the old bastard has.

“Are you still getting the ticket for me later?”

I take a right onto my street.

I should tell him to fuck off.

Should flip a U-turn and drop his ass at the airport—or hell, on the side of the road—and never look back.

But…

God, I’m a fucking pussy.

This is the person who raised me, who took me to practice, who made sure I was clothed and housed and safe.

This is my dad, for better or worse.

So, yeah, I should turn my back on the old bastard.

But I find…I can’t.

I don’t stop. I just keep going, pull into the driveway, park in the garage, then sigh as I hit the button to unlock the passenger side door. “It’ll be in your account.”

He gets out, slams the metal panel shut behind him.

(All without a thank you, a goodbye, or a see you later).

I watch as he strolls into my house like he owns the fucking place then reverse out and hit the button to close the garage door.

And then, head pounding, I drive to Ella’s.

I won’t bug her at work, especially since I know she has a full day, but I’m not above taking a nap in sheets that smell like her—or eating some of the muffins she has on her counter when I wake up.

They’re a few days old, but they’re still fucking delicious.

In fact, they’re so delicious that I steal one for the drive to the rink as my pregame snack.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Ella

“Fourteen dollars for a beer is an absolute crime,” Todd grumbles as we make our way down the long flight of concrete stairs.

“Our seats are in row ten,” I say, ignoring his grumbling.

---