Page 66 of Wilder Puck
I nod, shoving my own hands in my pockets. My dad thinks the measure of a man's worth, at least in Coach Wilder's eyes, has always been his skill on the ice. But maybe he's starting to realize that there's more to life than the game. That happiness, real happiness, comes from places that have nothing to do with a scoreboard.
“And you,” my dad says abruptly, turning to pin me with a look that makes me feel like a young boy again. “Don't think I didn't see that shirt on your bed, Ryan.”
Fuck. Was there a shirt?
Shit!
There was a shirt!
Addie's shirt.
I double-checked my room for crying out loud, how did I miss her shirt? Didn’t she put it back on?
“It's not what you think,” I say quickly, my mind racing for an excuse.
“Don't bullshit me, Ryan.” My dad's voice is hard, his eyes scowling. “I’m telling you now, don't let her ruin your performance on the ice. We already lost against the Saints, and we don’t need another big loss.”
I wince because that’s all he cares about. The problem was that Baddie didn’t come to the damn game, and I needed her. It sounds stupid, I know, but she came to almost every game until that point. It was an expectation on my end, and I see that now. If I have no expectations, I won’t be disappointed.
This is a hard lesson to learn. My dad is my fucking coach. I would love to keep my personal life far away from my professional one. Hockey always comes first, no matter what though. I worked too hard to get here to throw it away for anything or anyone even if I have other dreams and desires.
But with Addie, everything's different. She's not some passing distraction, some puck bunny looking for a good time and losing her, losing what we have? It's not an option. I won't let it be.
“It wasn’t her fault,” I argue back, even when I know my dad won’t like it.
My dad’s eyes narrow, his mouth twisting like he's tasted something sour. “That girl's been after your money and status since day one, kid. Open your eyes.”
“What?” I blink at him, genuinely baffled. “What money? What status? In case you haven't noticed, I'm just a rookie. I don't have any of that shit yet.”
“But you will,” my dad insists, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You're the best damn goaltender this league has seen in years, Ryan. That comes with perks, with clout. And a girl like that, with her little coffee shop and her new job at that sportsbar, you think she doesn't see the benefit of attaching herself to you?”
I actually laugh at that. The idea is so ludicrous. “Benefit? Dad, come on. Baddie's the most independent person I've ever met. She's built that shop from the ground up through grit and hard work. And the bar gig is to help pay off bills. She doesn't need me, or my hypothetical future fame, for anything.”
My dad shakes his head, his expression bleak. “You're too close to it, son. You can't see her clearly. But I'm telling you, that girl's no good. She's got an agenda, same as she always has. Have you seen the way she looks at me? She'd happily shove me into traffic if she could get away with it.”
I scrub a hand down my face, suddenly exhausted. “Maybe that's because you've never given her a fair shake, Dad. You've given her a hard time since the day you met her, convinced she's some gold-digging puck bunny out to corrupt your precious hockey prince.” I shake my head. “And I’m not even your favorite son––”
“Watch your mouth,” my dad snaps, his eyes flashing. Suddenly I’m scared about practice this week. Shit. “I'm your dad. I'm allowed to have reservations about the girl sniffing after my son.”
“Reservations?” I echo. “You hate her. You've made that painfully clear, time and again. But you know what? It doesn't matter. Because I––”
I cut myself off before I can say it, the words sticking in my throat. Love. I love her. I'm in love with her. But I can't say it, not here, not like this. Not with my dad glaring at me like I've just committed some unforgivable sin.
“I care about her,” I say instead, my voice rough, pissed off about the stupid shirt on my bed. I feel like a damn teenager right now. “Baddie is my best friend. And if you can't see howamazing she is, how good she is for me then you really don’t know me.”
My dad opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by the sound of the front door opening. We both turn to see Addie stepping out onto the porch, her eyes finding mine. She smiles, small and sweet, and lifts her hand in a little wave.
Just like that, the tension drains out of me, the tightness in my chest easing.
I lift my hand in return, ignoring the way my dad stiffens beside me. He can think what he wants and can have all the doubts and suspicions he likes. It won't change a damn thing.
Addison Montgomery is my present and my future. And no one, not even my dad, can convince me otherwise.
“I gotta go,” I mutter, already moving toward her. “Good talk, Dad. Always a pleasure. See you on the ice.”
I don't wait for his response, don't look back to see the disapproval on his face. I just stride across the lawn to where Addie's waiting, her arms crossed, and her brow furrowed.
“Hey,” I say when I reach her, resisting the urge to pull her into me, to bury my face in her hair and just breathe.
