Page 14 of Iced Out

Quinton

November

“Quinton!”

The booming voice of my father catches my attention as I’m about to round the corner toward the player exit of the arena after my first game back from my suspension. Myundeservedsuspension, since the second one came back negative because—in a shocking turn of events—I don’t use drugs. Of any kind.

Like. I. Said.

Though my test came back negative, Coach said the likelihood of me having to provide random drug testing for the rest of the season is high. And while I guess I can understand the reasoning—the NCAA needs to make sure we’re running a clean program here—it doesn’t make the entire situation suck any less.

My name’s called again with a stern authority I know better than to ignore, no matter how much I want to.

Fucking hell. I don’t need this right now.

I already played like a heaping pile of garbage tonight. There’s no need to add to the shit storm with a visit from good ole Dad.

Too bad there’s no escaping it now, so I paint a smile on my face as I turn to see not just my father, but my mother too. Both dressed impeccably—as expected when out in public representing the de Haas family name—and looking more out of place than a nun at a brothel.

“Mom. Dad. I didn’t expect you to be here,” I say in a way of greeting as I approach them, stopping short a few feet away.

I do my best to keep my hackles from rising the second I catch a whiff of my father’s Tom Ford cologne, but it doesn’t work.

“Of course we’re here, darling,” Mom says, though from the almost pained expression on her face, she’d rather be anywhere but. She’s completely void of emotion; just a hint of a fake smile on her lips.

Then again, it could be all the Botox.

But my father’s stone-cold expression? Well, that’s just his face.

“Yes, of course. We wouldn’t miss a chance to watch you throw down in a controlled setting. Remind me again why you didn’t just take up boxing if you’re so interested in using your fists for sport?”

My jaw ticks at his dig, not wanting to feed into his appraisal by letting my temper take over.

After all the years I’ve been playing, I should come to expect some sort of comment after a game he attends. Even one we win, since my love for hockey is the thing he despises most. To the point where I don’t know why he let me start playing in the first place.

I can’t fault him for his assessment, though. Not when I was tossed in the sin bin twice tonight. Once for a hit that—I’ll be honest—was a little harder than necessary, and sent one of the defensemen for the other team crashing to the ground face-first.

Half the officials in the league wouldn’t have called anything on it, but luck wasn’t on my side with the set we had tonight.

The other time was for a fight, and hell if I’ll apologize either. Not when a winger checked me straight into McGowan, sending us both to the ground. Under normal circumstances, that’d be enough to get my temper boiling, but when he skated past me after scoring the winning goal and spat the wordscheating juicerat me, I was done. I don’t regret a single punch I threw at him after that. Fucker deserved the bloody nose. Honestly, part of me even hopes it’s broken. It’d serve him right for running his mouth about shit he has no business in.

Plastering a plastic smile on my face, I reply, “You know me, always the over-achiever. Why play one sport when you can combine them?”

“Why play any at all when it’s just a childish game and a waste of time?” he counters, stony eyes narrowed on me.

And there it is again. His never-ending disapproval for my decision to play hockey.

“I guess knowing it makes me happy isn’t reason enough?”

“Really? Because you don’t look very happy right now.”

Observant as ever, Dad.

“Hard to be when we racked up another loss,” I snap, momentarily forgetting myself. But I’m already on edge from missing out on the two games last week against Blackmore, and adding this loss tonight isn’t helping.

“Losses happen all the time, son. In any aspect of life. They shouldn’t make you look this miserable.”

It almost sounds like he understands where I’m coming from, but I know him. I can tell he’s working out ways to use my words against me. Twist them to fit his version of how this conversation should go, all to make his point.

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