Page 19 of Penalty Zone

He and Grayson argue, and he reluctantly takes off his skates and nods his head. I resist the urge to barge over there. He’s an adult and doesn’t need me.

“He’s tough,” Benz says, standing next to me.

“I’ve never worried before,” I say, and he nods as if he understands and lays a comforting hand on my shoulder, but the implications are terrible. I haven’t seen him get hurt or witnessed the pain on his face. The highlights show his best, and I never questioned if he struggled while doing it.

Minnesota takes advantage of one of our defenders shielding Liska’s sightlines and scores again.

Benz clenches his jaw. “That’s not on Liska.”

“No, it’s not,” I agree.

“We have to fix that.” He stalks away a few steps to make sure morale is high.

Despite Benz’s best efforts to keep everyone hyped up, the defense breaks down again and the Enforcers lose the game.

Mason’s in the training room for longer than I expect. Most of the team’s showered and ready to board the bus.

I knock on the door, and Mason’s face falls when he sees me. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m checking in to see if it’s anything serious.” I watch as Grayson manipulates his leg.

“No, I mean, why are you in Minnesota?” He winces, and Gray changes the pressure.

“I work with the team,” I say. The anger in his voice confuses me.

Grayson gives Mace instructions for the night, and they set up a physical therapy session. Then Gray ducks out and closes the door behind him, undoubtedly feeling the tension between us.

“Everything is about a job to you, isn’t it?” Mason sneers.

“Not everything,” I say, but he keeps talking.

“It’s amazing how you found time because it’s your job, but last year—my rookie season, when I started—you couldn’t find the time to come to one goddamn game. Not one.” He snatches his pads off the floor.

“You said you understood,” I reply lamely because I don’t have an excuse except I didn’t think Mason wanted me to come, which, in hindsight, means I put the blame on him.

“Just like I understood all the other times. You missed my entire life, and now you show up for a job and I’m supposed to act like everything is okay. Well, I’m not okay with it. The press won’t shut up about you. Now you’re ruining the one thing I had for myself.”

Each word hits me harder. Every time I’d ignored his disappointment when he said it was fine I couldn’t make it to an event.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask.

“What would you say if Grandpa said he couldn’t go to your game? I’ll never beg you for attention you’re not willing to give. I was a kid who just wanted his dad to show up one fucking time, and you never did. So what are you doing here now, acting like you care?” He storms out.

All the small things plaguing my mind explode to the forefront. I’ve known all along I missed important events in my son’s life, but I felt justified because he understood I was building a legacy. But a legacy is worthless if it’s all I have. Mason doesn’t care about my hockey stats or career saves. He cares that his dad couldn’t be bothered to show up.

My stubbornness prevented me from realizing my mistake. I missed his high school graduation ceremony but showed up for the party, yet I can’t remember what was so important to keep me from his monumental milestone.

An assistant coach yells that the bus is leaving for the hotel in five minutes, and I find my way to my rental car.

First thing, I should quit this consulting job and watch games as Mason’s dad. He’s right, if I can attend games for a job, I can watch my son play.

With determination, I decide to make a concerted effort to listen to Mason and what he wants. That’s been my problem. I’ve dictated our relationship and dismissed any signs he hasn’t been happy with my decisions.

The bus lumbers toward the hotel, and I follow; the lobby is empty since they arrived yesterday.

Ari Dimon’s in the hotel bar with a few executives. Any decisions I make require his approval. After getting checked into my room, I wheel my overnight bag toward his table. The lights are low, and the seats are faux leather, emulating an upscale club.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but when you’re available, I’d like to speak to you. Should I ask Wes to schedule an appointment?” I ask.

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