Page 51 of Racking Up Penalties
He’s made me believe Liam was the bad guy all this time.
Liam shifts, breaking eye contact with Dad and glancing my way. The hurt I see there is quickly masked by indifference, but it’s too late—I’ve seen it, felt it. He goes back to his gear, movements precise, shutting out the insults like he’s shutting out the world.
I choke on the words that want to come out but I don’t defend Liam.
“Focus on your own game, Ethan,” Dad says, turning back to me, oblivious to the fury he’s ignited. “Don’t get distracted by weak links.”
I feel my dad’s grip on my arm like a vice, pulling me away from the team, away from the fragile camaraderie I’ve just started to rebuild with Liam. He steers me toward the back of the locker room, where the team can’t hear or see us.
“Your head isn’t in the game, Ethan,” Dad hisses once we’re out of earshot. His voice is low but sharp enough to cut through the lingering warmth of my pre-game nerves. “What are you doing with that kid?”
“Of course my head is in the game. I need to get along with my team,” I shoot back, trying to keep my voice steady, but there’s a tremor that betrays me.
“You need to prove you’re better than him. Youneedto be better than him.” His voice is a harsh whisper, meant only for me. “You need to be the best. Do you think these guys will help you get to the pros? You’re deluding yourself.”
His grip is so tight it’s causing bruises.
“If I see you with that boy again, I’m cutting you off.”
The silence that follows is heavy, filled with all the things I want to say but can’t. Because no matter how much I want to lash out, to tell him he’s wrong, I can’t escape the fact that he owns me.
“Remember why you’re here,” Dad says, finally releasing my arm as if letting go of a failed investment. “Don’t disappoint me.”
His footsteps retreat, each one echoing like a gavel sentencing me to a fate I’m not sure I chose. When I turn back to face the locker room, the fluorescent lights seem dimmer, the air heavier.
I’m met with the backs of heads, the low murmur of voices that fall silent as I pass. But it’s Liam’s silence that stings the most. He’s hunched over his gear, shoulders tense, the easy smile from earlier wiped clean off his face. He won’t meet my eyes, and I realize then that whatever peace we had has been snapped in two by Dad’s careless cruelty.
“Look, about him—” I start, stopping beside Liam, desperate to fix something, anything.
“Save it,” Liam cuts me off without looking up, his tone flat. “We’ve got a game to focus on.”
But his dismissal feels like another punch, this time it’s one I can’t blame on anyone else. I’m left standing there, alone in the bustle, surrounded by teammates who might as well be strangers.
Dad’s words echo in my mind, a relentless reminder that I’ll never be good enough, that I’ll always be chasing an idea of perfection I can’t define.
Anger simmers beneath my skin, directed at Dad, at myself, at this entire screwed-up situation. I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off, trying to remember why I’m here, why I play. But the anger clings like a second skin, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to shed it.
The ice beneath my skates feels colder than usual as I glide out for warm-up drills, the weight of Dad’s words turning my blood to slush. My stick feels foreign in my hands like I’m gripping a barbed wire instead of taped wood. The puck is an afterthought, my shots lacking conviction, each one a muffled echo of what should be.
“Hey,” Liam shouts over the sound of blades carving ice. “You planning on joining us today or are you just gonna daydream through the game?”
My head snaps up, meeting his glare with a simmering resentment that’s been brewing since Dad’s visit. The sharpness in his tone slices through the cold air, ricocheting off the rink walls and straight into my chest.
“Back off, Liam,” I fire back, my voice betraying the anger I’ve tried so hard to quell. “Not all of us have the luxury of ignoring our problems.”
Something flickers in his eyes, a mix of surprise and hurt, but it’s overshadowed by defiance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he challenges, skating closer until we’re inches apart, our breaths mingling in the frigid air.
“It means not everyone gets to skate by on charm and a scholarship. Some of us have real problems,” I spit out, the unfairness of the accusation lost in the heat of the moment.
“Seriously?” His laugh is sharp, a shard of glass. “You think this is easy for me? That I don’t work for every damn thing I have?”
His words hit home, a reminder of the struggles he’s endured—ones I’ve never known with Dad’s money padding my life. But pride is a wicked beast, clawing at my insides, unwilling to let me back down.
I push past him, but he grabs my arm, forcing me to face him.
I can feel the stares of the team, the tense expectancy hanging around us like a storm cloud. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a war drum calling me to action. I shake off his grip, adrenaline surging, the frustration and anger coalescing into a single, blinding emotion.
Without another thought, my fist flies, connecting with his jaw in a sharp crack that echoes louder than any collision on the boards.
