Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Playing hockey for me requires a player’s full commitment,” he says evenly, but there’s a threat already developing his tone. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been particularly distracted as of late.”
He says the word as though I’ve been drunk or high, or out committing felonies as a part-time side gig, but at least we’re getting somewhere. Though, in theory, he could still mean the whole team dynamic or Briar. Testing that, I hum, “Huh. I thought our pregame get-togethers were helping, but I can cancel if you want.” I hold my phone up, thumb poised like I’m going to text the group chat right now.
Coach slams his palms to the desk, the noise jarringly loud in the quiet office, and stands, looming over me, though the desk is thankfully still between us. “You are sneaking around with my daughter, Lee. My daughter!” he roars. Digging his fingertip into a stack of papers, he asserts, “That. Stops. Now.”
I don’t so much as flinch. My face stays perfectly stoic, though inside I’m raging at this asshole who has neglected Briar for her whole fucking life and now wants to demand things like he has any right.
I lift my brows, cockily challenging, “Or what?”
I know the answer. That’s what his whole showboating thing with the roster was about. If I kowtow to him, he’ll put me back as a starter. If not, he’s going to play Tomville. But he doesn’t want to do that. Not really. I love the kid and he’s damn good, probably even going to be great one day, but he’s not me. And I don’t mean that arrogantly; there’s just no comparison between me and Tomville at this point in our respective careers.
“Or you can sit your ass on the bench tonight. Or all fucking season, for all I care. Or you could never play again. How about that?” He’s ramping up, each threat worse than the last, and louder too. “Make your choice.”
Choice? He thinks there’s a choice here? That’s what’s wrong with him in the first place, because I don’t see a decision to be made. Not at all.
“I’d still get paid, though, right?” I say with a shit-eating smirk.
He blinks, not expecting that response to his nuclear meltdown, which is exactly what I hoped for.
It’s time for me to tell Coach how I see this going down.
I stand, meeting his eyes as I plant my hands on his desk and lean in closer. My voice hard, I tell him, “You can control what I do on the ice. You can control my position on this team. What you can’t do is control what I do outside this arena.” I point toward the door, then drive my finger into his chest. “And what you’ve never done is give a single, solitary shit about what Briar wants or needs. You left her when she was seven years old and never looked back, so don’t start acting like you give a fuck about her now.”
I step back . . . move away . . . toward the door. I need to get out of here before I do something I can’t take back. I have listened to Briar talk about how she felt when her father basically abandoned her. I heard the tears in her voice, understand the damage he did, not only with his own actions, but by leaving her vulnerable to a man like Tyler because as far as I’m concerned, Coach Boothe carries some responsibility for that too. I have seen how alone she’s been since her divorce, without a bit of support from the man in front of me.
He is not a dad. He’s not a father. He’s the worst kind of man: a leaver.
Every protective instinct inside me is surging up, urging me to punish him for the ways he hurt her. To make him bleed for every time his daughter needed him and he wasn’t fucking there.
“Lee.”
I don’t stop, the doorknob in my hand. “See ya later, Coach.” I sneer the honorary label I have said to many men that I’ve respected to varying degrees over the years, but none I’ve respected less than Coach Boothe. “Guess I’ll be riding the pine.”
“You will not see her again!” he bellows.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see how red-faced and furious he is. “See, that’s the difference between you and me. You picked hockey. I’ll pick Briar every. Single. Time.”
He flinches at the dig, but it’s only for an instant before his face hardens and he opens his mouth to give some anger-fueled, snappy reply. Probably that I don’t know the whole story, or I don’t understand what he was going through, or whatever justifications he’s spoon-fed himself over the years. Repeating them over and over, so many times until he started to believe his own bullshit.