Page 79 of Playoff

“If they want me.”

“How exciting has it been to make it to the second round with a team who hasn’t made it to the second round in nearly twenty years?”

“It’s incredible. The team, the organization, everything about the Phantoms is top-notch. I love playing for them.”

“What do you think you’ll change for the next game?”

“That’s above my pay grade,” I say, “but I’m sure Coach has a plan. Thanks, everyone.” I make a quick exit since I don’t want to talk about things like what we did wrong, what we could dobetter, shit like that. I’m not experienced enough with the press to answer more nuanced questions, so it’s easier to just get out.

“There you are, Blake!” My mom comes rushing forward, hugging me tightly.

“Hey, Mom.” I hug her back.

“You were awesome tonight!” Phoebe gushes, hugging me next.

“Thanks.” I hug her too.

“Hey, son.” Dad holds out his hand, and I eye it for a second before reaching for it. There’s still a lot of press around, so I don’t want anyone to see me snub him. I don’t need any type of negative press.

“Dad.” I nod politely.

“Why’d you end the interview so soon?” he asks, swaying slightly as he gives me a lopsided smile. “They were eating out of your hand—that’s great publicity for you! Which is what you need.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and just nod.

He’s drunk.

I can smell it on his breath, see the redness in his eyes, and notice the way he’s swaying a little.

Jesus.

He’s drunk again.

“I’ll meet you guys back at the hotel,” I say to my mother.

“Hey, you! With the camera!” Dad’s waving at someone in the press corps.

Fuck.

“Dad, please don’t—” I begin, but he’s already walking away.

“Come talk to my son—do you know what a kickass hockey player Blake Rourke is? He’s my son—where are you going? Hey!”

“Dad. Knock it off.” I give my mother a look of frustration, and she takes Dad’s arm.

“Come on, honey. We’re going back to the hotel now.”

“No!” He swats her hand and gets even louder. “I’m not going anywhere until all these people recognize how awesome my son is! He’s the best player on this team right now.”

Good grief.

I push my mother behind me because I don’t want him touching her like that—even though it was barely a slap to her hands—when he’s drunk. I am never going to live this down but short of punching him in the face, I don’t know how to get him to shut the hell up.

Phoebe tries to get Dad to stop talking, but he’s on a roll, side stepping her and essentially yelling loud enough for anyone and everyone to hear.

“…and another thing—why the hell is he still on the Rebels? Do you see how many points he has? Who’s running this team anyway?”

I catch Rowan’s eye, but she turns and hurries in the other direction.

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