“I’m sorry.”
“It’s time. I’ve never been good at tough love.” He sighed. “Years back, Tom Evans and I had arguments on the subject. And yet, here you and Zeke are, both of you good men. Maybe it’s not about the method, but about the child.”
“I was an awful child,” I reminded him. “You totally aced it. I didn’t need tough love. I needed someone who never made me feel unwanted no matter what I did.”
“You did run away that one time.”
Sticking with the honesty I’d decided to go for tonight, I said, “That was Uncle Wayne’s idea.”
Grandpa stopped short in the doorway. “Really? You were ten! Oh, no. How much harm did I do, not pushing him out of your life sooner?”
The pain grooved deep into his face made me jump up and hug him hard. “I’m fine. I’m here and on my way to the NAPH.”
He trembled in my hold, frail against my sports-honed muscles, then sucked in a shaking breath. “True. I didn’t ruin things. You have a good life.” He stepped back and raised a bushy gray eyebrow at me. “Maybe with a boyfriend? I’ve seen how you look when you talk about Zeke.”
That hurt, right now, so I sidestepped. “I’m grateful you’re drawing that line with Uncle Wayne, finally. I want him out ofour lives.” As added warning, I said, “He asked me about sports betting, wanted tips.”
“He promised—” Grandpa clenched his jaw. “Not that Wayne has kept his promises for the last fifteen years. All right. Enough. It’s done. I’ll cut him off.”
Groping for something good, I said, “Tell Koda about the shares, though. Tell them I’m counting on them having wonderful ideas and making my share even more valuable.”
“Yes.” A little of the tension eased in his face. “Good thought.” He pivoted and climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the rail, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
My hand ached like a sonofabitch, and my dinner sat leaden in my gut. Outside the kitchen window, screened by the bushes, lights shone in Zeke’s house. I wanted to cross the lawn, climb those stairs, and knock on his door. I was pretty sure, despite how pissed he’d been, that he’d let me in. But then he’d ask if I was ready to go tell my story to whoever prosecuted gambling crimes, and no, I wasn’t. So we’d fight again. I couldn’t handle that.
Instead, I went upstairs and reviewed a bunch of tape our video coach had sent me, offensive strengths, flaws, and weaknesses of the Barracudas, whom we’d be facing on Wednesday. Late into the night, I studied the way their top centre deked and how their hot two-way defenseman shifted his weight before shooting. Every little detail, over and over, like there was going to be a life-and-death quiz, not two away-games in the middle of the season.
Around three in the morning, I finally began sagging over the screen enough to try turning out the light, but I still lay there for an hour, trying to anticipate all the ways I might be screwed over by Mr. Smith, before sleep finally came.
My lack of rest showed during practice the next day. Bambi, our rookie who’d never scored on me one-on-one inpractice, sank a mediocre slapshot that deflected off my blocker. Yablonsky, up next, chirped me about being distracted by Bambi’s pretty face. Or maybe he was chirping Bambi, who knew? But the implication rubbed me the wrong way at the wrong time. When Yabby skated toward me with the puck, ready to take his shot, I charged out of the net, knocked him off the puck and over on his ass, and cleared the rubber all the way down the ice.
“You asshole.” Yabby got to his feet, glaring at me.
“What? It worked. Nobody expects the goalie inquisition.” I was totally playing the moment for laughs, with Coach bearing down on me.
A couple of the guys snickered, but Coach bellowed, “Fitzpatrick! What in the hell was that?”
“Poke checking? But, like, with real checking?”
“In a game situation, you left your net wide open. You’re a goalie, not a goddamn enforcer. Act like one.” Coach waved at us. “Do it again. Get it right.”
I’d be damned if I’d let Yabby score after that. I sneered behind my mask as he tried to fake me out and easily stopped his wrister heading for the top corner. “At least your ugly mug’s no distraction at all,” I chirped as he swung around the net. “I bet Bambi gets a lot more play than you do.”
He sneered at me, but skated back to take his place. I’d love to say I played well after that, but I was distracted. Someone had arrived to watch practice, up near the top of the seats, a tall figure, hard to make out in the dimmed lights. I couldn’t imagine Uncle Wayne would show up, but the mere idea had me off balance. I flubbed a couple more easy saves. The next time I looked up, the man was gone. That just made me wonder where he was now.
Coach pulled me aside after practice. “What’s going on, Fitzpatrick? You played better than that when you were in juniors.”
“Late night,” I half-truthed. “Watching game tape till three a.m.”
“Is that another way to say you went out drinking?”
“No, absolutely not. I was imprinting on my mind how number seventeen shifts his grip before his slapshot.”
“Don’t be a smartass.” Coach frowned at me. “You’d be a damned good goalie if you could keep your mouth under control. Also the penalties. I don’t know what Yablonsky said, but you come out of your net like that in a game and the refs will find something to call you on.”
“It was a clean hit. He had the puck.”
“Not the point. Just because you’re a goalie doesn’t mean I can’t bag skate you.” He looked me over, then sighed. “Hit the showers. Come to practice with a better attitude tomorrow.”
