Page 224 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Well, whatever you did before tonight’s game, you need to do it again.” My mind goes straight to Parker. “We want that cup this year.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Dad would be so proud of you, you know that, right?” Nova says, sounding so much older than she really is.
A lump climbs up my throat as I think of him. The pain and loss never leave me. Sure, it’s gotten easier to deal with asthe years have gone on, but post-game is always the worst. I’d love to know his thoughts on my performance, on things I could improve, and ways the team could work together better.
“I like to think so,” I muse, my voice thick with emotion.
“So, Dallas tomorrow? Feeling good about that one?”
“Obviously,” I deadpan.
They beat us in our last match-up, so the pressure is on. They made it all the way to game seven in the last round of the playoffs last year, and they’re going to want to improve on that this year.
“Cocky as always,” Nova taunts.
“How are things with you?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know. School is school. Life is...well…life.”
“Wow, you really painted the picture for me there.”
“Not much to say, really. I’m just ready to be done with it all.”
“Seen Mom?”
“Nope. You?”
“No,” I confess, feeling guilty for not reaching out.
After Dad died, I made sure I called and messaged her every day. I hated the idea of her being alone. I mean, I still do. She and Dad had been together all their lives. Inseparable. And then all of a sudden, he’s gone, and she’s been left behind.
But as the time passed, I discovered that I was the only one making any effort. At no point did she check in on me and see how I was coping. Once that reality hit, I took a step back.
Was it the right thing to do? Fuck knows. But I couldn’t keep holding myself in the past because she was refusing to grieve and deal with what had happened. I had a life to live, and I fully intended to live it—both for me and for my dad.
Nova and I chat for a little longer before our call comes to an end.
As I lower my cell from my ear, a strong gust of wind whips past me, and I shiver.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I let myself back into the warm hotel room.
I need to get changed and go and get food, but the thought of being around everyone so soon doesn’t appeal. Instead, I sit on the end of my bed and unlock my cell.
I have messages, emails, and notifications from all my social media apps. But really, there is only one person I want to hear from.
Sadly, I doubt she’s reached out.
But just in case I’m wrong, I open my messages.
My heart jumps into my throat when I find an unread one from her.
Opening it, I frown when I find a photo of the coffee I got for her this morning staring back at me.
It takes me a moment to figure out what I’m looking at it, but then I notice the writing.
And beneath the photo…
