Page 55 of The Blame Game

And he did. The sentiment was nice but he wasn’t sure he believed it. Especially with his dad.

And as much as his mom tried to keep the peace between them, he remembered what it had been like during the screaming fights they’d had, the way she’d begged his dad to calm down and listen, but never told him he was acting like an unreasonable asshole.

She’d quietly supported him but never done anything to back him up against his dad.

“I should go,” he said. “Work tomorrow, you know?”

“Okay. We’re so proud of you for how hard you’ve worked to get where you are.”

Are you? he wondered, stumbling through an awkward goodbye before ending the call.

Because he knew the life he led wasn’t the one they’d expected him to have.

And they didn’t know the half of it.

Later that night, waiting for the media to come in, Dom shifted in his stall, gritting his teeth against the flare of pain in his back.

“You don’t have to take questions tonight,” Dustin said in a low voice, tucking his hair under his cap.

“Yeah, I do,” Dom said shortly.

Dustin nodded, squeezed his shoulder, then walked over to his stall.

They’d lost to the Chicago Windstorm.

It was especially galling because they were a mediocre team and Dom was the one who’d fucked them over.

He wasn’t the only one who’d played poorly tonight but he knew how bad he’d been. How many defensive zone breakdowns there’d been.

And exactly how many of them had started with him.

Anton Makarov was a terrific goaltender but he’d had an off night tonight. Gilly, their coach, had pulled him after he let in three goals in under ten minutes.

Their young backup, Jesse Webber, had replaced him in net and done his best to keep them in the game.

Dom’s absolutely horrific play had made it impossible though. Even a Vezina-winning goaltender like La Bouche couldn’t have saved them tonight.

The media flooded in and Dom took a deep breath, bracing himself for the questions.

The first was from a guy who Dom couldn’t stand.

“Do you have anything to say about your performance tonight?” he asked, frowning at Dom. “You played under nine minutes tonight and ended the game with a minus-four plus/minus percentage.”

He held his phone out to record Dom’s answer.

“I had an off night,” he admitted. “I take full responsibility for it. I should have played better and I’m not happy with my performance.”

“Does your recent drop in production have anything to do with the rumors that you’re dating someone?”

Dom took a deep, slow breath. “I have no interest in discussing any rumors about my personal life. I do my absolute best to keep it private and away from the rink. Tonight has nothing to do with that.”

No, it had more to do with whatever the fuck was going on with his back. He’d fumbled the puck at one point because there had been a sudden numbness in his left quad that had made him stumble and lose control.

He’d shot wide, the puck ricocheting off the boards and right into range of a Chicago defenseman’s stick.

Dom slogged through the remainder of the questions and by the time he was done, his back throbbed so much he felt sick.

He went into the trainers’ room, allowing himself to be poked, prodded, and manipulated.

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