Page 14 of These Wicked Games
“Not good enough.”
I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe it’s the fight with Oli, maybe it’s the looks Vee gave me, or the alcohol she supplied me with. I’ve fucking had it. Rage simmers under my skin.
It was a good game.
If our team scored one more we would have won, but I respect the fuck out of Knox for letting the clock run out. Hockey’s a brutal sport, brimming with blood, sweat, and rivalries that can last generations. But there’s also respect. “Well, it’s going to have to be.” I walk past him, just ready to crash, but I’m jerked backwards. Ripping my arm out of his grip, I glare. My father, back in the day, was a giant of a man, and while age has shrunk him down some, the strength is still there.
This fury . . . It’s what no one else sees. It’s like this demon covers and shadows him. It’s nearly fucking laughable watching how he is in public, and then how he is with me in private. That right there is why no one will understand it. My father, the master manipulator.
I guess it’s my fault too. It’s not like I try hard to keep a great image. It’s the one thing I can control. I love getting in trouble, embarrassing him publicly, tainting his name and legacy any chance I get. The beating I took after legally changing my last name to my mother’s maiden name can still be felt, and that was years ago.
“Fucking pathetic,” he spits. “Shit-fucking-show tonight.”
“It was a close ga—” My spit flies with the sharp sting of a slap. Warmth trickles down my chin and it’s now I see his ring.
“You think with all the fucking training, all the energy I waste on you, you could at least be something other than a disappointment on the ice. Fucking pathetic.”
“It was nearly tied!” I feel anger bubble up, but I contain it. This is the part I fucking hate.
I’m bigger.
Stronger.
Faster.
I’m also more afraid.
Every time Tripp lays his fucking hands on me I’m five years old again, getting a slap across my face. I can’t even remember what I did, I just remember crying because I missed my mother. I lost her, and he didn’t give a shit.
She left him with a responsibility.
“I don’t know why I fucking bother.”
Wiping my lip, I pull back my hand, seeing red. “Great question.” My common sense is lost—maybe Oli knocked it out of me tonight—and Vanessa’s words from earlier ring in my mind.I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to live like this. I have options, and people. Even as I think it the doubt starts to weigh down on the solutions. No one will believe me. My father is up there with Gretzky, Jagr, and Messier with 871 career goals and 1734 assists.
He’s a force on the ice, and an evil bastard at home. “I’m going to bed.”
“You’re going to get your ass in the training room and run drills until your feet bleed. If you have the energy to party, you have the energy to train.”
I’m fucking tired. “I’m going to bed,” I grit. It’s nearly two in the morning and I’m ready to drop. I sidestep and walk around him. His fingers latch onto my bicep, but I wrench out of his hold. I’m done. “I’m going to bed!”
“I should have thrown you out on the fucking street after that bitch died. You’re an embarrassment. The least you can do is actually be good at the game that’s blessed you with so much.”
Rage unfurls. My mother wasn’t perfect, but she was mine. I can’t even blame her for falling for Tripp’s bullshit. I’m not even sure why Tripp stayed with her. Control, probably. That one little word,blessed, rings in my mind, because once she died that burden fell on me. “Blessed me?” I turn to him, and I think I see fear flash through his eyes but it quickly dies away. Maybe I’m seeing things—I’m still a little drunk—hoping he feels something I know he probably doesn’t. “My mother was way too good for your ass.”
“What did you say?”
I take a breath, weighing my options.You don’t have to stay. Yup, I must still be drunk, or I passed out on the way home and I’m dreaming. It’s the only excuse I can come up with for what I do next. “Put your fucking hands on me again and I’ll fucking remove them!” Blood sprays. I clutch my mouth. That fucking ring. Pulling my hands back, they’re soaked with blood. Fuck.
“Talk to me like that again and you’ll be eating through a fucking straw,” he snarls.
I swing—I don’t think—connecting with the side of his face. I cannot believe I fucking did that. Holy shit. What the hell was I thinking? Tripp touches the side of his face and there’s a moment where neither of us move.
Then he does, and I know I need to get out of here.
I go to run away but he grabs me back, tossing me backwards as if I weigh nothing. I trip over my feet, tumbling back and hitting my head on the counter. Their goalie comes to mind.
I’ve had enough. Twenty-plus years too late, but I’ve had enough. I’m drained. I’m pissed. I want to collapse, scream, run. “You’re a fucking bully,” I snarl.
