Page 102 of Dirty Pucking Player

His revelation isn’t anything I haven’t known for almost three decades. It isn’t anything Mom didn’t know before she died. It was how we lived every damn day he was under the same roof. The only relief we got was during the season when he was with the team and not in Michigan with us.

Don’t tear his head off.

As much as I would love to rip him apart for what he did to all of us, Rachel was right—it doesn’t do any good to further destroy a man who is left dying almost alone because of how he lived his life and treated those he should have loved.

I shake my head. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“Don’t make the same mistake I did, Bash.”

“What’s that?”

“Letting the game be my happiness instead of the people in my life.”

Greer’s face pops to the forefront of my mind.

God, I miss her.

The woman is so far under my skin, she’s part of me now. But I can’t give up my contract, my career now. Not when I have everything I worked so damn hard for. All those five a.m. practices. All those hours on the ice honing my skills and ensuring I would be the best of the best. I can’t throw that all away. Even for her.

“I wish it were that easy, Dad.”

“Bash…”—he swallows thickly again—“it is.” His eyes drift closed before I can say anything else, and his body relaxes.

The machines will keep him alive, but who knows how much longer.

I walk around and drop into the chair. My eyes sting, but I refuse to shed tears for this man. I don’t know whether he’ll hear these words or not, but I need to say them before he dies.

I’ll never forget what he did, how he lived his life, and what he did to us, but at least he was able to recognize the ways he failed even if it was far too little and came far too late.

The words burn on my tongue, but I force them out, tearing my heart apart. “I forgive you, Dad.”

* * *

GREER

My phone beeps with an incoming message from Dad.

Turn on Sports Network right now.

What the hell?

I grab the remote and flip the channel over to Sports Network. The Sports Time anchors chatter on, mid-conversation about something. Animated and wide-eyed, whatever it is has left them in a tizzy.

“This is truly shocking.”

“There’s obviously more to the story here, but whether we’ll ever get it or not, is another question.”

“I know. It just doesn’t make any sense. He’s at the height of his career, sitting on a twenty-plus million-dollar contract, and his team just went to the playoffs, yet he’s retiring? Insanity.”

What the hell are they talking about?

I turn up the volume and lean toward the television, as if getting closer to the damns screen will somehow give me the answer to what could be so important that Dad called me to watch.

“Bash Fury must’ve lost his mind.”

“Or there’s some sort of injury or medical situation we’re unaware of that means he can’t continue to play.”

“Hopefully, we’ll hear more from the Scorpion camp soon on this matter.”

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