Garrett

GREG BRAXTON IS a beast. I’m talking six-five, two hundred and twenty pounds of pure power, and the kind of speed and precision that’s going to land him a plum contract with an NHL team one day. Well, only if the league is willing to overlook all the time he spends in the sin bin. It’s the second period and Braxton has already taken three penalties, one of which resulted in a goal courtesy of Logan, who skates past the penalty box to give Braxton a smug little wave. Big mistake, because now Braxton’s back on the ice, and he’s got an axe to grind.

He slams me into the plexi so hard it jars every bone in my body, but I luckily get the pass off and shake the disoriented cobwebs from my brain in time to see Tuck flick a wrist shot past St. Anthony’s goalie. The scoreboard lights up, and even the groans and boos from the crowd don’t diminish the sense of victory coursing through my veins. Away games are never as exhilarating as home games, but I feed off the energy of the crowd, even when it’s negative.

When the buzzer signals the end of the period, we head into the locker room leading St. Anthony’s 2-0. Everyone is riding the high of the two- period shutout, but Coach Jensen won’t let us celebrate. Doesn’t matter that we’re ahead—he never lets us forget what we’re doing wrong.

“Di Laurentis!” he shouts at Dean. “You’re letting number thirty-four toss you around like a rag doll! And you—” Coach glares at one of our sophomore D-men. “You’ve given them two breakaways! Your job is to shadow those assholes. Did you see that hit Logan delivered at the start of the period? I expect that kind of physical play from you, Renaud. No more pansy-ass hip checks. Hit ’em like you mean it, kid.”

As Coach marches to the other end of the locker room to dish out more criticism, Logan and I exchange grins. Jensen is a total hard-ass, but he’s

damn good at his job. He gives praise when praise is deserved, but for the most part, he pushes us hard and makes us better.

“That was a brutal hit.” Tuck shoots me a sympathetic look as I lift my jersey to gingerly examine my left side.

Braxton absolutely pummeled me, and I can already see a bluish discoloration forming on my skin. Gonna leave a helluva bruise.

“I’ll live,” I answer with a shrug.

Coach claps his hand to signal it’s time to get back on the ice, and the skate guards come off as we file down the tunnel.

As I make my way to the box, I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t seek him out, but I know what I’ll find if I do. My father, hunkered down in his usual seat at the top of the bleachers, his Rangers cap pulled low over his eyes, his lips set in a tight line.

St. Anthony’s campus isn’t too far from Briar, which means my father only had to drive an hour from Boston to get here, but even if we’d been playing hours away at a weekend invitational during the snowstorm of the century, he’d still be there. My old man never misses a game.

Phil Graham, hockey legend and proud father. Yeah fucking right.

I know damn well he doesn’t come to the games to watch his son play.

He comes to watch an extension of himself play.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I sucked ass. What if I couldn’t skate? Couldn’t shoot? What if I’d grown up to be a scrawny twig with the coordination of a Kleenex box? Or if I’d been into art or music or chemical engineering?

He probably would’ve had a coronary. Or maybe convinced my mother to give me up for adoption.

I swallow the acrid taste of bitterness as I join my teammates.

Block him out. He’s not important. He’s not here.

It’s what I remind myself every time I swing my body over that wall and plant my skates on the ice. Phil Graham is nothing to me. He stopped being my father a long time ago.

The problem is, my mantra isn’t foolproof. I can block him out, yes, and he’s not important to me, hell yes. But he is here. He’s always here, damn it. The third period is intense. St. Anthony’s is playing for their lives,

desperate to keep from being shut out. Simms is under attack from the word

go, while Logan and Hollis scramble to hold off St. A’s starting line from rushing our net.

Sweat drips down my face and neck as my line—me, Tuck and a senior nicknamed Birdie—go on the offensive. St. Anthony’s defense is a joke. The D-men bank on their forwards to score and their goalie to stop the shots they ineptly let into their zone. Logan tangles with Braxton behind our net and comes out victorious. His pass connects with Birdie, who’s lightning fast as he hurtles toward the blue line. Birdie flips the puck to Tucker and the three of us fly into enemy territory on an odd man rush, bearing down on the hopeless defensemen who don’t know what hit ’em.

