Page 27 of Wait For It

“Killian, if the Hurricanes get word you’re jacking around on their dime, you’re as good as gone,” he stated flatly, delivering the spike into my coffin with as much enthusiasm as someone giving a traffic report.

When guilt failed to yield the results he wanted, I could always count on my father to go for the jugular by casting doubt on my abilities. The seeds he planted blossomed into a colorful array of full-blown panic that kept me awake at night, convinced I was finished.

And then what?

I might have inherited his ball skills, but the similarities between us ended there. He’d easily taken to an off-field career after his injury, but the thought of trading my uniform for a suit and tie was nothing short of depressing.

I didn’t want to do anything else.

Wasn’t built for it.

“You know, Mama brought me a brand-new pair of sheepskin house shoes when she stopped by yesterday. They’re real nice too, with memory foam and shearling. But you—you show up with the same song and dance I heard last season after we lost to Toronto. And I really could have used a nice thick pair of socks to go with those shoes too.”

“Are you even listening to me?” he snapped. “What do you want me to say, knowing my only child’s career is on the brink of collapse?”

Brink of collapse?

Well, it was clear he wasn’t getting his PR talking points from Theo.

“Have you ever thought about…” I paused, taking several deep breaths until I trusted I wasn’t going to launch a barrage of insults in his direction. “Have you ever thought about not saying anything? Maybe just dropping by to see how I’m doing?”

His grim smile was all the answer I needed. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Look, I just think you’ve worked too hard to lose it all at the age of twenty-six.”

I rolled my eyes. “Lose it all? Gee, thanks, Dad. It’s nice knowing I can always count on you to not blow things out of proportion.”

The truth was staring me right in the face. My father was an old dog whose only trick seemed to be reciting some variation of the same tired schtick.

He didn’t give a damn about me. It all boiled down to the player and whether he was toeing the team’s line or not. This wound between us had been festering for going on fourteen years.

I imagined things would continue on like they always had with ol’ Joe stuck on his soapbox, holding up a tattered cardboard sign, proclaiming that the end was near.

Shape up or risk losing everything.

Not only did Reed men demand perfection, but we weren’t really big on apologies either—which brought me full circle. Since when did I care so much about what a stranger thought of me?

I’d dealt with critics my whole life—from the press who hadn’t understood the hype surrounding my name, to the rabid fans I’d had to dodge after a loss.

Never once had I felt the need to go back and apologize.

What made her any different?

Maybe it was just a temporary lapse in judgment—a combination of boredom and too much time on my hands. We were, after all, the youngest residents here by a good fifty years.

I let my father’s stern warning sink in, wondering if maybe he had it right. My future rested solely on my ability to perform—that was it. If I wanted a contract, then I had to stop fixating on anything other than coming back better than before.

Failure was only an option when it came to my relationship with him.

“How’s that feeling?” Rocky asked after adjusting the ice packs surrounding my knee. “I think with as hard as we’re pushing your body during the day, you’re going to notice more swelling in the evenings. The best thing to do is—”

“Fine.” I didn’t react to the crushed expression on his face before turning my attention back toSportsCenter. I actually hadn’t minded the nighttime therapy and icing session—even if it meant missing most of game seven of the ALCS. Nevertheless, I needed him to take the hint and get lost.

I’d been in a sour mood since my father’s visit and wanted to hear Rocky’s thoughts on cryotherapy about as much as I wanted to see Kansas City in the World Series. Judging by the highlights from tonight’s game, I was going to be out of luck on both accounts.

“Can you turn this up?” I craned my neck, struggling to read the closed captioning blocks from across the room.

His posture tightened. “Sure, man. Anything else you need? Bottled water? Warm blankets? Extra pillows?”

I caught myself before I snapped and instead leveled a glare at the television. Acknowledging the jab would only make things worse.

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