Page 1 of Breaking the Pucking Rules
1
CASEY
The second Dad’s name pops up on my screen, I can predict what’s coming.
“Hey, kiddo. I’m really sorry, but I need a raincheck on breakfast.”
A sad smile pulls at my lips. I got too used to our Wednesday morning breakfast dates during the off season.
That’s all over now.
He hesitates then adds sheepishly, “Any chance you could do me a favor, though?”
“You got it,” I say.
“I left my bible on the kitchen counter…” he trails off.
A laugh spills free.
“Would you like a coffee as well?”
“You’re too good to me.”
“Someone’s got to be,” I tease.
“Love you, Care Bear.”
The call cuts and I take the final turn toward the house I grew up in.
Killing the engine in the driveway, I waste no time in climbing out and finding my key.
The second I open the door, familiarity rushes over me. The scent of happiness and safety fillsmy nose.
I love this place. Always have, always will. I have so many fantastic memories here—my father being the main one.
As I step into the kitchen, I find the room in its usual state of chaos, and I can’t help but smile. Dad isn’t the cleanest or most organized of people, unless it comes to work.
Collecting a stray glass and mug, I dump them in the sink, doing my bit to help.
I’m twenty-three. I shouldn’t care that he’s busy and blown off our date. But the sad truth of it is that it’s the only date of any kind I’ve had in…longer than I want to admit.
A loud sigh passes my lips.
Glancing around the room, I quickly locate what I came here for.
It’s not a real bible. My father doesn’t have a single religious bone in his body, unless you count his lifetime commitment to hockey. I’m pretty sure he’s prayed to that puck a few times over the years.
His bible is his life. His calendar, his playbook…his everything.
He starts a new one immediately after the end of each season and begins filling it with notes for the next one.
By the time the season is upon us, it always looks like it does now: bursting at the seams, full of scraps of paper with plays scribbled on them, notes about players, and phone numbers. Women’s phone numbers.
I shake my head.
Dad is a good-looking man. After years of playing hockey, his body is still something to be proud of. And as the single head coach for the LA Vipers, he is hot property with all the desperate women in a fifty-mile radius.
He’s not interested, though.
