Page 120 of Hot for the Hockey Player
“Let’s talk inside,” he said, not offering me any kind of affectionate greeting.If my mother had been here, she would have hugged me, and it would have been a struggle to get her to let go.Not Kirby Roy though.Affection for your sons was a sign of weakness—or at least, that’s how he saw things.He showed his love when we made him proud.But if we didn’t, then we may as well not exist.
“Uh … sure.Hang on.”I ran back to the truck.
The look of concern on Gabrielle’s face eased some of the tension that knotted below my ribcage.“Everything okay?”she asked as I turned off the ignition.
“It’s my dad.”
Her eyes went wide.“What?”
“Yeah.Obviously here to knock some sense into me.”
“Are you … what … do you need my help?My support?What can I do?”
To be honest, I wasn’t sure if having her there would make things easier or worse.While I loved her offer of support, I kind of wanted to protect her from my dad.He could be such an asshole.“Maybe … uh, you could go sit at the pub for a bit?Or take my truck home and I’ll figure out how to get it later?”
The corners of her mouth dropped, and a flash of hurt rushed across her face before she banished it with a big, fake smile.“Sure.Um, maybe I’ll head to the grocery store to pick up what I need for dinner.Text me when you want me to come back and get you?”
I reached across the bench seat of the truck for her hand, and she gave it to me.“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be.Just … don’t let your dad railroad you, okay?Stay strong.”Then she playfully pounded her chest with her fist before unbuckling her belt and scooting over behind the steering wheel.
I reached up and grabbed her chin, bringing her mouth to mine.“I’m going to channel my inner Gabrielle Campbell badassery.”Then I shot her a wink, and closed the door, only to spin around and find my father standing there, watching us both with the most disapproving look on his face.As if I just told him I wanted to give up hockey and become a mime.
Gabrielle mouthed, “Good luck” to me before reversing into an empty cabin driveway and slowly rumbling away.
“Was that who I think it was?”my father asked, condemnation in his voice.
“Who do you think it is?”I chose to play dumb as I went to unlock my front door.
“Gabrielle, the woman who you used to live with when you played for the Spokane Chiefs.”
“Yes, that’s her.”I let us in and toed off my Blundstones.My father didn’t bother removing his shoes and ventured deeper into the cabin as I hung up my jacket.“What brings you out all this way, Dad?”
Wandering into the kitchen, I filled up the electric kettle and brought down two mugs, knowing full well he wouldn’t drink the tea I planned to offer him, but plagued with obligation to offer it anyway.
“Don’t play dumb, Maverick.You’re smarter than that.I’m here to knock some sense into you.”
“Yeah?About what?”I leaned against the galley-style kitchen counter and crossed my arms over my chest, feigning a calmness I absolutely did not feel.Inside, my pulse roared in my ears and my heart hammered wildly against an immovable ribcage.
Anger flashed in my father’s blue eyes.“About this stupid podcast bullshit.You’re ruining your career.You belong on the ice.Everything we worked so hard for, you’re just going to throw it away for what?”He gestured toward the door.“A piece of May-December ass, and an over-corrected moral compass?”
I reared back a little.“Watch how you speak about Gabrielle.”
All my father did was lift his dark-blond brows.“Is this new?Or did you guys justpick upwhere you left off?Was it going on when you lived there?Because if the media gets wind of that …” He shook his head.“And here I thought you were the smartest of my three sons.The one with the most promise, both on and off the ice.”
Insults disguised as compliments.As was the Kirby Roymodus operandi.It was the way of my childhood.
With my jaw set tight, I glared at my father.If we’d been standing closer, I could have glareddownat him, since I had nearly three inches on him.While I rarely used that to my advantage, now seemed like the perfect time to remind my old man justwhowas the “bigger” man.
“Nothing happened between Gabrielle and me when I lived with her.I came to the island to see a physiotherapist my doctor recommended and found out that she and her children live here now.I’ve started spending time with them—helping her with some issues with her fourteen-year-old son—and we’ve grown closer.”
“We workedsohard,” my father said with a slightly gentler tone, like the Beast inBeauty and the Beasttrying to coax Belle to come down for dinner.He was trying, but there was still a lot of anger laced in each syllable.And as someone who grew up with this man, I could tell exactly where he was on the Kirby Roy anger scale.He was at about a five, color: burnt sienna.A slight simmer, but not ready to boil over.
“Iworked so hard,” I corrected him.“Youliterallyshoved a baby hockey stick into my hand the moment I was born and haven’t let me do anything but live, eat, sleep, and breathe hockey for my entire life.”
“Because that’s what you wanted.”
“No, that’s whatyouwanted.What youforcedus to do.We were never given any other choice than to play hockey.And if we complained, well, we may as well have ceased to exist.Your love was contingent on our success.On us sharing a common interest, a common passion with you.”
