Page 20 of Jaded

“Learn a few more chords, Bennett,” I say, completely deadpan. “And we’ll graduate you to some good shit.”

Avery grumbles and sinks lower into the cushions. “Bunch of haters.”

“Could just stop fighting and go to school.” I lean over the coffee table to slide a music book from under Syd’s pile of magazines. I don’t play by the book often—I have a keener ear than eyes—but maybe it’ll help Avery. “Then you’d be playing hockey instead of guitar.”

“Right.” Avery glances dubiously at the book, then lifts his gaze back to my face. “Like you went to school?”

Man, the kid truly is a shit. Still pooled in the armchair, Charlie giggles. Sydney, of course, turns a laser gaze on me. Not that she doesn’t already know all this.

Besides, most people can make a fairly accurate educated guess about my childhood just by looking at me. “I went to school.”

“Sometimes,” Charlie says, because of course he’s not on my side. It is the nature of best friends, is it not, to rattle each other’s walls ofself-control—until a true opponent makes its presence known, and then I have not a doubt in the universe Charlie would be at my side, and I at his.

“Nah, you know what? You’re right. I didn’t go much.” I lift a brow at Avery. “I did a lot of stupid shit, barely graduated, then started repoing fucking cars instead of playing hockey. You wanna do that?”

How common are stories like that in this town? We all start off playing hockey. Dreaming big. Most of us fall flat long before they’re realized, for one reason or another.

Avery winces. “Okay . . . no?”

I curl my hands over the tops of my thighs so my knuckles are on clear display. Along with my inked fingers and inked hands. Blood and ink, ink and blood, and scars and scabs.

The hands are the truest portrayal of one’s life, are they not? How musicians bear carefully placed calluses, and artists splotches of ink, mechanics oil and grease, smokers yellowed nails.

You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to read a person’s story through the cuts and creases and colors of their hands. You don’t have to look hard at mine to figure out just how many broken pieces I’ve tried to shove together into a solid, working life.

We’re all four looking at my knuckles now, at all the broken things laid bare.

“Trust me, Avery,” I say, even more quiet and serious than usual. “You like playing hockey, don’t you?”

Syd’s shoulders tense in a way I read too easily—she blames herself for my ruined career. I mean, sure. Being a single dad with an infant, toddler, little kid, there’s no way I could have been on the road for days or weeks at a time. No way I’d havewantedto. What parent enjoys missing their kid’s childhood because they’re never home?

But the reality is, I ruined my career with my own two hands long before she came into this world.

“I’m going pro someday,” Avery says, his jaw hardening. “Syd too.”

Syd snorts, some of the tension draining away. “Sure. A five-foot-two chick going pro.”

My chest clenches tight. Another Taylor with a hopeless dream—which is why I want to make sure she has alternatives, ways to get out of this town.

My daughter won’t be another Day River statistic—another dream ended too soon, another body relegated to long hours of factory work and nights at Michelangelo’s.

“Hey, you’re better than most of the dudes out there.” Avery gives her the realest smile I’ve seen in ages, and that softens me up like butter.

“And you’re better thanallof them,” Syd says, voice firm. Determined. She’s not flattering him; shebelievesit, with everything she’s got.

And honestly, it’s true. I’ve seen the kid skate. And while Coach Ethan isn’t about to start recruiting from high school, he’s not watching DRH practices for fun either.

“Well, if you don’t stay in school, you don’t stay on the team.” I kick my feet up onto the coffee table, turn my hat around forward, and lean back into the sofa. “You don’t stay on the team, you sure as shit ain’t going pro.ThatI can tell you from experience.”

“Hey, hey.” Charlie peels himself off the back of the armchair. “This shit’s getting downright macabre—”

“That’s a big word,” I mutter. “For a jock.”

“Says the repo guy.”

“I’m a Zamboni driver,” I correct. “Though maybe not for long if you guys don’t get your shit into gear and win some games.”

“Wait.” Avery leans over the arm of the sofa towards Charlie. “What’s gonna happen to the team? ’cause didn’t your captain transfer?”

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