Page 6 of Heart of a Fighter

“They’re big boys. They don’t need handholding from me.” Irritation simmers low in my gut. “That’s what you have Zach for, remember?”

Zach Brooks is the golden standard in my father’s eyes. Unlike me, Zach’s a born leader, methodical about everything he does, and not easily riled–traits my father wished I’d been born with.

“You’d be team captain if you’d get your shit together.” Dad removes his glasses, always a sign he has more to say that I’d rather not hear. “You’ve got potential, Granger. But I can’t afford to keep a player on this team that can’t show up, put in the work, and pull their weight.”

“I pull my fucking weight.” My jaw tightens, and I work to keep my temper under control. I’ve spent my entire life trying to live up to my father’s expectations, but it doesn’t matter what I do. It’s never enough.

I’m never enough.

“Only on your terms. You should be out there setting an example and be the face of the team. The only thing keeping the coach from benching you is that you’re my son.” Dad’s jaw twitches. I didn’t come by my quick temper by accident. “Why can’t you do what you’re told for once in your life? It makes the organization look bad. It makes me look bad that I can’t control my own son.”

And there it is. The root of it all. All Dad has ever cared about is his image and how my behavior reflects on him. His overbearing ego has caused me plenty of headaches through the years. It’s only fair that he gets a taste of his own medicine. Call it what you will, but karma’s a bitch, and I’ve never been one to back down from it. Not even when I was a scrawny kid getting bullied on the playground.

The first time I stood up for myself, I came home with a black eye. Did I get any sympathy? Nope, just a lecture about fighting not being acceptable even when I’m backed into a corner with no place to go.

When a younger kid scrawnier than me kept getting picked on and getting his lunch money stolen, I was the one who stood up for him. I went home with a busted tooth, a black eye, and a ripped shirt. Did I get any kudos for standing up for the underdog, someone too weak to stand up on their own? Not a chance. Dad grounded me and paid the kid’s lunch bill every month instead of getting to the root of the problem–bullies who need to be taught a lesson. I wasn’t the problem then, and I’m not the problem now. I’ll stand up for my teammates, those I care about, and those who can’t fight for themselves.

Ironic the Saint’s family business is born of fighting, bloody noses, and knocked-out teeth.

“I expect you to lead the team by example, not blow off practice.”

“I’m not blowing off practice.” Though I wouldn’t mind blowing off a little steam right now. “I reported to medical for injuries.”

“Injuries? For fuck’s sake, Granger. You’re no good to the team if you’re injured.” Dad shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Nothing that’ll take me out of the game.” He isn’t worried about my health so much as he’s concerned about winning. I pump my fists in my lap, counting the minutes until I can leave this damn office. “I’ve got plenty of fight in me to win.”

“I don’t need a hothead son losing his temper and spending the game in the penalty box. Leave the fighting to someone else. I’m tired of reading headlines associated with your temper and the family name.”

“Is that it? We done here?” I don’t give a shit about what the headlines say. I’ll protect my team on or off the ice. If that means roughing another player and doing time in the box for it, so be it. “I’m missing practice.”

Hockey isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s physical, fast, and often dangerous. There’s no time to pussy foot around being polite. It’s about winning fair and square. If the other team shows up looking for a fight, they sure as hell better be ready for one. Trouble and my father’s precious ego be damned.

I leave my father’s office ticked off with a tension headache stretching from the back of my eyes to the base of my neck. Despite overhearing Zach’s warning to Lauren yesterday, I head straight to the medical office–to Lauren.

People underestimate how far their voices carry through empty halls, echoing off the cement walls and floor. It’s why I closed the door behind me when I dropped in on Lauren yesterday. I wanted privacy, but not for the reason Zach or anyone else might think. I’m not surprised he’d assume the worst considering my reputation with women, but his words hit me in the gut, sure as if he’d punched me.

This isn’t a fleeting attraction for me. Lauren isn’t like other women. There’s an undeniable connection between us that’s electrically charged on a level I can’t rationally explain. I’d like to explore whatever is between us, but I don’t want her to get caught in the chaos that surrounds me. Trouble follows me like that kid in the old Peanuts comic strip who’s always in a cloud of dust and dirt. I’m drowning in trouble.

That’s why I wanted to talk to Lauren privately but never got the chance. As soon as I laid eyes on her, my brain short-circuited. All I could do was bask in the magic spell she put on me.

Reality smacked me across the forehead when Zach interrupted us. Lauren deserves someone better than me. That realization is the catalyst I need to confront the demons that keep me from being the best man I can be. I’ll do that for her–make the changes necessary to prove I’m worthy of her trust and respect.

I rap at the medical office door before stepping inside. Lauren’s hard at it, tapping away at the keyboard with a pile of manila folders stacked alongside her.

“Busy?” I ask as she turns. Her eyes light up when she smiles, and my heart takes off like I’m barreling down the ice about to score.

“Yes, but I could use a break.” She places her hands on her knees and scans me from head to toe with her pretty blue eyes. “Are you broken, bruised, or bleeding?”

“Ouch.” I grab my chest as if she dealt a wounding blow. “Way to hurt a man’s pride.”

“You have a knack for finding trouble,” she teases, but it’s the reason why I want to do better from now on.

“Maybe trouble finds me.” I rub the back of my neck, easing the residual ache the meeting with my father caused. “Think you could spare something for a headache? Feels like a migraine coming on.”

“Sure, but let me take a look first. Have a seat.” She grabs a scope from the wall bracket, and I play the dutiful patient, doing what I’m told.

I’m not always belligerent.

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