Gametime: A Moo U Hockey Romance by Jami Davenport (classic novels to read .txt) 📕

wouldn’t understand, or worse, would unintentionally destroy the fragile confidence I’d struggled to build.

Change wasn’t easy. Change was difficult and painful.

I absently rubbed my fingers over the moonstone tucked under my jersey, but I didn’t feel any magical improvement in my self-confidence. Maybe crystals didn’t work like that. Maybe their effect was more subtle.

Michigan played a very physical game Friday night, and we lost in a hard-fought battle. I played like shit, and everyone avoided me afterward, as if some of my bad juju would rub off on them.

I pulled off my jersey and found Patrick studying me quizzically, his hair wet from showering and a towel slung over his shoulders.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked, scratching his bearded chin.

“Nothing. Why?”

He narrowed his gaze and looked at me hard. I ignored him and toweled off. Because of that twin connection thing, he’d see my inner struggle even if he didn’t understand its source. He didn’t push the issue, much to my surprise.

With a shake of his head, Patrick wandered off to give some advice to a couple freshmen who’d cracked under the pressures of an intense game.

I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes for a moment.

“Pax.”

I lifted my head. Coach Garf sat on the bench next to me and lowered his voice. “You’re working on a new style of play. You’re going to get worse before you get better.”

“The whole team is mad at me for not passing the puck to Patrick.”

“Just stick with the program. I’ll worry about the team.”

“Maybe I should’ve passed to Patrick more.”

“You did fine. Just what I’ve been expecting. We win as a team, and we lose as a team. Everyone bears the weight of this loss.” He stood and patted me on the shoulder pads. “Believe in yourself as much as I do.”

“I’m trying.”

“No, you will do this.”

“I will do this.” I chuckled, unable to help myself.

“Good boy.” He grinned and sauntered off to give a few words of encouragement to our goalie, who’d had a far worse night than the rookies or I had.

I sat up straighter, stripped off my clothes, and took a long, hot shower, after which I dressed and boarded the bus for our hotel. I sat by myself on the bus. Even Tate and Lex left me alone, which I appreciated.

Within five minutes, the bus pulled up to the hotel, and we unloaded. As usual, my gaze sought Naomi, but she’d disappeared. We had an hour before curfew, and several guys headed for the Chinese place across the street. I started to follow and froze.

“Oh, fuck,” I muttered under my breath as I saw my dad in the lobby. I half expected Naomi’s father to be with him, but he was nowhere to be found. Glancing left and right, I plotted an escape, but I was too slow.

“Paxton,” my father ordered in that tone I rarely defied. Better to take my verbal licks without complaint and get it over with. Sensing Dad was preoccupied with me, Patrick attempted to skirt past us, but Dad grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into our happy little family group.

I met Patrick’s gaze and sighed. He gave me that we’re screwed look back. We were both in for a butt chewing.

“What the fuck was that performance tonight?” Dad perched his hands on his hips. His angry gaze slid from me to Patrick and back. Obvs, we were both the focus of his ire this time around.

I shrugged, knowing there was no good answer, and silence was probably best.

“Don’t get smart with me, young man.” He shook his finger in front of my face. I held my ground and didn’t flinch.

Patrick, who had less patience for our dad’s bullshit, stepped forward. “He didn’t say a fucking word. How is that getting smart with you?”

“And you? You shot like shit. You wouldn’t be able to score a goal tonight if the goalie had left the net wide open. Your shooting was way off.”

“We can’t all be perfect like you,” I muttered and deflected his anger back on me. Patrick and I often ping-ponged our responses to make it harder for him to focus on one of us. We liked to think of it as a survival technique.

“I don’t know what the fuck is up with you lately, but your job is to handle the puck and pass to your brother unless you have a sure shot.”

“A sure shot? What’s that? Do you mean if the goalie passes out or takes a coffee break, I can shoot?” I ignored my brother’s shocked expression. I wasn’t usually the defiant one. I left defiance to Patrick and usually suffered in silence. I preferred flying under the radar with Dad, which I’d accomplished because Patrick was the chosen child, and I was merely an afterthought.

“Look, you insubordinate little bastard.” He moved closer to me, his posture threatening. I held my ground. I was bigger and fitter than him. “Don’t you fucking ever speak to me the way you did last time.”

“I’ll speak to you in a manner you deserve.”

Patrick’s eyes grew big, and he regarded me with a new respect.

“Ah, Mr. Graham, I’ve been looking for you.” Coach Garf appeared alongside us with a huge smile on his face. Dad’s expression switched from angry to pleasant like he’d flipped a switch. Patrick rolled his eyes and prepared to bolt. I’d be right on his heels. Coach had run interference for us.

“Hello, Coach,” Dad said in his smarmy suck-up voice. Patrick made a gagging sound, and I had to clap a hand over my mouth to stop my snickering.

“I’d like to spend some time with you, pick your brain. I know you played in the NHL and might have some insight into coaching strategies.”

Dad puffed up like a peacock in a parade.

“Dad, looks like you’re busy. We’ll see you in the morning.” Patrick grabbed my arm and turned.

“Yeah, certainly, boys, I’ll text you. We’ll meet up for breakfast.” Our father was all smiles