Page 69 of The E.M.M.A. Effect
“You like that, boy?” the D-man sneered. “Bet your daddy never taught you how to take a hit.”
All the rage, all the grief he’d been holding back, erupted in a savage roar. Gale’s gloves hit the ice. His fists connected with flesh.
He was only vaguely aware of the linesman trying to pull them apart, of the crowd’s bloodthirsty cheers. All he could see was his father’s face, sneering down at him. All he could feel were fifteen years of abandonment pouring out through his knuckles.
When the refs finally managed to separate them, Gale’s opponent was a bloody mess. But it was the look on Coach’s face that really registered. Disappointment. Disgust.
The ref’s arm shot up, signaling a game misconduct. Gale didn’t bother to argue. He just skated to the box, then headed straight down the tunnel to the locker room.
Inside, the silence was deafening. He stripped off his gear with savage efficiency, barely feeling the sting of torn knuckles and bruised ribs. His thoughts were a hurricane, memories of his father swirling with the disappointment of letting his team down.
What would tomorrow’s headlines say? How many more chances would they give him before—
The thought choked him. He couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t face the possibility that he might have just flushed his career down the toilet. All because he couldn’t keep his shit together for one game.
He wanted to leave, to get in his truck and not look back. Cross state lines. Head for a horizon. But he had to stay. Take whatever Coach was going to dish out after the game.
“Knight.” When it was time, Coach did that quiet thing. Controlled. Somehow, that was worse than yelling. “You want to tell me what the hell that was out there?”
Gale’s throat worked, but no words came out. He just needed to say his dad was dead, but it felt like an excuse, like a crutch. Because his dad wasn’t a regular dad who you could mourn in a normal way. His dad killed two people, wrecked his brain, ruined his family, destroyed his legacy.
“I asked you a question, son.”
Don’t call me that.The words rose up, bitter as bile. Gale swallowed them down. “No excuse, sir,” he managed.
“Damn right there’s no excuse.” Coach’s voice gained heat. “I put you back in the lineup because I thought you were ready. Clearly, I was mistaken.”
Each word was a dagger, slicing between Gale’s ribs with surgical precision. He wanted to argue, to explain. But the words wouldn’t come. They were locked away somewhere, trapped behind the lump in his throat and the steel bands constricting his chest.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Coach continued, “and frankly, I don’t care. You leave that shit at home, you hear me? When you step on my ice, you’re a hockey player. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Myice. The possessive stung more than it should have. This was the only home Gale had left, and he’d just taken a wrecking ball to it.
“You’re suspended for the next two games,” Coach said flatly.“I suggest you use that time to get your head screwed on straight. Because I promise you, Knight, you’ve run out of chances. Now get out of my office and out of my sight.”
Gale didn’t know how he got to his truck. He sat there in the parking spot for a long time, staring at nothing. The sounds of the city filtered through the rolled-up windows—muffled laughter, a horn. Life going on without him.
Eventually, he shoved the key in the ignition. He caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror and froze.
It was happening a-fucking-gain.
Jim Knight stared back at him.
It wasn’t just the physical resemblance, though that was striking enough. No, this time it was the look in his eyes. That mix of anger and fear, of defiance and shame. The look of a man who knew he was fucking it all up but couldn’t seem to help himself.
Gale’s stomach roiled. Was this how it started for his dad? A bad game, a worse decision, and suddenly you’re on a downward spiral you can’t pull out of?
He couldn’t ask. Because his father was dead.
The thought was like ice water in his veins. He’d spent years running from his father’s shadow, determined not to repeat his mistakes. And here he was, following the same self-destructive playbook.
“I’m not you,” he hissed to his father’s ghost, the words tasting of ash and broken dreams.
But denial was a child’s game, and Gale was running out of lies to tell himself.
What terrified him most wasn’t the anger—it was the uncertainty. The not knowing what lurked in the depths of his own heart. How could he trust himself when his veins pulsed with his father’s blood? The same blood that had fueled both tenderness and cruelty.
Unbidden, a memory surfaced: his father’s laughter on a sun-drenched afternoon, strong arms lifting Gale high above the Gulf’s waves. For a heartbeat, love eclipsed the pain. But the shadow returned, relentless. If his father could be both monster and protector, what did that make Gale?
