Page 126 of That's Too Pucking Bad

I get up, the weight of yesterday’s hits still heavy in my muscles. I stretch and wince at the sharp pain in my ribs. Gotta keep it together. I’m not some fucking pussy.

I head for the bathroom, quick shower, let the hot water hit my skin. It stings, but it’s what I need. When I’m done, I throw on sweatpants and make my way downstairs. The house is quiet.

I set up the coffee machine, needing something to clear my head. The brewing coffee fills the silence, but the pain in my body is louder than any noise.

Then the door swings open.

I freeze.

“Zane.”

It’s my dad. The last person I want to see right now.

“Why the hell are you here?” I bite the words out, furious. I wasn’t expecting him, and I sure as hell wasn’t ready for the storm he’s about to bring.

He walks in like he owns the place, tall and imposing. “Got a call from your coach. You reported an injury. He thinks you’ll probably miss the final game.” He eyes me with a sharp glare. “What’s this bullshit?”

“I’m injured,” I snap. I don’t need to explain, but I do anyway. “Had to tell someone.”

“Bullshit,” he growls. “You’re not a girl. You don’t cry over a little tear. You play through it.”

I’m done with this. The cold, the demand, like I’m some asset. I turn on him, showing the bruises that cover my body— ribs a mess, adductor injury burning— but it’s the bruises that really tell the story.

“Does this look little to you?” My voice is low, furious. I’m done with his shit.

He glances at my skin, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before it’s gone. “That’s nothing. You’ve had worse. Suck it up.”

“Yeah? You want to know what’s worse?” I’m breathing hard, angry. “The fact that you care more about winning than how I’m feeling.”

“Don’t talk back to me, Zane,” his voice drops to a dangerous growl. “You finish the season. No excuses. You want to make me look like an asshole? You want to ruin everything I’ve worked for?”

Blood rushes to my head. “You’re not the one getting hit out there. You don’t feel the bruises, the pain. So don’t tell me what it’s like.”

He steps closer, voice colder than ice. “I don’t give a shit. You’ll play through it. Got it?”

“No,” I snap. “I don’t got it. I’m done.”

“This is what we agreed on,” he hisses, voice icy. “You play. You finish the games.”

I shake my head, frustration clawing at my chest. “I didn’t agree to being treated like this. You think I like getting my ass kicked every damn game?”

His eyes darken. “You made a deal, Zane. I don’t care if you’re hurt.”

“No.” The word feels heavy, final. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not a fucking machine.”

“We had a deal,” he repeats, more insistently. “You stick to it.”

“Fuck the deal,” I spit, stepping into his space. “You want me to finish, fine. But not at the cost of my health. I’m not your puppet.”

His eyes flare with rage. “Don’t talk to me like that, boy. You’re nothing without this. Without hockey.”

I shove him, hard enough to make my point, but not enough to break anything. “Fuck you.”

And that’s when he swings.

His fist connects with my jaw, and the world tilts. Pain explodes across my face, and my teeth rattle in my skull.

“Zane!” A voice cuts through the chaos.

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