Page 66 of Pucking One Night Stand
And then I slam straight into a wall of solid, immovable man.
Except it’s not a wall. It’s my dad. He grabs my elbow on instinct. “Hey, Cassy. Not so fast. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
I jerk back like he burned me.
He stares, his brow furrowed, trying to process what the hell he just walked into. His eyes dart to my face, and whatever he sees there hits him like a slap.
Then the whole thing shatters.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just air. Just a broken little gasp that finally lets everything else rip through. My chest caves in. My knees threaten to follow. I can’t hold it back anymore. It crashes out of me all at once, messy, loud, ugly. The sob starts in my gut and explodes straight through my throat.
“Hey, hey, Jesus, Cassy,” My dad moves in fast, pulling me into him like he doesn’t even think about it.
I don’t resist. I can’t.
I just let go, burying my face into the front of his sweatshirt, rough cotton, warm, already soaking through from the tears coming harder now, hotter, thicker, impossible to stop.
My fists bunch at his sides, and I just cling like I did when I was five and had a nightmare about the pool and woke up screaming.
He holds me tight. Strong, steady. Nothing else in the corridor moves for a second.
And then I hear it. The hush. People watching.
Murmurs die out like someone hit a mute button.
I know what this must look like, Coach McCullum’s grown daughter, snot-faced and sobbing like a soap opera lead mid-breakdown. I don’t even care.
He glances past me and his voice booms like a threat. “Do I need to tell everyone here to mind their own GODDAMN BUSINESS?”
A shuffle. A door closes. Silence.
Then his voice comes again, low, calm, dead serious. “Come on, Cass. I’m your father. Now, please tell me what in God's name this is all about. And that’s an order.”
I try. I do. I bite the inside of my cheek, inhaling like it’ll help, but it doesn’t. My throat still spasms around the mess.
I lift my head just barely, eyes swollen and stinging, voice shredded. “Not here.”
He nods without arguing. “Okay. My office. Come on, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
I don’t say a word. I don’t even flinch. I just follow him because I have no idea what else to do.
We head down the corridor, past the wall of framed jerseys and Hall of Fame plaques. Past the locker room, where I canhear the dull roar of the team, shouting, thuds, skate guards against floor tile, someone yelling something about protein shakes.
It’s all muffled. Like another universe.
He keys into his office and pushes the door open. I step in after him, my arms folded tight around my stomach like that’ll hold everything in, and kick shut the door behind me.
Then I lean back against it.
And try like hell to remember how to breathe.
Dad doesn’t say anything. Just walks straight to the little fridge wedged between the filing cabinet and the mini trophy shelf. He pops it open, pulls out two cans of Diet Coke, and tosses one to me like we’re gearing up for a pre-game chat instead of the emotional apocalypse currently unfolding inside my chest.
I catch it. Barely. My hands are shaking.
He gestures with a nod toward the sofa in the far corner, the one that still has one of those old team blankets crumpled over the back.
I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve because dignity is for people who haven’t just imploded in the middle of a public corridor.
