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I peer at my father and really look at him. His eyes are bloodshot, and his clothes are rumpled, as if he slept in them. What I see in his expression is not concern, not even hope for my well-being. No, what I see is a meanness and greed. It is hurtful, not holding an ounce of caring. I wonder briefly if he is sober. Standing before me, I don’t see the father who taught me to skate or who put my first stick in my hand. I don’t see the father who would brag about my achievements and hug me after my games. Instead, I see an empty shell of a man who does not know his own self-worth because his sole focus in life has been to propel his only child to greatness, even if said child doesn’t want it. He blatantly disregards my health and safety for his own gain, and I begin to question how long he’s been like that.
I don’t want the pain or stress of it. I want to live my life, and if the NHL is no longer an option, then I need to accept it. My hip is hot and throbbing, making my foot a little numb. My lungs are burning, and my shoulder aches after the small amount of shooting I did. This isn’t the life I want. I don’t wish to be in pain forever to please someone else or to achieve the only dream I ever had simply because I was never given another option. In that instant, I know it is over.
I turn to Tom and see his understanding. It’s like he knows all of the thoughts that passed through my mind. Tears start flowing down my face before I can open my mouth.
“It hurts bad, really bad. I can’t keep doing this. It’s too much.” I sink to my knees and sob in front of my father and Tom. Tom immediately comes to comfort me with a hug and hands me a tissue.
“Let it out, son, you will feel better. Nobody here is going to think you are weak or less of a man. When you reach a certain point, you just know. You need to listen to your body. Get it out,” Tom encourages.
I couldn’t stop the tears if I tried at that point, and it is bordering on ugly crying. Then my father speaks and breaks my heart for good, “That’s where you are wrong, Tom. He is weak if he can’t work through a little pain to get what he wants. It’s embarrassing.” He turns his back on me. “If this means you want to throw away your hockey future, go ahead. If you choose to quit now, Drew, after everything I’ve done for you, just know you are no longer welcome to call yourself my son.”
I suck in a sharp breath. He is disowning me because I can’t skate anymore without being in pain? Who does that? Where will I go? Again, Tom seems to realize exactly what I’m thinking before I open my mouth.
“Please leave this arena, Mr. Morgan. You are no longer welcome here. I will be sure Drew gets the care he needs to recover from you and your vitriol.”
My father never says another word to me. Ever.
I shake my head, trying to clear the memories. Almost ten years have passed since Tom stepped in that day and rescued me from my father. He brought me back here to the farm, and I borrowed some old clothes his sons had left behind. After I cleaned up, he sat me down at the kitchen table and proceeded to tell me what he knew about my mother and father, and it blew my teenage mind.
Turns out, my dad had been drinking and hadn’t been at work for a long time. He lost his job and didn’t tell my mom. Mom kicked him out before that point, though, because she didn’t want him forcing me to play, and the fighting was too much. Mom chose me, and Dad was choosing the prospect of being rich. Mom didn’t realize he had been forcing me to the rink every day either because she had taken on an extra job to make up for Dad not working, leaving early enough that she never found out about my ice time until Tom told her. She came home when I would be getting ready for school to change before her full-time job at the bank. Again, I didn’t notice how tired she looked or how she seemed to have lost her spark. She hid her job, and I hid hockey practice.
Tom had talked to her while I was in the shower, and she agreed I could stay with him for a short time until she got things sorted out with my dad. I was in shock at this point, but Tom knew that, too. His only request of me for the next few weeks was to help with the horses and chores. It was a small price to pay for his act of kindness. We went right out to the barn, and he showed me where the pitchforks and shovels were, and how to muck out the four horse stalls. He taught me how to give them fresh water and fill the stalls with clean straw. Every day he expanded my involvement in regards to their care: exercise grooming, hooves, everything.
After three days, I got to meet the four mares he owned. Frosty was the white one, and the oldest of the group. Then came Champ. She was Frosty’s first offspring and a wonderful patchwork of white and brown. Gulliver was the resident escape artist. Finally, Snowball was completely black and the most beautiful horse I had ever seen.
Snowball and I connected; it was like she saw every broken thing inside me and wanted to help. Tom called them over, and as a group they crowded in to give him nuzzles and get their apple treats. He gave them all kisses on the forehead and cooed at them. Snowball stood, looking at me like I was something out of this world. I was getting a little nervous at that point, but Tom didn’t seem to be. He kept praising all his “girls.”
