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HUDSON
I’m in a shitty fucking mood.
After no contact since chewing me out over Carter Prescott scoring a goal on me, my dad actually showed up live and in person to our practice session today.
He flew into Burlington unannounced and took an Uber to the rink.
I had an awful practice. Skating out onto the ice and seeing him in the stands threw me totally off kilter. Every time I looked up at him, I saw the judgmental, disapproving look on his face. It made me tense up, and tense is the worst thing you can be in the crease.
Granted, most people wouldn’t call the performance I turned in awful. Coach said I was solid out there, and I blocked a hell of a lot more shots than I let through.
But most people’s standards aren’t my standards. They’re not my dad’s standards, either. He didn’t hesitate to tell me that if I play like that once the season starts, I can kiss my NHL future goodbye.
And I know he’s right.
My dad’s been in talks with the Toronto Maple Leafs, who are looking to replace their longtime goalie in a couple years. They’re looking for someone young who they can rely on for a long time to come.
But I’m not the only one in the running for the opportunity. That’s something my father wastes no occasion to remind me of. He especially reminds me of that fact whenever I have a sub-par game, or even a sub-par practice. He sure as shit reminded me of it today.
When the rest of the guys realized that the odd man sitting alone in the stands with a baseball cap tugged tightly over his head was none other than hockey legend Ed Voss, they freaked out.
Especially Rhys. Their bruiser style of playing makes them kindred spirits in the ice.
After chewing me out, my dad spent a couple minutes putting on his public face and humoring the guys as they bombarded him with questions and gushed about how much of a legend he is.
Then he got an Uber back to the airport in Burlington to fly back home to Boston.
It rankles me a little thinking about it, that he’d fly in just to ream me out about a shitty practice yet doesn’t even stick around to get dinner or something.
Realistically, I should be relieved. I know if we did spend any more time together, the subject of conversation wouldn’t move past everything I just did wrong on the ice.
Still, it rankles me.
My teammates were all hopped up after meeting Ed Voss, so they went to the bar, where I’m sure they’re in animated conversation about how “cool” it was to be face to face with a hockey legend.
They invited me, of course; but once again, I declined.
I still haven’t been to Loser’s Luck Tavern, their regular haunt, despite them asking me to go probably a dozen times now. Once again, I kind of feel like an ass about turning them down, but there was no way I could stand listening to people gush over how great my dad is in the mood I’m in right now.
I need a pick-me-up. Luckily, I think I know one thing that might do the trick.
I walk into Last Word, a bookshop-slash-café that’s a couple blocks from campus. It’s my first time here, and I’m immediately impressed when I walk through the door.
It occupies a wide, three-story converted rowhouse. The first floor is a coffee shop with tons of seating. It’s got a cool look that manages to be modern but still cozy. Warm color tones, stylish tables with rounded edges, comfy wood-framed chairs with colorful cushioning.
The two higher floors are where they stock the books. I go up the stairs, and I’m surprised by how extensive the selection is. I make my way to the fiction section and find what I came here for: Pachinko, the book Summer recommended.
I think I’ll find a seat in the café downstairs, order a coffee, and get started reading it. I can already feel the tension and frustration in my chest start to dissipate at the thought.
Just pulling the book off the shelf causes thoughts of Summer to rush into my mind.
My cock twitches behind my zipper thinking back to the day of the Phi Mu Alpha party.
Fuck. I totally stepped over the line when she tripped outside and I caught her. Said that shit about how if she were my real girlfriend, I wouldn’t be able to get enough of having her in my arms.
And when we were alone upstairs, what I said about going into one of the bedrooms and being loud enough for Sean to hear us? Forget about stepping over the line, I leaped over it like a fucking Olympic long jumper.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Scratch that, I wasn’t thinking.
