Page 112 of Unloved

“Yes,” I say, feeling more like I’m swallowing a knife than anything else. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re friends—we can just forget it ever happened.” I hand him the pen. He hesitates, like I’ve offered poison rather than a writing utensil, before taking it.

We barely speak the rest of the session, and I find myself reaching to rub the aching spot in my chest every few minutes.

It aches more when I realize Matt is doing it, too.

CHAPTER 41Freddy

The entire week has been hell, and Coach Harris is currently busting our assesagainat Thursday evening practice, but I can’t wipe the stupid smile off my face. Even when Garcy—Roman Garcia, a sophomore defenseman—checks me a little roughly into the boards.

Usually, that’s Kane’s game, but he’s currently getting the dressing down of the century from Assistant Coach Johnson. It’s bad enough that even Holden is wincing from where he lingers close to his defensive partner.

The two have grown closer—as close as I imagine Toren Kane will allow the kid. Still, Holden follows him around like a golden retriever trying to befriend a Doberman.

Either way, I’m riding a temporary high. My grades are improving, thanks to shedding the impossible math credit for the semester, and all my homework and tests are done and graded. I feel good about my test in biology, as does Ro. I haven’t seen her since Monday, and the three days of short text conversations and her being relatively busy have made it a little harder to focus, mostly from the shift in my routine.

Or, because after coming in my pants like a teenager in her bed, and the most awkward tutoring session of my life, we haven’t talked about our relationship.

Maybe, if I can wait until she’s not tutoring me anymore, I’ll askher on a date. All I really have left are finals before I pass and skip right out of probation.

Hey, now that you’re not paid to spend your days with me, do you want to spend the day with me?

I shake my head a little at the thought. Ro likes me,trulylikes me. I need to show her that I’m not a party boy or “the school slut” everyone believes I am. I can be serious and smart, like her.

“One more time, and we’re done for the day,” Coach Harris calls before nodding to the other two assistant coaches, as well as their two student interns, to finish out the practice. “I’ll see you boys tomorrow. Freddy, a word?”

A couple of the guysoooover the callout, but there are no nerves with Coach anymore. After watching him back up Ro in my adviser meeting, defend me, and believe in me enough to do so, I feel more than comfortable with him.

“Yes?” I ask, hard stopping on one leg by the bench and pulling off my cage.

“You’ve got a visitor, demanding to be let into my private practices.”

“Who?” I ask, sweat that has nothing to do with the hard workout starting to bead at my temple.

“Your dad.”

My stomach drops and I have a little wave of nausea as my fists tighten in my gloves.

Coach Harris watches my every move, but so does Bennett, currently parked on the bench while his tandem works the last exercise.

I don’t talk about my dad, but it’s not hard to make the connection—especially with how often my dad is begging for a media interview, anywhere he can get it. Just so he can call me his son, making a fucking mockery of the term, before tearing my technique and skill to shreds on a national stage.

Sometimes I can’t tell if he wants me to succeed like he seems topush me for, or he’s only setting up as many hurdles as he can, desperately wishing for me to fail.

“Okay,” I say. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“He’s insistent. Nothing I can’t handle, but I need you to tell me how you want to deal with this.” Very subtly, Harris’s eyes flick to Bennett and back to me.

Right, because out of the three NHL legacies on this team, Max and Rhys aren’t the only golden father-son pair. Bennett and his dad have a privately strained relationship, easy to see if you’re around them long enough. Bennett’s dad wouldn’t dare show up to a practice, while Max Koteskiy would have a red carpet rolled out for his appearance.

Coach doesn’t know how to handle my dad, because in the three years I’ve been here, he’s never shown up on campus.

He’s waiting for my lead.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, waiting until Coach Harris nods, giving me permission to cut out early.

“Locker room,” he calls, crossing his arms. “You’ve got twenty minutes tops, Fredderic.”

I can barely hear him over the rush of blood in my ears as I stomp down the tunnel into the locker room.

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