Page 39 of Breaking the Pucking Rules
“We won, Daddy,” she cries happily.
“You did,” I say, carrying her over to the bench so she can take her skates and pads off.
As I undo her laces, she chatters on about the plays they chose and how well they worked.
“Aurora lost the puck right at the last minute. I couldn’t believe it; she was so close, but then I remembered what you did in that game against the Wildcats. I did it. Just like you did. They didn’t have a clue what I was doing until it was too late.”
She’s practically vibrating with excitement on the seat, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
“Hungry?” I ask her.
“Starving,” she confesses.
With her bag over my shoulder and her tiny hand in mine, wesay goodbye to her teammates and the other parents and head out.
We drive to our favorite after-practice diner and slip into our regular booth at the back.
Neither of us reaches for the menu. We don’t need to. We have the exact same thing every time we come here.
It’s our Sunday treat when I’m in town.
The rest of the week, we eat like the athletes we are. I’m not over the top with it. I allow her treats every now and then, but I also think it’s important to teach her that if she wants to be a professional one day, she needs to understand how much of a part nutrition can play.
I remember watching kids struggling because of the shit they ate. They weren’t as alert or as fast when it really mattered. I also remember them dropping out. Of course, there were a million other reasons as well—food isn’t the be-all and end-all—but fuck, it’s crucial.
“Two cheeseburgers, loaded fries, a side of onion rings, a strawberry milkshake, and a soda, right?” Clarissa, our usual server, asks with her pad poised and a smile on her face.
“One day we’re going to surprise you by ordering a hot dog and mac and cheese,” Sutton tells her with a smirk that is scarily similar to mine.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Clarissa says before ripping her eyes from my daughter and focusing on me. “I do love it when people take me by surprise.”
I force a grin in her direction in the hope that this time she’ll get the picture.
I like her. She’s sweet and good at her job. But she’s at least ten years too young for me.
“Okay, well…I’ll go and grab your drinks, then.”
“Clarissa has a crush on you, Daddy,” Sutton informs me.
“She’s just a hockey fan,” I explain, but if the way Sutton’s brows lift tells me anything, it’s that she doesn’t believe a word of it.
“Then why has she never asked for your autograph?”
“Uh…” Because the place she’d like me to sign isn’t appropriate in a full diner with an almost-eight-year-old watching? “No idea, Peanut. Are you looking forward to school tomorrow?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.
She lets out a heavy sigh, her previous happy expression faltering a bit.
“I guess,” she muses, reaching for the salt dispenser.
“Sutton,” I prompt.
It takes her a few seconds before she lifts her eyes from the table and focuses on mine. “Miss White put Adrian at my table.”
“Ah, I see.”
Adrian also plays hockey. He’s good. But…he’s not as good as Sutton, which pisses him the hell off.
I get it. All hockey players want to be the best. I understand his ego, but also…Sutton is better. And I’m not just saying that because I’m her father.
