Page 85 of Dirty Pucking Player

Of course, she is.

Rachel is nothing if not the perfect daughter. It doesn’t matter that she barely saw the man growing up or that when she did, he was distant and aggressive toward everyone—she still takes care of him as much as she can, even though she’s in California now and has her own life and career.

“Is Jameson going?”

She snorts. “What do you think? Of course, he’s not.”

I wouldn’t have expected him to show any interest in seeing the old man. I sure don’t have any.

So, she’ll be there alone…

I rub at my jaw. “Rach, you know I can’t—”

“I wasn’t expecting you to come, Bash.” She releases a little sigh. “I know how you feel about him. I just thought you should know. Good luck tonight.”

She hangs up before I can offer some form of an apology for not caring about the fucking bastard, and a strange mix of white-hot anger and chilling confusion flows through my veins.

I glance up and slam on my brakes. “Shit!”

The tires squeal as the car struggles to stop at the red light I almost drove through.

My heart thunders against my chest, and I’m going to blame that on the near-death experience and not the phone call.

Even if I wasn’t playing one of the most important games in my life tonight, I wouldn’t be going back to Michigan—that’s exactly what Rachel meant. Yet she still felt the need to inform me of his condition.

Why the hell would she tell me now, knowing I’m playing tonight?

The last thing I need is to be worrying about the man who never gave a shit about us when I’m out on that ice. My head is already a mess after my conversation with Greer and our losses in Portland. There’s no room for anything else tonight.

If we win these two games, we at least have a chance of moving on to the second round if we can keep the momentum going into the final games of the series. It only takes four wins. These two are essential. My complete focus needs to be on playing hard and keeping everything tight. But a vision of Dad in a hospital bed flits through my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Get the fuck out of my heart, you bastard!

The car behind me lays on the horn, and I glance up at the green light and press the gas.

Get your shit together, Bash. You need to concentrate on this game—not on a woman, or a man who doesn’t give a piss about you.

I’ve never had trouble focusing on the game. Never. The game is my life. It’s what my heart beats for. What I bleed for. Years of hard work, breaking my body for this damn sport, and this is as close as I’ve been able to get. No team I’ve ever been on has advanced past the first round. The Scorpions have the ability to do it. We’re a great team. I’m not fucking it up now that the Cup is within reach.

I drive the rest of the way to the arena on autopilot—left turn, right turn, right turn, left turn, and park my car. The bright afternoon sunlight glints off the windshield and straight into my eyes. I squeeze them shut against it.

For one moment, the silence of the car envelops me, and it’s surprisingly calming. Usually, the bustle and noise of the arena and game get me amped up and quiet is the last thing I want or need. But right now, it’s slowly helping release some of the tension in my body.

But it can’t last forever.

Time to forget everything else and concentrate on slaughtering some Wolverines.

I climb from the car, grab my bag, and jog inside the arena to the locker room. Most of the guys are already here in half-dressed states, and Steve hustles around getting people anything they need.

Mac looks over at me with a raised eyebrow and makes his way across the locker room. “Are you all right, man? You don’t look very good.”

“I’m fine.” It comes out more like a snarl, but I don’t need him up my ass right now.

He snorts and shakes his head. “You don’t sound it, either.”

I sigh and run my hands through my hair. “My sister just called. My dad had a stroke.”

And I have no idea why I just told him that.

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