Page 7 of Slap Shot Scandal
Dad: If you want to play with the big boys, you need to be in a major city. Not some backwater pit stop
Dad: You’re a Hayes. Hayes = Greatness
Dad: With a fucking capital G, Harbor
The messages flash on my screen in quick succession, each one a sharp stab to the gut. I clasp my shaking hands together in my lap and pretend to be fine, happy even. Inside, though, I’m seething.
My dad’s such a fucking asshole.
Smoothing my hair over my shoulder, I answer each and every question thrown at me flawlessly and shove away the simmering anger.
Dad: I raised you better than this
It’s always about him.
Every. Single. Time.
Well, not today.
“We’re prepared to offer you a one-year contract, with full relocation coverage, plus health and benefits. Double what we previously offered because we see the value in your plan.” Prince leans toward the camera, giving me a close-up of his salt-and-pepper hair, the deep etches on his forehead.
Excitement fizzes through my veins, taking the place of the rage. I do love a good win. Plus, I’ve watched more game footage than half the players in the league. I understand this sport in my bones. If anyone can make this rebrand work, it’s me.
“Yes.”
Finally, something Dad can’t criticize.
The offer’s amazing, my best contract ever. Yet, even as I think the words, I know it’s not true. My dad always finds something to critique.
Always.
“Yes? Fantastic. I’ll have legal shoot the contract over tonight. One last thing—is Coach Hayes on board with you making the move? Wouldn’t want the greatest coach of all time to be pissed at me for stealing his little girl from the big city.” Mr. Prince chuckles, and I swallow down a grimace.
I nod, fidgeting with the stack of bracelets on my wrist. Now’s not the time to hash my twisted family dynamics out with Mr. Prince. Especially when he’s dealing with his own messy situation with a soon-to-be ex-wife.
“He’s generally supportive.” That’s the best I can do without straight-up lying.
“Well, then, welcome to the team, Ms. Hayes. And please tell your father I say hello. We’d love for him to attend our opening game!” Prince shoots me one last grin, then disconnects and my screen goes dark.
Literally zero chance of my dad showing up for the season opener, judging by his latest text:
Dad: You’re a damn winner. Start acting like one
Folding my arms on the table, I bang my head against my forearm, once, twice, three times. Why can’t my father let me live my own freaking life? He doesn’t bother Piper like this, butting in and telling her how to run her social media business.
No, just me, for some perverse reason.
My therapist’s calm, low voice echoes in my head:Why do you let him get to you?
I’m a grown-ass woman with several years of work with Dr. Martina under my belt. Apparently, it’s not working though. Because I still have daddy issues. Aconsummate people-pleaser, and for some reason, pleasing Dad’s always been the thing.
Guess I love a good challenge.
Because if there’s one thing I know for certain it’s that Coach Doug Hayes is never satisfied.
Ever.
His team won the Cup three years in a row. The first team to achieve the coveted three-peat. Year four they lost in Game 7. He had players watching footage of that one game all off-season, analyzing every single thing they did wrong.
