Page 130 of Unloved

“Heads up, superstar,” Toren snarls.

I look over at him, ready to chirp back, when I realize the taunt is a real warning—a group of suits are standing at the railing ofthe seats, with Coach Harris and the assistant coaches lingering. All their arms are crossed, like some strange group domination standoff.

I skate over, followed by Rhys and Bennett at my back—Holden sprinting over from the other side. Even Toren lingers a little closer—nearly my entire line together.

“I’ve told you three times, Mr. Fredderic, it’s a closed practice.”

My dad sneers but hides it quickly. “Just a few minutes of seeing Matthew play. I brought some scouts from—”

Coach Harris cuts him off. “Did he tell you folks that Matt Fredderic is a free agent? Because he’s signed with Dallas and doesn’t have any plans to change that. Right, Freddy?”

“Right.”

My dad rolls his eyes. “I don’t think you’re the expert here. And, as Matthew’s future agent—”

“You’re not my agent.”

John Fredderic’s attention slides to me, his face turning red in barely concealed frustration. “Your mom’s not here.” His voice barely drops. “A goddamn bitch—”

My blood boils.

“Don’t fucking talk about my mom,” I snarl, stomach cramping. Heart aching.

It’s impossible to remove the memory of my mom from hockey. They’re intertwined, more than with my NHL player father.

Mom loved hockey—always had. When I was young, we’d gone to all the games together. But something had shifted. I remember her turning sadder, her expression less hopeful and happy with each game. Until the last one we attended.

My dad has another girl here, dressed in his jersey and sitting in our spot. She’s young, beautiful, but not like how my mom is beautiful.

Mom stands on the stairs only a few rows up from our reserved seats, frozen in her pretty black overalls and Dallas beanie with thefluffy bit on top that I’d asked to play with the whole drive in. I’m wearing my Dallas jersey with Dad’s number on it, staring at the ice with a bright smile as I try to catch his attention.

But he’s blowing kisses to the woman in our seats. His eyes flicker lightly over my mom with a slight hesitation before giving me a quick wave and turning back to warmups.

He said hi. But something about it feels wrong.

The feeling worsens as Mom pulls me back up the stairs too fast, tripping up them. We’re in the empty back hallway toward the exit when someone shouts for her.

“Elsie!”

I look over my shoulder at the man in the suit, squinting until I realize it’s Coach Ace.

He’s as tall as my dad, broader but dressed in a dark suit with a Dallas green tie. Dark hair, dark eyes, and dark caramel skin that makes my mom’s fair coloring look even lighter.

I tug on my mom’s arm a little, trying to make sure she can hear him yelling for her. She slows, but doesn’t stop, wiping her longs-leeve shirt under her eyes in a way that makes my stomach hurt as I look up at her.

“You okay, Mommy?”

“Yeah, baby,” she sniffs, trying to give me a smile, but it doesn’t look right. She’s so pretty, even with red eyes and flushed cheeks. She says I have her eyes, but hers are so much better, like spring grass under sparkling sunlight.

“Elsie, wait,” Coach Ace says, stopping right in front of us, smiling quickly at me as he pats my head. “Hey, champ.”

“Coach.” I smile. He’s always nice to me, always plays with me when I come to practice and Dad’s too busy. He tells me to call him Archer, or Ace, but sometimes I like calling him Coach—it makes me feel like I’m part of his team.

My mom is looking at Coach Ace like she’s going to cry, andsomething about her expression makes him heave a deep breath and wrap his arms around her in a tight hug.

“Archer.”

“I’m sorry, Els.” He holds her like I’ve seen moms and dads hold each other, his hands gentle. He kisses her forehead, petting her hair the way my mom does when my brain feels too loud.

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