Page 131 of Unloved

I’ve never seen Dad touch Mom like that.

But I have seen Coach Ace hold Mom before, I remember. When Dad crashed the car and pulled me out of my car seat, I remember crying for her, but my dad was walking us away, leaving her there as he sat me down on the grass. And someone was screaming, running from behind us toward her.

Then Coach Archer was there, wrenching my mom’s door open and pulling her out, holding her in his arms.

I remember it most because he was crying hard, harder than I was, and he was shouting at my dad.

“Call 911!” he was screaming as he laid her on the grass like a sleeping princess, pressing on her chest hard. She’d been okay, but sometimes I still had nightmares about it. And now, with Archer holding my mom while she cries, I have that same hurting feeling that makes me use both my hands to press hard on my chest. Like I can make it stop.

Make it stop.

I shake my head, feeling the tears forming.Make it stop. Make it stop.

“Fuck you” is all I can say, my voice torn and broken.

“You wouldn’t know what was good for you if it slapped you in the face, son,” he growls.

“Get out of my fucking rink.”

Everyone freezes at the slightly raised, threatening tone from Coach Harris.

“Now,” he shouts, and Ifeelmy team’s response.

The men in suits behind my father are already leaving, and I can’tstop myself from smiling sardonically and waving my gloved fingers to them as they scurry up the stairs and out.

My dad, however, doesn’t move.

“William—”

“Harris to you, asshole,” he snaps. “You’re banned. No games, no practices, nothing that involves you stepping foot in this arena. Do you understand me?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not at all. Hell, I’d ban you from campus if possible. And if I find you sniffing around the Dallas GM or anywherenearFreddy’s contract, I’ll find you and deal with you myself. Get the fuck out of here.”

“Do you know who I am?” The cliché slips from my father’s mouth a little shakily.

“A washed-up has-been who never touched a Stanley Cup? Yeah, I know who you are. How many years have you been punishing Freddy for being better than you?”

My stomach drops.

I wait for the embarrassment to completely overtake me, my skates slipping and sliding on the ice beneath me before someone—Rhys, I realize—grabs me across the middle of my back. He gives me a quick nod, a check-in to ask if I’m good, all while keeping his arm around me.

I nod back, huffing a little breath. Thankfully my cage covers some of the redness of my cheeks; thankful evenmorefor the pillar of strength Rhys personifies.

“That’s what I thought.” Coach Harris nods when my dad doesn’t answer him. “Now get the hell out of my arena.”

This time, John Fredderic does something I’ve never seen him do before: listen and follow directions.

Bennett and Toren, the giants of the Wolves, stand like sentries on either side of our core group, the rest of the team that was practicing before all watching from the sides of the rink. I would bet myentire scholarship and contract deal with Dallas that it’s because of Coach Harris’s shouting—the man never raises his voice.

The entire rink is silent enough that the sound of the door closing at the top of the stairs seems to reverberate.

“Practice is over. See you all tomorrow for the last one before Thanksgiving. Just because we don’t have a game this weekend doesn’t mean we’re resting.” He claps his hands twice and everyone sets into motion, scattering toward the tunnels in small, quiet clusters.

“And, Freddy?” he calls before I can even unstick my skate from the ice enough to turn.

“Yeah?”

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