Page 117 of Full Tilt
Jesus. It’s like witnessing myself twenty years from now. And I don’t like what I see. The internal battle my father is having to speak respectfully with his own flesh and blood is not the person I want to be. He knows he has no right to be here, and I suspect he’s surprised I allowed him past security. Still, his vulnerable position isn’t enough to totally eradicate the smarmy, cocky attitude imprinted on his soul.
Mom had to deal with this man. Whether she liked it or not, she needed his financial support in order to feed and clothe me.
I bite down on my bottom lip, a wave of emotion stinging the back of my eyes.
Maybe she denied my true father’s identity because she knew nothing good could come of me knowing him.
When I first walked away from her, the phone calls were frequent, and my voicemail was often full. But as the years have passed and time has worn on, her attempts to make contact have lessened. I guess she would know I’m doing okay from media reports.
But how isshedoing? She didn’t even send her regular text on my last birthday.
Alex’s eyes rove around my apartment. “Did you buy this place yourself, or is the rental built into your terms?”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees as I take him in. “After all this time and everything that’s gone down between us, that’s the first question you ask me?”
He runs a rough palm over his mouth. Like me, he’s covered in tattoos. Although he hasn’t maintained them, and they look faded.
“What do you want me to say, Tommy?” He slaps his thigh with frustration.
I return the shoulder shrug he gave me earlier. “I wasn’t particularly bothered about hearing from you at all. You’re the one who showed up here, so I figured you had something important to say.”
“Well, I do,” he counters.
I motion to the space between us. “Go ahead then. The floor is yours.” I sit back on the couch, checking once over my shoulder. Really, I’m looking for signs of Jenna, but I play it off as checking the clock set on the wall behind me. “I have an appointment I need to be at in a half hour, so best make it quick.”
Alex clears his throat, his unease at my dismissive tone evident.
“I actually came here to apologize. I’ve …” He trails off, shifting in the chair for a second. “I’ve had a few health issues lately, and it’s brought it home that life is fragile and not guaranteed, and I wanted to reach out and tell you that.”
I nod appreciatively, my heart beating clean through my chest. Like a swan on a lake, I appear centered and calm. Underneath, I’m frantic, my mind trying to work out if his words are genuine.
“I watched your game against Philly and then your away series in Miami.” He raises his brows. “Your game style—it reminds me of my own. It’s nice to see that the enforcer hasn’t totally died a death in the league.”
Twelve-year-old Tommy would be screaming with excitement and blushing at the compliment. Seventeen-year-old Tommy would think he was right on track with his aim to be the best Schneider to ever grace the league. Present-day Tommy feels sick to his stomach at the thought of ever wanting to be like the man sitting in front of him.
“I’m nothing like you. On or off the ice.” My voice is quiet but solid, and I mean every word.
Alex huffs out a doubtful laugh. “Son, you have fifty percent of my DNA. Of course you’re like me.”
I shake my head and think about my captain and Coach Morgan. Jack doesn’t share a shred of DNA with his stepdad, yet they are essentially the same person. I know next to nothing about Jack’s father, but I do know he’s alive, and he never comes to his son’s games.
If I had a son, I’d be all over his career. Involved in every aspect of his life.
I’d want to be like Sawyer.
“I used to believe that,” I reply, lifting my head to look at him. “Not so much now.”
He looks like he’s fighting with his temper, and I maintain my silence and eye contact with him. It’s easier if he shows his true colors now rather than in ten minutes when I eventually ask him to leave.
Alex Schneider has nothing for me. Nothing good anyway. He’s here because he feels sorry for himself. Maybe the health story is true, and he has had a wake-up call. I don’t much care. He didn’t care when he treated me like a piece of shit that he just stepped in on the sidewalk.
Rage builds inside me, turning my knuckles white as I dig my fingernails into the soft flesh on my palms.
I want to cut him down and stick the knife in a little deeper when I’m done.
“All right …” Alex cracks his jaw. “Since you don’t care for small talk or anything nice I have to say, I might as well take the direct approach.”
I remain silent, fighting internal trembles as they vibrate through my bones. I’ve no clue what’s going to leave his mouth next, but I’m pretty sure I won’t like it.