The puck flies in my direction and the roar of the crowd pulses in my blood. Braxton comes tearing down the ice with me in his sights, but I’m not stupid. I unload the puck to Tuck, hip-checking Braxton as my teammate dekes out the goalie, fakes a shot, then slaps it back to me for the one-timer.

My shot whizzes into the net and the clock runs down. We beat St.

Anthony’s 3-0.

Even Coach is in good spirits as we file into the locker room after the third. We’ve shut out the other team, stopped the beast that is Braxton, and added a second win to our record. It’s still early in the season, but we’re all seeing championship stars in our eyes.

Logan flops down on the bench beside me and bends over to unlace his skates. “So what’s the deal with the tutor?” His tone is casual as fuck, but I know him well, and there’s nothing casual about the question.

“Wellsy? What about her?” “Is she single?”

The question catches me off-guard. Logan gravitates toward girls who are rail-thin and sweeter than sugar. With her endless curves and total smartass-ness, Hannah doesn’t fit either of those bills.

“Yeah,” I say warily. “Why?”

He shrugs. All casual again. And again, I see right through it. “She’s hot.” He pauses. “You tapping that?”

“Nope. And you won’t be either. She’s got her sights on some douchebag.”

“They together?” “Naah.”

“Doesn’t that make her fair game then?”

I stiffen, just slightly, and I don’t think Logan notices. Luckily, Kenny Simms, our wizard of a goalie, wanders over and puts an end to the convo.

I’m not sure why I’m suddenly on edge. I’m not into Hannah in that way, but the idea of her and Logan hooking up makes me uneasy. Maybe because I know what a slut Logan can be. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve seen a chick do a walk of shame out of his bedroom.

It pisses me off to picture Hannah sneaking out of his room with sex- tousled hair and swollen lips. I didn’t expect it to happen, but I kinda like her. She keeps me on my toes, and last night when I heard her sing… Shi-it. I’ve heard the words pitch and tone thrown around on American Idol, but I don’t know squat about the technical aspects of singing. What I do know is that Hannah’s throaty voice had given me fucking chills.

I push all thoughts of Hannah from my head as I hit the showers. Everyone else is riding the victory high, but this is the part of the night I dread. Win or lose, I know my father will be waiting in the parking lot when the team heads for our bus.

I leave the arena with my hair damp from the shower and my hockey bag slung over my shoulder. Sure enough, the old man is there. Standing near a row of cars, his down jacket zipped up to his collar and his cap shielding his eyes.

Logan and Birdie flank me, crowing about our win, but the latter stops in his tracks when he spots my dad. “You gonna say hello?” he murmurs.

I don’t miss the eager note in his voice. My teammates can’t understand why I don’t shout to the whole fucking world that my father is the Phil Graham. They think he’s a god, which I guess makes me a demi-god for having the good fortune to be sired by him. When I first came to Briar, they used to harass me for his autograph, but I fed them some line about how my father is wicked private, and fortunately they’ve quit badgering me to introduce them.

“Nope.” I keep walking toward the bus, turning my head just as I pass the old man.

Our eyes lock for a moment, and he nods at me.

One little nod, and then he turns away and lumbers toward his shiny silver SUV.

It’s the same old routine. If we win, I get a nod. If we lose, I get nothing.

When I was younger, he would at least put on a fatherly show of support after a loss, a bullshit smile of encouragement or a consolatory pat on the back if anyone happened to be looking at us. But the moment we were alone, the proverbial gloves would come off.

I climb onto the bus with my teammates and breathe a sigh of relief when the driver pulls out of the lot, leaving my father in our rearview mirror.

I suddenly realize that depending on how the Ethics exam goes, I might not even be playing next weekend. The old man definitely won’t be happy about that.

Good thing I don’t give a shit what he thinks.