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The beginnings of a smile that I haven’t seen on his face in eleven years. Maybe.
Then he blinks his eyes tight. Does it again. Then clears his throat roughly. “Keep up, Hudson,” he says. My chest deflates as I hear the familiar tone in his voice loud and clear. The tone he uses when he wants to barrel past something. “You need to know when your forwards are most likely to have the puck stolen from them so you can be prepared, and not get caught unprepared like you were tonight when you allowed that goal. Now, that Sebastian Laurent seems most likely to lose control of the puck when …”
And he keeps on going, but I tune him out.
His words about hockey go in one ear and swiftly out the other. I remember Summer’s words from the other day and try to clamp down on the frustration that’s growing inside me. Maybe my dad just needs some more coaxing.
After letting him go on about hockey for a couple more minutes, the waitress at the diner comes by with our food. I use the brief lull in conversation as she places the plates in front of us to try and change the subject again.
“Remember how me, you, and Mom used to make snowmen when it snowed?” I ask, a smile tugging at my mouth as the memories flood back. “And remember that old brown hat we’d always put on top of the snowman’s head? The same one every year. We still must have that hat somewhere in the house, right?”
This time, I know the corners of my dad’s mouth are tugging upward. Just a little. A tiny bit. But I can see it. The crinkles on the edges of his lips that haven’t been activated in so many years. A light in his eye as it seems like his vision unfocuses, like he’s finally unlocking a door in his mind that’s stored so many memories that he’s stayed far, far away form.
Then that light is blown out.
A look of pain replaces it, a look of loss.
The crinkles around his lips smooth as his mouth drops and becomes thin and tight. His nostrils flare slightly as he sucks in a sharp, quick breath, almost like a gasp of pain at being unexpectedly pricked by a needle.
His gaze dips down and he shakes his head. I can feel tension radiating from him. He’s running from the memories that were about to spill out of that door, the door he just for a moment reached to unlatch.
“Do you want to think about what happened more than a decade ago?” he asks, his voice sharp and snappy. “Or do you want to think about what’s going to happen in the future? You have a lot more games to play this year. Don’t take the championship for granted. You have to earn it. That means spotting your mistakes and knowing how to improve them. Like, for example, when you …”
Just like always, he barrels through the pain of loss by focusing on his singular obsession. I chew on my inner cheek while hot, coarse tension curls in my shoulders. After a thick swallow, I tell myself this is just how my dad is. I can only accept it.
And, after all, maybe it’s him and not me who has the right mindset.
With sadness and disappointment still hanging onto me, I pop a French fry in my mouth and try to pay attention to everything he’s telling me I just did wrong.
40
SUMMER
“Now this is what this town was missing,” Mariah, a friend of Olivia’s from the drama department, says with approval as she looks around the new trendy bar that’s packed on its opening night.
There have been posters for the grand opening of Starlite strewn across campus for weeks. It’s housed in a small warehouse in downtown Cedar Shade that’s been abandoned for as long as anyone can remember.
The first floor’s been extensively renovated, and it now has a striking look, modern with beautiful Art Deco vibes. The floor is black and white tile, the walls are a deep green, and soft globe lights hang from the exposed ceiling. The high tables and chairs are all carved wood, something you’d seen in a high-end design magazine.
There’s no doubt that they’re pricing the cocktails to make up for the level of investment it took to make this place so impressive. But those cocktails are delicious and strong, so I’m not complaining.
“Definitely,” Julian, one of my friends from the music department echoes Mariah’s sentiment. “That Loser’s Luck place is cool, but this is more my style.”
Julian, a cello player, is known to be loaded, so that’s no surprise. Not that he’s a snob or flashes his money around or anything. It’s just hard to keep it hidden when your dad’s one of the top Chicago real estate developers.
“Not me,” Tuck joins in the conversation. “This place is fine and all, but I feel … outta sorts. A nice down-home pub is more my speed.” Unsurprisingly, that opinion doesn’t keep him from throwing back his third cocktail of the night and signaling to the waitress for another order.
The place is packed. It feels like everyone on campus is here. Hudson’s team, my friends in the music department, and Olivia’s friends in the drama department all had plans to come out for the opening night, so we ended up assembling in a sprawling group, taking up multiple tables.
The drama and music students rarely mix with athletes, but everyone seems to be getting along and having a good time.
Grace, an actress friend of Olivia’s, is deep in conversation with Sebastian, who impressed her with his knowledge of Shakespeare and other Elizabethan playwrights—I’m sure his messy black hair, green eyes, gorgeous face, and smoking body are making an impression, too.
When a more upbeat song starts to pump through the speakers, Grace pulls Sebastian towards the dancefloor, and he sure doesn’t have any hint of protest in his eyes when he turns to set his drink down on the table to oblige her.
Hudson’s been quiet most of the night, but his eyes have been loud. His gaze has been hot and heavy on me all night long.
I’m wearing a tight black dress tonight, with a keyhole in the middle of the chest that shows off just a little of the swell of my boobs. It’s not something I wear often, but it felt appropriate for the opening night at a place like this. During the past week I’ve heard other girls on campus talk excitedly about getting glammed up for the occasion, so I wanted to feel glamorous and sexy myself.
