Page 19 of Dirty Pucking Player

“My point exactly.” And when he was working as a custodian at the community college, it was to pay for my hockey camps and ice time and everything else that comes with having a daughter obsessed so completely with a sport that’s so damn expensive. “So, what’s going on, sweetheart? You just called to say hi to your old man?”

I roll the half-full bottle of water between my hands. “I don’t know, Dad. I guess I just need a male perspective.”

“Then, you’ve come to the right place. Perspective on what?”

Having to even ask him this is another blow to my ego, but I need help and don’t have anywhere else to go. I would bounce it off Bob, but he’s already made his position on this particular problem crystal clear. “On what to do with a player who doesn’t seem to respect my authority or think I can do the job.”

“Who’s the asshole who thinks that? That Bash Fury?”

Leave it to Dad to see exactly what’s happening right from the beginning, even from five states away and through the television. He always was insightful. It was one of the things Mom loved and hated about him. He always knew when something was bugging her, even when she claimed things were fine, and was able to pick up on the subtle clues in her body language.

“How did you know?”

He snorts. “You should’ve seen the way the cameras kept zooming in on your face every time he got a penalty. You looked like your head was about ready to pop off.”

Shit.

“Here I thought I was doing a pretty good job of controlling my emotions.”

“Sweetheart, you have a lot of gifts. Controlling your emotions is not one of them. It’s not an insult. It’s just a statement of fact. Your mother was the same way. Wore her heart on her sleeve.”

He’s right. I never have been good at concealing my emotions. But I’ve never had to. I’ve never been on a stage with the focus on me like this before. Even during the Olympics, on a world stage, there were other major players, other teams. Then Bob was the focus when we were coaching. This is completely different.

I’m the one they’re watching. I’m the one they’re hoping will fail. “Was it that bad?”

“No, sweetheart. I mean, maybe…”

“Great.”

He sighs. “I think any coach would have been pissed, honey. Bash was definitely out of line on at least a couple of those penalties.”

“You think I should bench him?”

Dad barks out a laugh that rumbles through the phone. “Oh, hell, sweetheart, I can’t tell you that. You’re the coach, not me.”

“Yeah, but you’ve watched hockey longer than I’ve been alive and sat through all my practices and games. I trust your opinion.”

“The Scorpions didn’t hire you for your dad’s opinions, Greer. They hired you for your personal experience and for what you think. You need to trust your gut.”

He makes it sound so easy.

Trust your gut.

It’s such a dad thing to say. He’s been giving me the same advice my entire life, but this feels so different. Maybe because Bash Fury has my gut twisted up in knots.

“What if I don’t know what my gut is telling me?”

“Then, you wait ‘til you do know.”

As if it’s that simple.

6

GREER

Thank God.

It seems our little talk after the last game, while uncomfortable and unsettling in so many ways, may have actually gotten through to Bash. Maybe our travel day getting to Seattle gave him time to consider what I said and the ramifications of not cleaning up his game.

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