Page 79 of Shutout
Something Liv said two days ago stuck with me and unfortunately, a lonely Friday where all I did was work out and do homework, really made me marinate it.
I don’t really talk with people.
Sure, I’m a goof. I’ve definitely been down for a good time since Liv’s hiatus from me. And I can spend a whole week talking about hockey with anyone who cares to listen for that long. But I don’t really open up to anyone other than Olivia.
I thought the friends line of my tattoo was dimmer because I’d lost her, but honestly, I don’t try very hard with anyone else. And I’m not saying that I should’ve replaced her because that’s impossible, but she’s right. Literally the first time I talked about something personal with my teammates was when I admitted I’m head over heels for my childhood best friend.
That’s why I’m sitting with my defense partner at O’Malley’s bar. Maybe that was strategically a bad call, because we’re facing the TV screens showing a game from the team that drafted me. And all I can say are things like, “Their second line is lacking depth right now. It’s like they’re a Frankenstein that wasn’t sewn together properly.”
He nods while popping a French fry in his mouth. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you lose so many players to injuries this early.”
Another silence falls between us. Dane’s a chill dude who only gets amped up when we’re on the ice, so it’s not like this is uncomfortable for us. It might be a bit easier with Jamie, who is as much of a dork as I am. But at the same time, Jamie might’ve been freaked if I attempted a serious conversation with him.
Except, Dane would probably freak out too if I suddenly spring how much Thanksgiving at my dad’s sucked because he basically hates me. And it’s not like Dad’s abusive, but neglect feels very shitty too.
“So…” I tap my fingers on the chill surface of my ice tea glass. “How was your Thanksgiving?”
His eyes still follow the on-screen action as he speaks. “It was okay. My Aunt Sheila got so sloshed she almost killed herself walking down the stairs. And my mom complained that the turkey was too dry the whole night even though she’s the one who cooked it.”
I snort. “That sounds fun. Did you get drunk too?”
“Oh yeah, off my freaking face. Mom almost smashed her broomstick on my head when she noticed.”
“She sounds great.”
That tears his attention away from the game, if only to give me a very confused look. “What part of my mom almost murdered your defensive partner sounds great? Do you secretly hate me?”
“No.” I tuck my tongue against my cheek, eyes focused on my empty plate. “I mean, the fact that she cares so much. And is there for you.” Wow, shit. This is actually worse than the Dad-talk I intended. The burger and fries in my stomach are trying to claw up my esophagus.
“Why do you sound like a wounded puppy?”
My lips twist in a sneer. “Because I am, I guess.”
“Hey, Barry,” Dane calls out to the bartender. “We’ll need a couple of whiskey shots down here.”
The bartender, a grumpy-ass guy who’s been here since time immemorial, gives us the driest look a living human can muster. “Two more iced teas coming. Unsweet.”
Dane and I slouch. There’s no fooling this guy.
“Anyway.” Dane turns back to me. “Lay it all on Uncle Dane. It’ll help.”
I sigh. “There’s not much to it. Mom’s been out of the picture since my parents got divorced like twelve years ago or something. But Dad…”
He perks up even more and that reaction reminds me of something. Bryce Tatum was a star forward until just fifteen years ago. He had a long career despite the injury that firmly put a lid on it. So many kids, including myself, grew up idolizing him, trying to emulate his dirtiest dekes in practice, or even the celly that made him a popular fixture of sports magazines—something like the Rhodes thinker but on ice.
Whenever I tried to talk about Dad with someone who knew him, they inevitably fell into starstruck mode. Except for Liv. She also saw more of his father self than his professional athlete self, and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Dad’s fame.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Are you gonna get weird if I talk about him in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a perfect public figure?”
“Hmm.” He presses his lips tight. “I’m sensing the right answer is no.”
“It’s definitely no.”
“Okay, then totally no. Cuss the shit out of him.”
That makes me grin. “I wouldn’t quite give him a curse word middle name but we’re not exactly on the best terms.”
“Yikes. Is he like a helicopter Dad? Doesn’t even let you breathe without his permission?”
