Page 46 of Pucking the Grump

No matter what her dad has planned for us tomorrow night…

Chapter 13

Remy

Rain pelts my windshield as I pull into my father’s driveway, the wipers barely able to keep up with Portland’s latest deluge.

The weather matches my mood—dark, turbulent, and showing no signs of letting up anytime soon. I’ve been a bundle of nerves since Dad’s text yesterday, my stomach churning with anxiety that not even Stone’s steady stream of supportive messages could fully calm.

Just breathe, his latest text read. If he knew about us, he wouldn’t have invited me to dinner. He’d have invited me to the bad part of town to be mugged and torn to pieces by feral dogs.

He’s probably right, but that hasn’t kept my palms from sweating all over the wheel.

Allegedly, Dad seemed normal enough with Stone after the storage room incident, and Justin being invited makes it logical that this is just the usual start of the season teambuilding thing Dad likes to do.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s...off.

Maybe because good things rarely come from being summoned to my father’s house for dinner. The last time he insisted I come over for smoked salmon, he spent two hours explaining why I should reconsider my decision to take the promotion I’d been offered without a bigger pay raise. He refused to acknowledge the reality that admin salaries don’t increase that dramatically with each step up the ladder and that Juliet had already fought to get me an extra 10k a year.

The time before that, he’d tried to talk me into moving into the apartment over his garage to “save money” right after I’d renewed the lease on my place, again refusing to believe that I had signed an iron-clad agreement and couldn’t simply “change my mind.”

Though I was really glad it was “iron-clad.” The last thing Dad and I need is to live under the same roof ever again. We love each other, but we’d also kill each other. Or I’d jump out a window to avoid a debate over every single choice I make, from the job I take to the car I drive to what I wear on the sidelines while I’m coaching.

My father’s definition of looking out for me almost always involves trying to control my life. He means well, but it gets insulting after a while and…exhausting. I’m just so tired of defending my choices every two to three weeks, when Dad decides it’s time for some “family bonding” over lean protein and roasted root vegetables.

“Then tell him to stop,” I mutter to myself, killing the engine. “You’re a grown woman. Either draw a boundary or accept that this is how things are and quit whining. Whining is annoying.”

It is annoying.

And the tough self-love actually makes me feel better, though I know Stone would want me to take a gentler approach.

The thought of Stone steadies me, even as it sends a fresh wave of anxiety rushing through my system. Having him here, under my father’s roof, feels risky. Worlds are colliding in ways that they were never meant to.

What if Dad picks up on a vibe between us? Dad isn’t the best with vibes, but our vibes are very…vibey.

Especially lately.

But nothing kills a vibe like being under Coach Lauder’s watchful gray eyes, and there’s no time to freak out now. Thanks to a last-minute crisis with Zamboni replacement parts being delayed in the mail, I’m already ten minutes late.

Grabbing my purse, I make a dash for the covered porch, managing to stay mostly dry despite the downpour.

I pause at the door, taking a deep breath before letting myself in. The house smells the same as always—a mix of leather furniture polish and whatever Dad’s housekeeper, Claudia, made for dinner. Tonight, it smells like prime rib, my favorite.

Huh…

Prime rib usually means Dad’s either trying to apologize for something he’s done without actually saying “I’m sorry,” or attempting to soften the blow of whatever controversial conversation he’s about to put on the table along with the horseradish mashed potatoes.

Neither option is particularly comforting.

Hanging my coat in the entry closet, I catch my reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed from the dash through the rain, hair frizzed despite my best efforts with product this morning. I smooth it down, but it’s a lost cause, and it’s not like this is a formal event.

The sound of male laughter drifts from the living room, along with the distinctive clink of ice in glasses. Following the murmur of conversation, I pass the familiar gallery of photos lining the hall. There’s me at six, brandishing my first hockey stick with a “come at me, bro” look that’s pretty funny on a tiny kid. Me at twelve, accepting a trophy as big as I was. Me at eighteen, signing my letter of intent to play college hockey with Dad right behind me. Our old housekeeper, Maryanne, back in Michigan, took that one.

They’re good pictures, but it’s hard not to see what’s missing. The birthday party shots. The candid moments. The kind of laid-back, real-life memories that most people’s parents preserve. But then, Mom was the one who took those kinds of pictures, and she’s been gone for a long time.

The last image of my mother shows her beaming at me at my first figure skating competition. I’m five, sitting in her lap with a giant bottle of orange juice, wearing a sparkly blue dress, and missing my two front teeth. After that, it’s all hockey, all achievement, carefully curated moments that tell the story of a successful offspring, a successful life.

But that’s just my dad. He’s the same with his own life. The moments that matter are the ones that move him higher up the ladder, closer to his next goal. It isn’t personal, just…kind of sad.

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