Even Coach is in good spirits as we file into the locker room after the third. We’ve shut out the other team, stopped the beast that is Braxton, and added a second win to our record. It’s still early in the season, but we’re all seeing championship stars in our eyes.
Logan flops down on the bench beside me and bends over to unlace his skates. “So what’s the deal with the tutor?” His tone is casual as fuck, but I know him well, and there’s nothing casual about the question.
“Wellsy? What about her?”
“Is she single?”
The question catches me off-guard. Logan gravitates toward girls who are rail-thin and sweeter than sugar. With her endless curves and total smartass-ness, Hannah doesn’t fit either of those bills.
“Yeah,” I say warily. “Why?”
He shrugs. All casual again. And again, I see right through it. “She’s hot.” He pauses. “You tapping that?”
“Nope. And you won’t be either. She’s got her sights on some douchebag.”
“They together?”
“Naah.”
“Doesn’t that make her fair game then?”
I stiffen, just slightly, and I don’t think Logan notices. Luckily, Kenny Simms, our wizard of a goalie, wanders over and puts an end to the convo.
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly on edge. I’m not into Hannah in that way, but the idea of her and Logan hooking up makes me uneasy. Maybe because I know what a slut Logan can be. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve seen a chick do a walk of shame out of his bedroom.
It pisses me off to picture Hannah sneaking out of his room with sex-tousled hair and swollen lips. I didn’t expect it to happen, but I kinda like her. She keeps me on my toes, and last night when I heard her sing… Shi-it. I’ve heard the words pitch and tone thrown around on American Idol, but I don’t know squat about the technical aspects of singing. What I do know is that Hannah’s throaty voice had given me fucking chills.
I push all thoughts of Hannah from my head as I hit the showers. Everyone else is riding the victory high, but this is the part of the night I dread. Win or lose, I know my father will be waiting in the parking lot when the team heads for our bus.
I leave the arena with my hair damp from the shower and my hockey bag slung over my shoulder. Sure enough, the old man is there. Standing near a row of cars, his down jacket zipped up to his collar and his cap shielding his eyes.
Logan and Birdie flank me, crowing about our win, but the latter stops in his tracks when he spots my dad. “You gonna say hello?” he murmurs.
I don’t miss the eager note in his voice. My teammates can’t understand why I don’t shout to the whole fucking world that my father is the Phil Graham. They think he’s a god, which I guess makes me a demi-god for having the good fortune to be sired by him. When I first came to Briar, they used to harass me for his autograph, but I fed them some line about how my father is wicked private, and fortunately they’ve quit badgering me to introduce them.
“Nope.” I keep walking toward the bus, turning my head just as I pass the old man.
Our eyes lock for a moment, and he nods at me.
One little nod, and then he turns away and lumbers toward his shiny silver SUV.
It’s the same old routine. If we win, I get a nod. If we lose, I get nothing.
When I was younger, he would at least put on a fatherly show of support after a loss, a bullshit smile of encouragement or a consolatory pat on the back if anyone happened to be looking at us. But the moment we were alone, the proverbial gloves would come off.
I climb onto the bus with my teammates and breathe a sigh of relief when the driver pulls out of the lot, leaving my father in our rearview mirror.