Page 5 of Caught from Behind

Sport is to be dominated, to be controlled. It should be work from the moment the season starts and all the way to the end of it—and work in the off-season too.

So, really, work…all year round.

No fun. Not ever.

Yup. My dad’s a blast to be around. A grumpy, surly old bastard who is never satisfied.

Which is why I don’t bother to reply to what he thinks is the worst insult he can give me.

What he doesn’t understand—won’t ever understand—is that there aren’t any insults, any tough love, any criticisms as a form to further motivate me that will actually hit home. Maybe there was a time they affected me, that his sharp words cut deeply?—

I bite back a sigh.

Or maybe there’s a part of me that hopes for the days before this shit, before he changed.

When he was my dad.

When we’d get up early and head to the rink, grabbing Dunkin on the way, the sticky glaze from the donuts I downed like potato chips lingering on my fingertips all through practice. When we would hang out in hotels during tournaments and watch movies that I didn’t understand because the plots were over my head. We’d stay up too late and then still get up early, stocking up on the free breakfast before I’d get to do my favorite thing in the world?—

Play hockey.

Now, though…that’s long gone.

The love of the sport is softened, changed. It’s become a job that I enjoy, that I want to work hard and excel at. But it’s a job, and nothing more, and it’s certainly not the same sport that used to sing to my soul.

Still, it’s those memories with my dad, the dumbass hope that things will be different…

That has me continuing to answer his calls.

And not kicking his ass out of my room.

It’s why I’m propping up the door of my hotel room, watching him pace and listening to him be an asshole.

I don’t know how he tracked down which one we’re at—except that I do, I guess. We’re playing my hometown team tomorrow and there aren’t that many hotels in this city that can cater to the needs of a professional sports organization like this one can.

And my dad has the connections—not to mention, the bullying skills—to get that information.

But I’m tired.

All I want to do is to sleep. Pretend that we didn’t lose the previous night, traveled for several hours, get bussed to the hotel, and then arrive in the lobby where my dad was waiting for me. I want to pretend this isn’t happening. Pretend that I’ll actually get a good night’s sleep for the first time in a few days and not spend hours lying in bed thinking and dreaming about what it felt like to have Ella’s hand wrapped around my cock.

Pretend it was easy to turn her down, to drive her home like I didn’t want to stay parked on the side of the road and pull her into my lap, feeling the tight sheath of her cunt squeezing my dick.

She was drunk.

Again.

Christ.

“And, for fuck’s sake,” my dad snaps, jarring me back into the present, “how goddamned hard is it to break out the puck? You skate, you pass, you create an option, and you move your fucking feet!”

I grind my teeth together, resist the urge to glance up at the ceiling—because that will give my dad more fuel for his rant—as I debate my options.

If I stay silent, I’ll have to keep listening to this shit.

If I tell him to leave, he’ll make another fucking scene—a worse one that will likely prevent my teammates from getting the rest they need.

Maybe I muzzle him then drag him down to the lobby, shove his ass in a cab, and?—

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