Page 50 of The Fine Line
My smile falters. I glance at my father again.
“So when are you getting drafted?” someone else asks. Doesn’t matter who—they’re all blending together.
“Well, I?—”
Dad barks out a laugh. It dies quickly, masked by a fake cough. “Apologies. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” He raises his empty glass and walks away.
They keep talking, praising me, but it all feels distant. I keep nodding, but my eyes are locked on him.
He drops his glass at the bar, then veers toward the balcony. Just before opening the door, he glances back and meets my eyes. Loosens his tie. Jerks his head.
I don’t have a choice. He knows I’ll follow.
“Excuse me,” I murmur and break away.
He’s already lit a cigar when I step outside. He doesn’t look at me—just blows smoke into the cold night air.
I clear my throat. “How’s Mom?”
“How should I know? She’s at some yoga retreat in Nova Scotia.”
“Right, I just?—”
“You like embarrassing me, kid?”
I go rigid.
He finally turns. Slowly. “Is that your hobby now?”
“No, sir.”
“Maybe you’re looking for a new one since hockey clearly isn’t working out?—”
“Dad—”
“What the hell was that game tonight?” he snaps, closing the distance.
My jaw tightens.
The game was great. Until the third period.
We were leading 4–3. Then one of their defensemen, who’d been targeting me all game, pushed too far. After his third dirty hit in two minutes, I told him to fuck off. He dropped his gloves, ready to fight.
Normally, I’d fight back instantly. But this time, I froze. Time slowed. I caught a glimpse of my dad in the stands. The noise in my head got too loud. And I couldn’t move.
The refs broke it up. He got a roughing penalty. I pulled it together, but when I had a chance to score and hit the crossbar instead?—
We lost.
“What would you call that?” he asks now.
“It was a rough one.”
“A rough one?” he echoes, flat. “That’s good enough now? What the hell am I investing thousands of dollars into?”
“Was investing,” I mutter, regretting it immediately.
“Excuse me?”
