Page 137 of My Lucky Charm

At the sound of it, I’m a kid, skating until my ankles swell and shooting until my hands bleed.

I turn around, and there, at the end of the hallway, is my father.

He’s dressed in jeans and a Comets hoodie, and while he’s aged in the few years since I’ve seen or spoken to him, he’s still got the same grizzled look he always had.

The one I always interpreted as “mean.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“You kiddin’? Came to watch the game.” He starts walking toward me. “Wasn’t your best.”

It’s all too familiar.

“We won.”

“You could’ve had that goal at the end, and instead you passed it off like you were a toddler in a game of hot potato. How is that going to help your stats? Assists don’t count.”

Stay calm. Just breathe. You’ve heard all of this before.

“Burke was open.”

“Did you forget how to score?” He’s keeping his tone light, but the words still bite.

“I’m not the only guy out there,” I say.

He stops in front of me and gives me a once-over. “Ah, geez, you’ve gone soft again. What’s her name?”

I clench my hands at my sides. I’m not a scrawny kid anymore. I don’t have to listen to this. So why am I not walking away?

“Your fire is gone,” he says, and I know that by “fire” he means “anger.” I didn’t play angry tonight. I had a calm head, and he doesn’t understand it.

“I have to go.” I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm.

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that.” His tone shifts. “Let’s go get a beer and catch up.”

Catch up? I think. Like what, we’re old friends? We’re just shooting the breeze, we’re swapping family stories?

“I have an early bus.”

My phone buzzes in my hand, and the screen lights up with a photo of Eloise, a selfie she took when she entered her contact info into my phone. I flip it over to keep him from seeing it, but not in time.

He doesn’t comment on it, but I see the disappointment on his face. Instead, he says, “Let’s go get a drink. Come on. No hockey talk.”

I’m about to tell him we have nothing to talk about, but before I can, the door to the press room opens, and Burke walks out. At the sight of him, my dad puffs himself up.

“Mr. Dallas Burke,” he says, extending a hand.

I glower. I need to get out of here and call Eloise to check on Scarlett.

I need to get away from him.

Dallas glances at me, but when I don’t introduce him, my dad, with his hand still out, says, “Buddy Hawke. Gray’s dad.”

Burke’s eyes light up the way a person does when they’re excited to meet someone new. I want to explain that there is no reason to waste his good manners on my dad, but before I can, good ol’ Buddy is showering Dallas with all kinds of praise about his game. His speed and agility. His impressive puck handling. He even compliments Dallas on the game-winning goal.

His compliments aren’t meant for building Dallas up—they’re meant for tearing me down.

Everything is a competition. Everything is a measuring stick.

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