Page 48 of Second Shot

I run my fingers through his hair, noticing his muscles seem tense now. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “It was just my dad calling.”

“Oh, you can call him back if you want. I’ll be quiet.”

“No, I don’t need to.” His mood has changed. He’d been relaxed and happy, now he looks like something is eating at him.

After a few moments, I ask, “Do your parents ever come to any of your hockey games?”

“No.” His tone is stiff.

Trying to smooth over the awkwardness, I say, “My parents would have loved to be here tonight. They’d have been bouncing off the walls proud to see us win.”

He grunts.

“Do they just not like hockey, or do they live too far away?” I try to sound casual.

“No, it’s not a distance thing. They’re in California.”

I smile down at him. “You should get them some tickets to our next home game.”

He clears his throat. “Frankly, I don’t want them to come see me play.”

I don’t react to his curt response immediately. I take a minute to reply, and then say, “I know you’re not close to your dad, but you don’t even want your mom to come to your games?”

“She doesn’t give a crap about hockey,” he says brusquely. “She never bothered to come see any of my games when I was a kid. Why start now?”

“She never came to any of your games?” That’s inconceivable to me. Frankly, even if my mom had hated hockey, if she lived anywhere near where we were playing, she’d have come to my games to support me.

He sits up on his elbow, his expression surly. “My family isn’t like yours, Gabe.”

“Right, I know.” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to compare them. I just thought maybe they’d like to support you, that’s all.”

“Like I said, my mom doesn’t care about hockey.” He lets out a ragged breath. “And my father cares too much. I don’t want them to come around.”

“I see.” I hesitate at asking any more questions, even though I want to know more about his family. I don’t want to push him too far, and have him get mad at me. But I can’t helpbeing curious. The more I understand Ryan, the less anger I feel about the past. And he’s never going to volunteer any personal information. So, if I want to know things, I feel like Ihaveto ask.

He lays down, head on my chest again. For a few minutes, I do a good job of not asking him anything else about his family. But then curiosity gets the better of me. “Remember when we were talking at my house the other night?”

“Yes,” he says cautiously.

“You said your old man was and still is an asshole. What did you mean by that?”

He goes very still, and his breathing changes. After a very long pause, he says, “Oh, I was just talking out of my ass.”

“No you weren’t. Come on, Ryan. You can talk to me.” I keep stroking his back, hoping he won’t clam up. “Whatever you tell me, it would stay between us.”

“I don’t really like thinking about the past.”

“I know. My past is painful too. But sometimes talking makes it less impactful, you know?” I look down at him, taking in his dark lashes resting against his cheeks. I can literally feel anxiety buzzing through him.

He sits up again, jaw clenched. But he doesn’t look angry. He looks determined. “You really want to know what my dad was like?”

“Yes.”

He swallows loudly and points to the scar over his eyebrow. “I got this when I was fourteen years old. I played on a 14U travel team. But I didn’t get this scar playing hockey.” His voice is bitter.

“No?” I ask apprehensively.

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