Page 129 of Blindside Me
“Dad.” I nod. “Got a minute?”
He snorts, like the question is ridiculous, but steps back to let me in. The stench of stale beer and microwave dinners greets me. Empty bottles and unopened mail litter the table. The TV drones in the background, tuned to some sports talk show.
The only clean thing in the house? The oak cabinet Mom loved. Still filled with trophies. Mine on the left. Jake’s on the right. Balanced. Like Dad always wanted us to be.
“You’re not here for a visit.” Dad drops into his recliner, the leather groaning under his weight. “Coach call you about the suspension?”
I remain standing, hands shoved deep in my pockets to keep them from fidgeting. “Two games. Already served. I’m back this week.”
He grunts. “That’ll look great to the scouts. Hothead on the ice. Liability.”
I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “It won’t happen again.”
“Sure, it won’t.” His laugh holds no humor. “Until the next time someone pisses you off.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” Dad leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know what’s not fair? Throwing away everything you’ve worked for over some girl. That’s what this was about, right? Coach Howell mentioned his niece.”
The mention of Jade sends a jolt through my chest. Coach talked to him?
“It wasn’t just about her.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
“Right.” Dad snorts. “You punch the guy for fun.”
I glance at the trophies. Sixteen-year-old me thought hockey would save him by taking him away from this house. From Dad. Guess you can’t outrun your problems. My gaze shifts to my old bedroom. It’s a time capsule to a younger me.
“You haven’t touched my room,” I say.
“Why would I?” He shrugs. “Didn’t need the space.”
The loneliness in his words tries to pull at me, but I don’t reach for it. Not today.
“I came to talk about the fight,” I say.
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Guy say something bad?”
Roman’s voice echoes in my head. That cruel smirk. The filth he said about Jade.
“Yeah,” I say. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
Dad sighs, reaching for another beer from the six-pack by his chair. The familiar sound of the cap twisting off sends a wave of apprehension through me. How many nights did I lie awake counting those sounds? One, two, three, four … each one bringing him closer to the version of himself I feared most.
“Look,” he says, gesturing with the fresh bottle, “you know how it is. Sometimes you gotta put people in their place. Show ’em they can’t just run their mouths without consequences.”
My shoulders tense, the muscles bunching tight across my back. This is what I feared. His approval. His reflection in me.
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” I mutter.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I face the window. The neighborhood has changed. But not him.
“You didn’t ask what the guy said. Or if I regret it. You just assumed I was right to hit him. Because you would’ve.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
That line lands like a punch.
