Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Don’t get me wrong, we’re not perfect. We bicker often, but, I mean, that’s because she’s a stubborn asshole. Though if you ask her, it’s because I—supposedly—always need to have the last word. Which is something a stubborn asshole would say.
I stifle a curse when Phil suddenly looks my way and our eyes meet through the crowd.
My fingers tighten over Hannah’s, squeezing hard.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Nope,” I answer cheerfully.
Getting sucked into Phil’s orbit is like being pulled underwater by the vortex of a sinking ship. Or dragged out to sea by a rip current. Fighting against the inevitable and inescapable force will only lead to exhaustion and kill you faster.
The only way out is through.
“Son,” he booms, yanking me into a handshake with a flock of owners and a couple of reporters in tow. He spares a curt nod of greeting for Hannah before turning back to me. Those shark teeth bare in a fake smile. “You remember Don and the boys.” The boys, he calls them. A hundred billion net worth. Owners of three of the top five most valuable clubs in the league. “Come get a picture.”
“Hell of a season,” one of the owners tells me. He’s posing for the camera while my dad positions me in the middle of the group and from nowhere shoves my award in my hands while I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Team high record for points and assists in the modern era.” The way Phil says it, you’d think he was the one on the ice.
But then, that’s always been his problem. The man simply can’t let the old days go. Wasn’t enough to be beloved in Boston for his time on the ice, he has to live through me too.
Being the son of a legend is a real bitch.
Especially when that legend used to knock you around. When that legend tormented your mother and treated the two of you like trophies he could put on and pull off the shelf whenever he felt like it. If you cracked open the man’s chest, you’d find a lump of coal instead of a heart. His soul is black tar.
“Going after your old man’s record next year?” another owner asks. He chuckles before tossing back a glass of champagne.
“We’ll see,” I say, filling my mouth with scotch while keeping one eye on Hannah to avoid looking at Phil.
It’s torture. This whole stupid dance. Pretending the old man and I don’t despise each other. Letting him play the proud father like I don’t still have the scars from his “coaching.” Bowing to appearances because no one wants to hear the truth: that Phil Graham was an abusive son of a bitch while the entire sport was throwing flowers at his feet.
Thankfully, my best friend and teammate notices our little group from the bar. Reading the urgency on my face, John Logan makes his way toward us.
“Hey, man,” he says with a slightly tipsy grin, swinging a bottle of beer at his side while he inserts himself between us and the camera. “You remember Redhead Fred, right? From the combine. I just ran into him by the crab puffs. Come say hi.”
“Right. Fred.” I bite back a laugh at how bad he is at subtlety. “Man, I haven’t seen him in ages.”
I reach for Hannah’s hand and slip my way out from between Phil and the owners. Much to his dismay.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say politely, and then we get as far away as possible and practically hide behind the decorative potted plants on the other side of the room.
“I’m proud of you,” Hannah says, taking the award from my hands and replacing it with a fresh glass of scotch. “Part of me expected you to crack your dad over the head with this thing.”
I grin wryly. “Give me a little credit. I’m not a total barbarian.”
“Dude, that was awkward,” Logan says.
“All good. Thanks for the rescue. You did me a solid.”
“Yeah, well, you can make it up to me on the green this weekend. The team doc said I shouldn’t carry anything heavy with my back spasms acting up.”
I snort. Back spasms, my ass. “I’m not carrying your clubs,” I tell him. “That’s what rookies are for.”
“Please tell me someone is taping this.” Hannah laughs, poking me in the ribs. “Last time you tried to golf, we had to pay for that guy’s windshield, remember?”
“Not my fault his damned car was in the way of the hole.”
Her green eyes fill with exasperation. “His car was where it was supposed to be—in the parking lot. The hole was right in front of your face.”
“That’s what she said,” drawls Logan, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Ew.” She smacks his arm.
“Logan hit a tree last time,” I tattle to take the heat off myself. “It had a bird’s nest in it, and the thing toppled to the grass and all the eggs broke.”