The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(107)

My exhale is shaky, and I swallow. “I think you love hockey.”

He takes a step toward me, but Hazel moves between us. My territorial dragon, ready to strike. My hand comes to her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. Nerves are spilling over inside me, but after the conversation I had with my mom today, I know I need to be more up-front with my parents. I can’t run from this with him.

“I’ll never be enough for you,” I tell my dad, “and now you’re trying to trade me away from the only team I’ve ever loved playing for? The only coach I’ve looked up to?” My heart races. “I don’t want you to be my agent anymore. We want different things for me.”

He looks crushed. “I thought this was what you wanted.” He shakes his head, confused. “You’re not playing your best anymore. When we started getting offers, I figured a new team would get you back to where you were last year.”

“What, fucking miserable?” A cold laugh scrapes out of me. “I am playing my best, but all you care about is the points on the board.”

He shakes his head again, not getting it. “I just wanted you to be at the top of the league so you’d be happy.”

Something in my chest deflates with exhaustion. “That doesn’t make me happy anymore. I don’t know if it ever did. You want me to be you, but I’m not. I don’t want to be the star anymore. It’s…” I swallow. “It’s lonely.”

“Life is lonely,” my dad says in a flat tone, like it’s a fact.

Our lives are about hockey first, he said on the phone a couple months ago.

“No, it’s not.” My gaze goes to Hazel, and she gives me a small, supportive smile. “It doesn’t have to be.” Emotion hitches in my throat. “I’ll never be enough for you, but I don’t need your approval anymore.”

I have Hazel’s, and I have my own. Even if I get traded, I like the player I’ve become this season.

“Not enough for me?” My dad blinks at me. “You’re everything to me.”

“Every game, every pass, you’re watching and making notes so you can call and tell me everything I’ve done wrong. We’re done with that, though.” I fold my arms over my chest. It hurts saying this.

He stares at me before he looks away. Defeat pulls tight in his features. “My dad never gave a shit about me playing hockey. It didn’t matter that I played professionally or broke records.”

My grandfather on his side passed when I was a baby; I never met him, and my dad never spoke about him. My mom once mentioned that he was a professor, a workaholic, and an alcoholic. My dad runs his hand over his hair, and it’s like looking in a mirror.

“I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care,” he says quietly.

He shows it the only way he knows how. Through his eyes, I see his calls and emails in a different light. I see him wanting what he thinks will make me happy. “That’s what Mom said.”

He stills. “You talked to Nicole?”

“We’re trying to patch things up.” Vulnerable honesty flows out of me like water from a faucet. It’s addictive, telling the truth like this.

He stares at me for a long time, frowning, regret flashing in his eyes.

“She asked about you.”

“She did?”

“Yep.”

A long pause. “I think about her every day.”

His honesty shocks me. Rick Miller doesn’t care about anything but hockey, or so I thought. “Maybe you should call her.”

He shakes his head, glancing down with a hard set to his jaw. “She left me.”

The corner of my mouth tilts in a sad smile because for years, I told myself she left me, but my dad has his own lies he tells himself.

“I compare everyone to her,” he says quietly. “That’s why all my relationships fall apart. No one’s Nicole, and it’s only a matter of time before they realize that.”

My chest aches, and even though he’s made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for years, made me think hockey was my only value, he’s still my dad.

“Call her,” I tell him, “because I think she thinks about you, too.”

He grunts, acknowledging but not agreeing, and the three of us stand in silence.

“Hockey’s the only thing we have in common,” he finally says, looking lost. “I don’t know what else to talk to you about.”

“Maybe we should change that.”

At my side, Hazel watches, guarding me. My dad’s gaze swings to her and he clears his throat.

“Hi.” He sticks his hand out to her. “Rick.”

“Hazel.”

My dad is an intimidating guy—tall, broad, with an intense, commanding presence—but Hazel can be intimidating right back. She holds his eyes, and in her gaze, the message is clear. Don’t fuck with Rory.

I hide a smile. I love her so fucking much.

“The physio and yoga teacher,” he says with a nod. “Good to finally meet you, Hazel.” He clears his throat, glancing at me. “I love you, Rory. I don’t say it enough.”

“You don’t say it at all.”

Shame passes over his features. “I want to, it’s just…” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Hard.”