Page 63 of The Risk

I stick my head in the fridge and roll my eyes at a tub of margarine, because I can’t do it to his face. “I got home around midnight, Dad. On a Friday night. And I had to catch an eleven o’clock train in order for me to get back here for midnight. So really, I was done ‘partying’—” I turn so he can see the air quotes. “—at eleven. On a Friday night.”

“You’re too old to be giving me sass.”

“And I’m too old to be reprimanded about my social life. We talked about this. You said you wouldn’t lecture.”

“No, you talked about it. And I didn’t say a damn thing.” He’s not afraid to openly roll his eyes. He brushes by me in his plaidpants, wool socks, and pullover sweater with the Briar hockey logo on it.

He stops at the coffee maker, the fancy one Aunt Sheryl got him for Christmas last year. I’m surprised that he’s using it. Dad doesn’t care if a product has all the bells and whistles, unless it’s state-of-the-art hockey equipment. Otherwise he doesn’t give a shit.

“Want a cup?” he offers.

“No, thanks.” I hop onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter. The legs are uneven, so it wobbles for a beat before finding its equilibrium. I open a mini yogurt and scarf it down, while Dad stands near the sink, waiting for his coffee to brew.

“You didn’t have to take the train,” he says gruffly. “You could’ve borrowed the Jeep.”

“Seriously? I’m allowed to drive the precious Jeep again? I thought I was banned after the mailbox incident.”

“You were. But that was, what? Two years ago? One would hope that you’ve smartened up since then and learned how to drive properly.”

“One would hope.” I swallow another spoonful of yogurt. “I don’t mind taking the train. It gives me time to get my course readings done and read all the game highlights. So this weekend is the charity game, right?”

Dad nods, but he doesn’t look thrilled about it. This year the Division I Hockey Committee decided that every team would participate in a charity exhibition the weekend before the conference finals, rather than immediately playing the final game after the semifinal round. The exhibitions are hosted by various cancer societies throughout the country, and all proceeds from ticket sales and concessions go to these charities. It’s obviously a great cause, but I know Dad and his players are anxious for the finals.

“And what about the finals? Are you guys ready?”

He gives another nod. Somehow he manages to cram so much confidence into one nod. “We will be.”

“The Crimson’ll be tough to beat.”

“Yes. They will be.” That’s my dad, a gifted conversationalist.

I scrape the last bit of yogurt out of the plastic container. “They’re good this year,” I remark. “They’re very, very good.”

Not just at playing hockey, either. Jake Connelly, for example, is highly skilled in other areas. Like kissing. And turning me on. And—

And I need to derail this train of thought, pronto. Because now my body is tingling, and I’m not allowed to be tingling in such close proximity to my father.

“You know, you’re allowed to say a nice thing or two about Harvard,” I tell him. “Just because you hate the coach doesn’t mean the players are terrible.”

“Some of them are good,” he acknowledges. “And some of them are good but dirty.”

“Like Brooks Weston.”

He nods again. “Kid’s a goon, and Pedersen encourages it.” There’s venom in his voice when he says Pedersen’s name.

“What kind of player was he?” I ask curiously. “Pedersen, that is.”

Dad’s features grow taut, tension rippling from his broad frame. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you played with him at Yale. You were on the same team for at least a couple seasons, right?”

“Right.” Now his tone is guarded.

“So what kind of player was he?” I repeat. “A power forward? An enforcer? Did he play dirty?”

“Dirty as mud. I never respected his gameplay.”

“And now you don’t respect his coaching.”

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