Page 51 of The Fine Line

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I clench my fists. I try to hold it in, but nineteen years of biting my tongue is starting to split me open.

“Say it again. Like a man.”

“Wasinvesting,” I say louder. “I’m on a full-ride scholarship here.”

He pauses. Then he laughs.

“And what, you think you earned that?”

I blink.

“You think you’d be here if I didn’t know half the university board?”

“No…” I start.

“What’s that?”

“No,” I grit out. “I earned my spot.”

“You didn’t earn shit.”

“I—”

“I mean, really,” he cuts me off, “you think they give full rides to kids that can’t even hold their own in a fight on the ice? To someone that just freezes and waits for the refs to come rescue them it’s fucking peewee hockey?”

“I fight all the time. Too much, even?—”

“To someone who can’t even make a wide-open shot?”

And there it is.

“I’m the top scorer on the team,” I say quietly.

“Not tonight, you weren’t.”

I swallow hard. “I can’t be perfect all the time, Dad.”

“Oh, trust me. I know,” he sneers, stubbing out his cigar. “You’re never even close.”

He looks up at the sky. Mutters to himself.

“Worthless.”

I dig my nails into my palms. He keeps going. Scoffing. Not even looking at me.

“Who would pick you?”

I turn to leave, but he grabs my sleeve.

“This isn’t one of your games. You don’t walk away from me, you little?—”

“Hey.”

Both our heads snap toward the door.

Bennett.

He steps outside, beer in hand. Calm but cold.

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