Page 86 of The Pucking Player

“Adam—”

“He means well,” Mom says softly.

“Don’t they both?” Jessica nods. “In their overprotective, slightly terrifying, Novak way.”

I take another sip of wine, letting the familiar comfort of being tucked in next to my mom wash over me. “I just wish...” I trail off, not sure how to finish.

“That it didn’t hurt?” Mom suggests gently.

“That he wasn’t such an ass?” Jessica offers.

“That Dad hadn’t installed those motion sensor lights years ago so I could wallow in darkness properly.”

That gets a laugh from both of them, and for a moment, it’s enough to wipe away the dread of having to face Dad.

Eventually, I can’t delay it anymore, and we have to head inside. The familiar scent of Mom’s cooking wafts from the kitchen as she peels off to check on dinner. Jessica and I find Dad and Adam in the library, hunched over the chessboard in deep concentration. Just like every Sunday.

Dad’s got that intense look he gets during playoffstrategizing, the one that says his mind is mapping out possibilities five moves ahead. Adam’s pieces are scattered aggressively across the board, typical of his attacking style, while Dad’s formation is more defensive, methodically controlling the center.

I move behind Dad’s chair, resting my hand on his broad shoulder. Without looking up, he covers my hand with his, giving it a gentle squeeze. No lectures about poor judgment. No “I told you so’s.” Just warmth and silent support.

“Check,” Adam announces, sliding his knight forward to threaten Dad’s king.

Dad studies the board, absently patting my hand. “Hmm. Aggressive move, son. But you’ve left your queen exposed.”

“Have I?” Adam leans back, cocky. “Or is that what I want you to think?”

Jessica circles around to study the board. “Oh, Adam. You always fall for his queen-side trap.”

“Not this time,” Adam insists, but there’s uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Dad shifts his bishop, revealing a pin on Adam’s queen. “Mate in three.”

“What? No way.” Adam hunches forward, scanning the board frantically. “I can still... If I move my rook...”

“Nope.” Jessica grins. “You’re done, buttface. Should’ve protected your back rank instead of charging in like a fool.”

“Speaking of charging in without thinking,” Adam mutters, shooting me a pointed look.

But Dad just squeezes my hand again, cutting off whatever lecture Adam was about to launch into. “Good game, son. You’re getting better at seeing the combinations. Just remember, sometimes the best offense is a solid defense.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on any of us, but Dad’svoice holds nothing but love. He tugs gently on my hand until I bend down, and he places a kiss on my temple.

“Another game after dinner?” he asks Adam, standing up. “This time try not to sacrifice your queen for a tactical advantage that isn’t there.”

I catch the slight quirk of his lips, the way his eyes flick meaningfully toward me for just a second. But there’s no reprimand there. Just understanding and support.

And somehow, that makes it both better and worse.

30

PLAYING THE BAD GUY

LIAM

Mike O’Malley’s number is still in my favorites, right between Mom and Kieran. Every muscle in my body screams as I reach for the phone, courtesy of Coach Novak’s special brand of torture disguised as “conditioning” over the past few days.

Suicide sprints, wall-sits, Bulgarian lunges. The whole team watching as their captain gasps for air, legs burning, lungs on fire. Even Finn stopped trying to intervene. At some point, I was puking while Coach just stood there, arms crossed, a cold smile never leaving his face. And then when I stopped puking, that even, revengeful voice.

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