Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(2)
“Oh yeah?” I wrap my arm around Jonah’s neck and yank him into a headlock, rubbing my knuckles on his scalp. At sixteen and six-foot-two, he’s six years younger than me and almost as tall as I am, but it’ll be a few more years before he gains enough muscle to put up a fight. “Maybe someday you’ll learn how to skate.”
I let him struggle against me for another second before I let him go, giving him a shove. Jonah straightens with a smirk, smoothing his unruly blond hair. He’s an elite right-winger in the minors, a force to be reckoned with on the ice, and a cocky little shit to boot. If I’m being honest, I might admit the last trait runs in our family.
“You’ve been holding your stance more,” my dad notes.
I’m relieved he noticed. “Yeah, I’ve been working on it with Mark.”
Mark McNabb is one of the best goalie coaches in North America, with a mile-long waiting list and a six-figure price tag for one year of private training. I work with him on the side because Boyd doesn’t have a dedicated goalie coach. Added to all the other money my parents have invested in my career, the sum is staggering—easily enough to buy a small house. One privilege of many I’ve been granted thanks to my father’s profession.
There are downsides to my dad’s job, however. Even though he tries not to push me, sometimes he bypasses parent-mode and slips into agenting. The line between what’s best for me and what’s best for my career is perpetually blurry. I’m not sure I know the difference anymore myself.
When we step outside into the late afternoon heat, my dad’s all-black Lamborghini Urus is idling in a no-parking zone by the doors. We load the trunk with my equipment before piling in, and I let Jonah take shotgun while I sit in the backseat. Leaning back against the soft leather, I stare out the window, watching the palm trees fly by in a blur. Once in a while, I miss California, but it’s always a relief to get back to school.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, but they’re so picture-perfect it’s like something out of a sitcom. Famous sports agent father, dermatologist to the stars mother. Both younger siblings on the honor roll. Sometimes it feels borderline suffocating, like there’s no margin for error. One mistake on my end, and I won’t be a true Donahue anymore.
As my father pulls onto the exit ramp leading to Los Angeles International Airport, he glances at me through the rear-view mirror. “Remember what we talked about, Ty.”
“I will.”
Keep your eyes on the prize.
Hockey. Training. School. No distractions.
This year, I’ve been stricter with myself than ever. Lots of sleep. Nutrition on point. Perfect compliance with my training plan. This doesn’t leave me with much free time, which means I hardly go out and I limit myself strictly to casual hookups. No strings, no feelings, no promises. With so much else going on, I can’t offer anything more than that.
“There’s a world of difference between playing at the college level and the league.” Dad turns into the passenger drop-off zone and shifts into park, switching on his hazards. “Some of these guys get their asses handed to them in their first year playing pro. It shakes their confidence, and it’s hard to come back from. I want to make sure you’re as prepared as possible.”
To his credit, he isn’t agenting right now. He’s in father mode. There’s a protective tone to his voice, and I get the sense that he’s trying to help me the best way he knows how.
“I know, and I appreciate it.”
“You’re almost there,” he adds. “In another year and a half, all of this will have paid off.”
A knot forms in my stomach, and I swallow, trying to quell it. Other athletes would kill for the chance to be in my shoes, so what the fuck is my problem?
Deep down, I know the answer to that.
When you’ve been given the world, everyone expects you to dominate it.
CHAPTER 2
HADES
SERAPHINA
I’m not sure whether I should be worried or annoyed. My brother was supposed to meet me at one o’clock to help unpack my vehicle, but I just pulled up to his place and I’m staring at an empty driveway. His black pickup is nowhere to be found.
Confused, I shift my car into park and let the engine idle while I verify the house number. Just like I thought, it matches what Chase texted me. Checking the Maps app further confirms I’m in the right place, so where the heck is he?
As I reach for my phone to call him, it lights up with a message.
Chase: Sorry, Sera. Ran over a nail and my tire is fucked. Be there as soon as I can.
Chase: If you beat me home, go ahead and let yourself in. Code is 4938.
While the delay is decidedly not his fault, I’m still irritated. Not with him, necessarily, but with life in general, or maybe with the universe. Ever since our mother’s cancer diagnosis, I’ve eaten very little, slept even less, and my sanity is hanging on by a thread. Lately, even the most minor inconveniences feel like the end of the world. Can’t one thing go right?
Heaving a sigh, I write him back and set my phone aside. Then I crane my neck, giving my new temporary home a once-over. Towering snow-covered trees frame a gray stucco two-story with sleek black trim, and modern, oversized windows. It looks nice enough from the outside. Let’s pray the inside doesn’t smell like dirty socks and sweaty athletic gear like I suspect. Hockey players are gross, which is why I have some serious reservations about living with three of them. The bathroom situation is probably a nightmare.