Page 98 of False Play
I gripped my stick in a death grip with a clipped nod. “I know.” My eyes remained on the ice, tracking every movement.
We were down 2-1. And everyone on the team was giving it everything they had.
My eyes followed the puck and the left winger of the Sharks, who surged forward and sliced across the ice with precision. He managed to dodge Parker, and his body shifted low to protect the puck. He shot it with a quick flick of his wrist as the center of the Sharks was already breaking past the neutral zone. The center received the pass in one clean motion and kept control as he bolted into the offensive zone.
By some miracle of fucking God, before he could set up for a shot, Morgan arrived at the speed of light. His stick made contact with the puck and nudged off balance. It slid dangerously close to the net, and the right winger of the Sharks swooped in out of nowhere, his stick snapping forward to claim the loose puck.
It was in that moment my heart dropped to my stomach, because I knew it was too late.
Once the right winger of the opposite team gained control of the puck, he fired a wrist shot, and the puck rocketed toward the net before Morgan or Parker could react. Owens dropped into a butterfly stance and reached with his glove, but the puck sailed just past his outstretched hand, high and tight into the top right corner.
The horn blared, a loud, fucking mocking sound, and the whole arena erupted in cheers.
And just like that…we had lost another game.
Beingin Vancouver was stressful for many reasons.
But the main one was standing outside the locker rooms, talking and laughing with my coach.
The ’90s NHL sweetheart Vincent Anderson—also known as dear old dad.
He looked good for his age, and he maintained his physique well after all these years. He was a god in the eyes of the public, a player who was taken from them too soon after a knee injury that ended his career when he was at his peak.
Coach’s eyes landed on me, and he gave me a nod. “I got some press to do, so I’ll leave you two to it.” He grasped Vincent’s shoulder. “It was nice seeing you.”
Vincent nodded with a fake smile. The one he did to make everyone believe he was a merry-fucking-happy guy. “Same here.”
Once Coach was out of sight, I tightened the grip on my gear bag as I headed toward the exit. I didn’t have the patience or energy to deal with him.
I stepped outside, desperate to let the Vancouver chill bite my skin. My body was overheating. I was angry and exhausted.
“Where are you going?” he asked, following me.
I inhaled and exhaled through my nose as calmly as possible. “I’m not in the mood to talk to you.”
He gripped my shoulder and turned me around. “Too fucking bad. This is what happens when you don’t answer my texts.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
He barked a menacing laugh. “So, you go around punching guys and getting benched and think you have nothing to say to me? You owe me an explanation.”
I tightened my jaw and shook off his grip. “It’s none of your goddamn business, Vincent.”
“If you’re carrying my last name on the back of your jersey, yeah, it’s very much my goddamn business,son.”
I laughed humorlessly as I slipped a hand in my pocket without a word. There had been many times I’ve considered changing my last name. To walk away from everything that had to do with the man standing before me. But a small part of me still held on to stupid hope that he would change. Ihatedmyself for it. Never told a soul either. It was one of those secrets I knew I would take to the grave.
“When are you getting back on the ice?” he pressed.
My eyes settled on the arena. I refused to look him in the eyes, because if I had, I was fairly certain I was going to punch him.
“Or are you too busy fucking Kennedy Jones?” he mocked.
My eyes settled on him as my nostrils flared. “What did you just say?”
His eyes glinted with malicious intent.Fuck. It was a trap, and I fell for it. “Ah, so that got your attention.” He shook his head with a laugh. “I can’t lie, you got good taste. Guess you got that from me.”
My ears rang as adrenaline pumped through me. I invaded his space and gripped the collar of his shirt. I didn’t care that we were in public, or that I was probably causing a scene. Anyone who spoke about Kennedy, especially my father, would be on the receiving end of my pent-up anger. “Not another word about her. Do you understand me? Keep her name out of your fucking mouth.”