Then, the craziest thing happened. Snowball came as close to me as she could with the fence between us. She stretched her neck, snorting and sniffing my head and my chest, spreading her horse hair and smell all over me. She pulled back, giving a final snort into my face and gently laid her head on my shoulder. I slowly reached up to pet her neck, scratched an ear, and leaned into her face. I don’t know how long we stayed like that or when I started to cry, but tears were silently falling down my face as I felt the most intense connection with this horse. It was hard to explain, but I knew she was supposed to be in my life, and we each had a purpose. Finally, she lifted her head and starting nudging me, searching for the apple.
I noticed Tom standing quietly, watching our interaction. He smiled and nodded, and again, blew my mind with his words, “Snowball was born with a bum hip. The vets didn’t think she would make it at first, but she was determined, and with a lot of therapy, she’s the horse you see today. Sometimes she shows a bit of pain, but she pulls through it. Horses have a sixth-sense when it comes to knowing when someone needs help. She chose you.”
He walked away after dropping that bomb and left me and Snowball to do our own thing. I’d never really been an animal person, let alone a horse person. But this horse? I wanted to throw my arms around her and never let go. I wanted to tell her everything that weighed me down. I never wanted to let her out of my life.
As if on cue, Snowball perked her ears and trotted over to me, and lay her head on my shoulder, making her horsey noises. I hugged her, scratched her ears, and whispered into her neck, “Snowball, it’s going to be a tough six or seven months. I’m really going to need you. You hear me, girl?” Soft horse lips nibbled at my shirt collar, and her breath puffed over me. When I stepped back slightly, large brown eyes stared at me, sending me a message that let me know she understood what I was about to go through.
Today, the horses were still in my care. I quickly get the horses fed and stalls clean for the night before rushing into the house to shower. I notice Sam must have found the stew I made since there is a bowl in the sink, and what looks like almost half the loaf of bread I made this morning is gone, too. I can’t help but smile, knowing I had provided a little comfort food.
I bound up the stairs to get to my room, and I hear the shower going in her own ensuite bath. Hopefully, I have time to clean up and head back downstairs, so I don’t completely freak her out. I can only assume seeing me here will not go over well.
I step out of the shower and decide to quickly shave at the bathroom sink. I wrap a towel around my waist and I am about to step into my room when I see Sam standing there with my sticky note in her fingers, looking like she is about to open my laptop and find out what my browser history is. Great, she already thinks I’m some sort of weird stalker and hasn’t heard the entire story. Why the hell would she walk into my room like that? She doesn’t know who the room belongs to; plus, it’s rude regardless if it is her own home now. I decide to put an end to her nosing around and announce my presence.
I pushed off the door frame where I was watching her and said, “Care to explain what you are doing in my room snooping through my things, sweetheart?”
She jumped like a pistol went off beside her head and spun around. Her expression with her wide eyes and furrowed brow shows her shock and confusion at finding me in her house. Somewhat regaining her senses, her gaze sweeps up over me, taking in the towel I have on, and her mouth physically opens, but no words come out. Her mouth is moving, but it appeared her brain hadn’t caught up to form the words. I’m not sure why that pleased me but it did.
She looked fresh, cute, and young in a pair of leggings and a T-shirt with a picture of a cheese head. Guess she liked football, too. Her hair was in a messy bun and her face was so innocent-looking without makeup on. She also smelled fucking delicious. So, she did actually use the strawberry scented body wash that was in her ensuite because I could smell it across the room, and it doesn’t help that I love strawberries. Dammit. This is going to be harder than I thought. I mean the situation, not the state of my interested dick. She’s already testing my patience.
Finally, she made some words come out, “I told you, I’m not your sweetheart! Why the hell are you in my house? I need answers or I’m calling the cops!” Her cheeks were flushed and a blush was creeping up her neck. Most likely because I was standing in front of her wearing only a towel. I’m a pretty big guy, and I do a lot of manual labour. I’m not vain, but I know my physique is observed and appreciated by women. I stalked over to her and gave her the eye fuck perusal that she blatantly gave me.
“I’m in your house because Tom invited me to be here. If you would like to dial the bitch back, I’d be happy to explain the things to you that your grandfather obviously left out. And unless you want me to do that in nothing but a towel, I’m going to have to ask you to leave so I can get dressed.” Yep, just lay on the asshole a bit to get her to keep her distance. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping.
She still stands there with a disbelieving expression on her face, not moving. I figured I would play the asshole card again and make her move. I walked over to my dresser and grabbed a clean pair of boxers, lounge pants and T-shirt. She still hasn’t turned to leave. I figure all or nothing.
Meeting her eyes, I drop the towel to the floor while I stood in front of her…buck fucking naked.
