Page 22 of That's Too Pucking Bad

“I’m ready.” I tear my eyes off Remy long enough to make sure Caleb’s buying it. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You sure?” Caleb eyes me, his spoon halfway to his mouth, still full of yogurt. “You seem... distracted. What’s going on?”

“All good,” I lie. He’s the only one who can read me like this, but I’m not about to admit where my head’s at.

Caleb lowers his voice, leaning in. “This about your dad?”

I hesitate, glancing around. The cafeteria is loud, but still. This isn’t something I want anyone overhearing.

“He’s getting back in town tomorrow. We’re supposed to have breakfast.” I shrug, trying to sound casual about it.

“Right.” Caleb nods, the corner of his mouth pulling into a knowing smirk. “Well, if you need to get your head straight after, we can hit the ice.”

I nod, grateful for the offer. Caleb gets it. The pressure, the expectations, all of it. He knows how it weighs on me, how my dad’s constant hovering messes with my game. Caleb’s the only one who really gets that.

“Thanks, man,” I say. “But finish your yogurt. We’ve got practice.”

Caleb grins, shoving the spoon into his mouth. “Gotta get those gains, right?”

I laugh, but it’s forced. My mind drifts back to Remy across the room. The way she’s laughing at something Mayasaid. I wonder what it’d be like to have a real conversation with her, not just sneaking around and hiding in shadows.

“Zane,” Caleb says, snapping me back to the present. “You sure you’re ready for this game?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The next morning, I’m sitting at a corner booth at some upscale breakfast joint. The kind of place my dad likes to go when he’s in town. The menu is overpriced, full of shit I can’t pronounce, and the people around us are all dressed like they just stepped out of some corporate boardroom.

I stare at the empty chair across from me, waiting for my father to show. It’s always like this—me, sitting around, waiting for him to make time for me between whatever meetings he’s running off to. I sip at the black coffee in front of me, my leg bouncing under the table.

Finally, he arrives. My dad walks in, all business, shaking hands with the host like they’ve known each other for years, even though I’m sure they haven’t. He spots me and heads over, taking his sweet time.

“Zane,” he says, sitting down and barely looking at me as he picks up the menu. “Sorry I’m late. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “I know.”

He doesn’t even glance up, already scanning the menu like he’s deciding on a life-or-death situation. I’ve seen this look a thousand times. His mind’s not here—it’s on work, on business, on whatever deal he’s got lined up for the day.

“How’s hockey?” he asks, like it’s an afterthought.

“It’s fine,” I say, trying not to sound bitter. “Got a game in three days.”

“Good,” he says. “You’ve been putting in the extra hours on the ice?”

“Yeah,” I lie. Not like he’d know the difference anyway.

The waiter comes over, and my dad orders without hesitation, rattling off some fancy shit with poached eggs. I order the same, not really caring what I eat. It’s all the same here— expensive and tasteless.

Once the waiter leaves, my dad finally looks at me, like he’s remembered I’m here. “You’ve been keeping up with training? Not slacking off, right?”

“I’m good,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’m ready.”

“Because this year’s important, Zane. You know that.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to that intense tone he uses when he’s giving me one of his speeches. “Scouts are watching. Coaches are making decisions. You don’t have time to screw around.”

“I know.” I bite back the urge to snap at him, to tell him I’ve heard this all before. But what’s the point?

He keeps going like he’s on autopilot. “You’ve got to stay focused. No distractions, no messing around with girls, none of that crap. You understand?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Wouldn’t want any of that.”

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