Page 98 of The Blame Game

Shea’s dad didn’t look much different from the last time he’d seen him. He still had thick sandy-blond hair—going gray at the temples—and a strong build. He probably still worked out daily, like he always had. There were maybe a few more wrinkles, but otherwise, he still looked like the guy who used to bark at Shea to hustle more out on the ice.

“Hey,” Shea managed, stuffing his hands in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. It wasn’t like he and his dad were going to hug. “What game are you watching?”

“St. Louis and Montreal.”

“Ahh. What’s the score?”

“Tied at two. Second period.”

“Cool.”

Shea took a seat next to his mom on the couch. His dad was on her other side and Emma was in her wheelchair.

His parents had taken her diagnosis hard and his dad had taken a while to get on board with Emma needing to use mobility aids, but sometime in the period between when Shea had fallen out with them and when they’d reconciled, they’d done some remodeling on the house to make it easier for her to navigate.

Thankfully, it had been a fairly open-plan house to begin with, but he could see that they’d left wider paths between furniture pieces so she could easily use her chair and he knew they’d converted the first-floor room his dad had always used as an office into a bedroom Emma could stay in when she came to visit.

It was progress, for sure.

They watched the game in silence for a few minutes before his mom spoke. “So, you said there was heavy traffic leaving Toronto?”

“Yeah, you know, lots of commuters. I probably should have come tomorrow morning or something.”

“Toronto traffic’s the worst.”

Although they mostly watched the game, the evening of family togetherness was … awkward. Not bad. No one got into any arguments or anything but the conversation was stilted and occasionally tense when there were a few close calls.

Shea was immediately wary when, during intermission, the subject of the Fisher Cats came up.

“So you and Olson are friends, right? Is he actually injured?” his dad asked. “Or are they sitting him because he’s been playing like shit?”

“Injured,” Shea said tightly, irritation immediately flaring in him. “And did you ever think maybe there’s a reason why he’s been playing like shit?”

“Yeah, cause he’s fucking old.” Tom snorted. “Washed up. I knew that last contract of his was a bad one. They’re overpaying him and now they’re stuck with a useless anchor on their roster when they should be bringing up some of the young guys from the Black Bears.”

“He’s not washed up!” Shea protested. “Yeah, his game has changed in the past few seasons but it’s not like he’s useless to the team. His faceoff percentage has been excellent and he’s a big locker room guy. I know he’s done a ton to mentor younger players. Actually—”

He caught a sidelong glance from Emma and winced, realizing how heated he was getting. “Look, never mind. Can we … switch subjects?” he asked with a sigh. “I don’t want to start a fight with you, Dad.”

“Yeah, alright,” Tom said gruffly. “I don’t want to fight with you either.”

Shea’s mom shot him a grateful look. Shea slumped back against the cushion and pulled out his phone. I deserve a fucking good blowjob for how well-behaved I’m being tonight.

He immediately turned off his phone screen and rested it facedown on his thigh. He definitely didn’t need anyone glancing at it and seeing anything incriminating.

But it buzzed a moment later. Happy to. Is that part of or separate from the ideas I have to come up with?

In addition to, Shea typed out.

Greedy. I like it.

Shea smiled, putting the device down again. He caught a curious glance from Emma and ignored it.

Unfortunately, she cornered him when the game was over and everyone was headed to bed.

“Come chat with me in my room for a bit. We need to catch up.”

Shea groaned. Stupid nosy sisters.

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