Page 45 of Dream On, Liar

Matt, meanwhile, looked like he'd found heaven.

He was somewhere across the VIP booth, arm slung over the shoulders of one of his teammates while they laughed over something I couldn't hear, while a girl—or rather a puck bunny, as one of his teammates liked to say—showered him with attention lazily. Someone had ordered bottle service fifteen minutes ago, and every time another bottle appeared, the whole section erupted like they'd won another trophy.

I took another sip of my drink and glanced around the room, hoping that I’d find the distraction I’d been so desperate to find half an hour ago when I’d called Matt.

It wasn’t like this wasn’t my scene. Hell, we’d won one of the toughest match we’d had in a while, this was exactly my scene, but after everything that had happened today, I wanted to do something that would help me drown out every single thought that ran in my head.

And sure, sometimes a drink—or four—would help me do just that, but…I’d wanted something more.

Truth was, after everything that had happened this year, I’d thought maybe, just maybe…things would be different.

After spending years of my life reaching for the stars, I'd finally found my way to them. After years of trying to prove to my father that I had what it took, that all the time we'd spent together hadn't been a waste, despite how often he'd implied otherwise, I'd finally made it.

But for some reason, it just wasn’t enough. Deep down, there sat a part of me that was as lost as the day Ma had left us—me. At thirteen, a part of me couldn’t understand how someone could abandon her own kids. At twenty-three, that question lingered, settling into the quiet corners of my mind where no achievement could reach it. Now more than ever.

It had been almost seven years since she passed, and between the mess that was the Patel household, I was no closer to settling that feeling. What hurt the most was that even in her journal…there hadn’t been a part of her that regretted leaving me, and I often wondered if the rose-coloured glasses were the doing of my father, or my oldest brother Dev—

The crackle of bottle sparklers tore through the haze in my mind. My thoughts scattered, the ghosts of old memories retreating as I blinked back into the present. Laughter, music, clinking glasses. The club rushed back all at once.

This isn’t working.

Tossing back the drink I’d left in my crystal glass, I searched for Matt. He was caught up in a conversation with the puck bunny from earlier, completely engrossed. Feeling my stare, his eyes found mine. A grin spread across his face as he lifted the champagne bottle in his hand, silently offering me a drink. I shook my head and tipped it toward the bar instead, letting him know I needed something stronger.

As much as I’d preferred leaving, what was I going to do?

Go back to the hotel?

Back to the room where my father was almost certainly waiting for me? All so he could continue the lecture he'd started after the match?

The thought alone made me want to poke my own eye out.

I'd already heard enough for one evening.

I swear, sometimes he acted like he had no idea what it was like to be out there on the pitch with the opposition's captain making comments between overs, or what it felt like to be pushed to the point where you just snapped.

Normally I'd ignore it, considering I’d built a tolerance with him as my coach.

But today, I'd snapped.

We were so close to winning back to back championships, that when I’d finally mouthed off, I’d learnt that he couldn’t take it back.

And before I knew it, we were standing chest to chest in the middle of the field, both yelling loud enough for half the stadium to hear. Umpires stepped in before either of us did something we'd regret, and after another minute of arguing, I'd been told to sit out the rest of the match.

It had been humiliating.

Even worse, we'd still won.

Which meant everyone focused on me instead of the result.

By the time we'd made it back to the hotel, Dad had already heard every version of the story.

Apparently players with real discipline didn't lose their tempers.

Apparently I'd embarrassed the club.

Apparently I'd embarrassed myself.

But worst of all, I’d embarrassed him, and the Patel legacy.