Page 100 of Dirty Pucking Player

She bites her lip and shakes her head. “No. He asked for you last night, but he’s unconscious again, and he isn’t awake for very long when he is conscious.”

I nod slowly as Rachel watches me.

Her green eyes, ones the same color as Mom’s, assess me long and hard. “What are you going to say to him?”

“Does it matter?”

She scowls at me and crosses her arms over her chest. “Of course, it matters, Bash. Jameson wouldn’t even come. And you’re here, but I can already see that it isn’t to give him a kiss and hug.”

I scrub my hands over my face and shake my head. “Look, Rach, you were too young to really understand what was going on—”

She holds up a hand. “Oh, no. Don’t even get started with that bullshit with me. Yes, I was young, and you all did your best to protect me from the worst of him. But I wasn’t blind or stupid. I know he made a lot of mistakes. I know he was a shitty father. But he is still our father. He’s still a human being.”

Barely.

“Are you perfect, Bash? Have you made no mistakes in your life?”

“Jesus, Rach, I’ve made plenty of mistakes.” But for some reason, I can’t put Greer on that list. Even with the terrible way everything has turned out, I can’t consider her a mistake or harbor an ounce of regret for the time we spent together. Regret over how it turned out…that’s what eats away at me. “There’s no need to lecture me.”

“I’m not perfect, Bash. Far from it. But it seems you need a reminder that neither are you. He may only have a few days left on this planet. He knows he’s made mistakes, so please don’t go in there all riled up for a fight like you do on the ice. Or you might be the one who kills him. You don’t want that on your conscience.”

It’s not fair to say that speaking my mind is going to kill the old man, but she’s right about my conscience. It’s weighed down enough right now, wondering if what Greer and I did, what I initiated, is going to get her canned. On top of knowing I didn’t play my best in the last few games and it might have played a role in costing us the Cup.

I can’t self-flagellate over that. It wasn’t just me; the whole team fell apart. But sometimes, all it takes is one amazing play from one player to turn things around, and I just couldn’t be that this time.

Because of Greer or because of Dad? That’s up in the air.

There was just too much swirling around my head. Too many unspoken words. Too many unanswered questions. At least I can resolve some of them now before it’s too late.

I suck in a deep breath of the stale hospital air and tug Rach in for another hug. “I promise I’ll be gentle with him.”

She pulls back with disbelief in her eyes. “Your version of gentle or actually gentle?”

I grin at her. “I only know one version.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

26

BASH

It turns out Rachel was worried for nothing.

In the long days I’ve been here, sitting beside the man who caused me so much pain, Dad has only stirred and opened his eyes a few times, and he’s never been conscious long enough to even acknowledge me being here.

Watching him cling to life, moving in and out of consciousness for almost a week, has given time for the anger I was holding onto to dissipate somewhat. It will never completely go away. It’s in my nature to hold grudges, even against blood, but if he’s ever lucid long enough to actually have a conversation with me, it won’t be the knockdown, drag-out fight I had pictured in my head when I first came here.

He looks so small, so fragile in this hospital bed, so different from the man I remember growing up. That man was a monster. Huge, muscled, dominating on the ice and off it. Even though it’s been years since I’ve seen him, I didn’t think it would be this bad. He’s just a shadow of who and what he used to be.

The man lost his career. He lost his wife. He lost his kids. Well, all but Rachel. She just has too big of a heart to leave him despite everything he’s said and done. But for all intents and purposes, he’s been alone.

He created this world of his own making, though. He chose to be angry. He chose to drink. He chose to bring his aggression off the ice and into our home. I can’t ever forget that. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive it, either. Even if my anger does fade. Even with him like this.

And maybe I don’t have to.

Each day, he seems to deteriorate more, and he may never wake up.

I rub at my tired eyes, push myself up from the chair next to his bed, and wander over to the window for what feels like the hundredth time since I got here. Other than short stints where I went to the hotel to try to sleep, shower, and change, I’ve been here nonstop, rotating with Rachel to make sure he isn’t alone, just in case the inevitable happens.

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