But my backhand was a little off today too.
Maybe I needed to spend an hour in the basement tonight—
Sterling paused ahead of me, throwing his arm out to block me like a forty-year-old soccer mom with a kid in the front seat.
“What the fuck?”
“Ten o’clock,” he whispered, nodding down the hall.
My gaze jumped to where another hallway intersected the one that led to the locker room and my stomach lurched.
Leaned up against the wall like he fucking owned the place was our father—my father.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Sterling asked under his breath, his entire body tensing.
“No clue.” He usually showed up once or twice a season, which fucked up my game and then earned me an hour-long lecture about why I’d never be as good as he was in his day.
“Holy shitballs, is that Sergei Zolotov?” McKittrick asked, his eyes going wide with the same hero worship I’d seen all my life.
“Yep,” Sterling answered.
“Think I can—” McKittrick started.
“No,” Sterling and I answered simultaneously.
Dad spotted us and pushed off the wall, headed our direction.
“Run while you can,” I said to Sterling.
He nodded and took off.
“Jansen,” Dad said as Sterling passed by him.
“Asshole,” Sterling snapped and kept walking, pulling McKittrick with him.
Pure envy shot through my veins that Jansen could mouth off like that and walk away. You can, too.
That little voice in my head had grown louder over the last few years, but it had yet to drown out the eighteen years I’d spent under his roof, having the shit beaten out of me every time I missed a shot in our backyard rink.
The best days of my life had been the ones where he’d been gone for away games.
“Guess you two have gotten friendly,” he said in way of greeting, nodding toward Jansen’s back.
“Why are you here?” I asked, leading him into the connecting hallway, away from nosey ears.
“Why won’t he say hi to me?” Dad pondered, his gaze narrowing slightly.
“Because he thinks it’s bullshit that you didn’t speak to him for the better part of twenty-five years and only do so now because you find him worthy of your time.” I took a drink from my water bottle.
“Ah, he’s still jealous of you.” Dad shrugged. “Not that I blame him. You were given everything a child could want, and he…” Another shrug.
I so was not up for discussing how my father had knocked up another woman while my mother was pregnant with me and then abandoned her. But at least Sterling had been raised by a loving mother who was absolutely dedicated to her son. “Honestly, that jealousy goes the other way, Dad. Let me ask you again, why are you here?”
His jaw ticked, but he kept his anger restrained. No doubt he would have let his temper fly if we’d been in private. “Your backhand was shit today.”
“Well aware.” My chest tightened. What the fuck was it about this guy that always had me chasing his approval? I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was a successful NHL star in my own right. I owned my own home, had never been arrested, and was single by choice, not force. For the most part, I had my shit together, and yet here I was, wishing he’d started in with anything but criticism. “Nice to see you, too, by the way.”
His gaze narrowed. “You’re getting sloppy. I’ve always told you that the second you get cocky, you’ll start to slip, and then where will you be? In the minors, playing for a crowd of a hundred.”
“Did you really fly all the way down here just to hurl insults? Because we’re doing pretty well this year if you haven’t noticed.” My chin lifted an inch or two as I stared down at him. At least the skates gave me a couple inches on him.
“I have noticed that your team seems to be thriving. Not that you’re helping it along.” He folded his arms across his chest.
Fuck him, I was the leading point scorer on the Reapers.
“Which is why I’m here,” he finished, brushing a piece of imaginary lint off his jacket.
“I don’t follow.”
He sighed like I was a disappointing kindergartener. “Your team is finally interesting. Even ESPN is saying you’re headed for the Cup this year.”
Damn it, he went and said it.
“So you thought you’d come down and watch practice?”
“Hardly.” He scoffed. “But I figured if your team is going to excel, then I should be here to make sure you don’t fuck it up for them.”
I fucking hated him. Hated every gray hair that made the magazines call him distinguished. Hated his accented voice that constantly reminded me that he’d had to skate uphill both fucking ways in order to succeed while I’d had my career handed to me. Hated the sight of his hands, which had left so many bruises on my body that I’d never bothered keeping count. Hated the judging look in his eyes that had always led to taking shot after shot at two a.m. when I was a kid. But mostly, I hated that he was here, invading the team I’d come to think of as family, stealing the solace I’d found here in Charleston.