Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
A glance at Coach. “Hey there. Nice to meet you.” He offers his hand to Coach as they both look to me for a response.
“Coach Jensen,” I say, feeling like I’m going to choke on my own tongue, “this is Max Saban, my stepfather.”
“Great to meet you, Coach.” The thing about Max is, he’s so goddamn nice all the time. I don’t trust it. No one smiles that much. It’s fucking weird. Anyone who’s in a good mood that often is hiding something. “Conor’s told his mother a lot about you. He really loves your program.”
“Chad,” Coach says, introducing himself. “Good to meet you.” He slides me a questioning glance, which I can only take to mean he senses the awkwardness of this shitshow and wondering why the hell is he getting dragged into more of my personal drama. “Conor’s a great addition to the team. We’re glad to have him coming back to us next year.”
Ha. If only he knew. I can’t bring myself to meet Max’s eyes to read his reaction.
“Well, I’ve got to get going,” Coach says, leaving me out on this floating ice sheet alone. “Nice to meet you, Max. Have a good one.” Coach strides back inside the shop, and I’ve got nowhere left to hide or anyone to hide behind.
“When’d you get in?” I ask Max. I keep my tone casual, because he’s here now and I can’t avoid him anymore. The last thing I want is for him to see me squirm.
So I tamp down the anxiety. I got good at this when I was a kid, following Kai around through abandoned buildings and dark alleys. Getting into shit that scared me, all the while knowing I couldn’t show weakness or I’d get my ass kicked. It’s the face I put on every time I hit the ice, lining up against a guy ready to do battle. It’s nothing personal, but we mean to cause some havoc. Pain is part of the game. If we didn’t want to lose some teeth, we’d stay home and knit.
“Just this morning,” replies Max. “I took the red-eye.”
Fuck me, he’s pissed. In that quiet WASP-y way. The softer they speak, the more your life’s in danger.
“Stopped by your place but you’d already left.”
“I have early classes on Thursday.”
“Well,” he says, nodding at the diner a few storefronts away. “I was going to grab a coffee before trying you again later. Since we’re here, will you join me?”
Can’t very well say no, can I? “Yeah, sure.”
We grab a booth by the windows and the waitress comes around right away to fill our mugs. I don’t even like coffee, but I drink mine too fast, too soon, scalding my tongue because I don’t know what else to do with my hands and it stops my knee from bouncing.
“Guess I should start,” he says.
The second most obnoxious thing about Max is how he always looks like he just walked off the set of an early 2000s family sitcom. He’s one of those perpetually cheerful dads with an upstanding gentleman haircut, plaid oxford shirt, and a vest from an expensive outdoor brand, not that you’ve ever seen the man hike.
Maybe that’s part of it—I can’t take him seriously when he looks like a character from a show I never watched as a kid because we didn’t have cable. Those dads who ruined us for the real men missing from our lives. Kids like me were raised on lies told by TV writers fulfilling the fantasies of their own broken childhoods.
“Obviously, I came out here because we haven’t been able to connect on the phone,” Max continues. “I also thought perhaps this was a discussion we ought to have in person.”
That’s never good. Now I’m thinking I should have had this talk with my mom first. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that given my lack of cooperation, she had no choice but to leave me to Max’s mercy. Cut off financially, no more school, no more house. Set adrift on a raft of my own making.
“I know we haven’t had much communication over the years, Conor. I can take my fair share of the blame for that.” Not quite how I saw this beginning. “I want to start off by saying, while I certainly don’t approve of the actions you took, I can understand why you made the choice you did.”
What?
“I know how at that age emotions get the best of us, and sometimes when outside pressure is applied to just the right spot, we make decisions and act out in ways we might never otherwise. You made a mistake, a big one. You lied. To me, yes, but more importantly to your mother. I know from your first phone call how much that’s weighed on you. And what I find encouraging is that, while it took quite a bit longer than we’d have liked, you admitted your mistake. Now comes the hard part,” he says with a hesitant smile. “Taking responsibility.”