Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance by Kate Willoughby (reading a book .txt) 📕

My dad looked shocked. I’d never threatened him with physical violence before. Could I go through with it? I had no idea. Those words just exploded out of my mouth like buckshot.

“I have listened to every bit of advice you’ve ever given me and most of it has been solid, but what you just said is not only over the line, it’s flat-out wrong.

“You only met Indi a few hours ago. How could you possibly know what her motives are? Is it so hard to believe that she might just like me as a person? Because I am a person, Dad, not just a hockey player. There’s more to me than what I can do on the ice and I have to tell you it’s a fucking relief to finally have one person in my life who understands that because you certainly don’t.”

My dad lifted his chin at me. “I know what her motives are because I know women. I know how their minds work.”

“You don’t know my woman and unfortunately, you’re not going to get a chance to because we’re leaving.”

My dad crossed his arms over his broad chest and nodded. “Yeah, go on back to school. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. College might teach you some things, but it won’t teach you jack about shit that matters, like how to avoid gold-diggers.”

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Indi wasn’t after me for my earning potential. While she had been impressed with the place on State Street, she’d never once asked me about how much I stood to make if I made it to the NHL. With the exception of her expensive makeup, she didn’t splurge on fancy things for herself. She never talked about how she wanted of this kind of house or car or lavish lifestyle. Her medical degree represented a dream of helping children, not of making big bucks.

She wasn’t without faults, though. Case in point, her tendency to treat me like I was her patient. To have her throw all these multi-syllabic words at me because she thought I had some weird ass condition was ridiculous. It had been like my girlfriend had suddenly transformed into the Nostradamus of the NHL, predicting my imminent doom like it was written in the stars.

Even so, I loved her and felt like the lowest of the low for what I’d said to her. Maybe the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree. Maybe I’d inherited or learned how to verbally lash out at people from my dad’s example. I hated that idea. I hated the defeated look on her face when she’d left the apartment. And yet, in the moment, I had felt a horrible, fierce satisfaction at having hit the mark.

I’d been an asshole of the first water.

I knew I had to apologize, but the relationship reboot wasn’t going to hack it this time. I needed to do some major groveling but I was too much of a chickenshit to face her yet. Besides, I knew she was taking that MCAT practice test today, so I told myself she wouldn’t want to hear from me until that was over anyway.

As for me, I had something to prove to Coach Keller after Friday night’s shit show. I still wasn’t completely convinced my problems on the ice were physical and not mental. I had stopped enacting Mac’s five step pregame routine four games ago because the nausea and vomiting had gone away, but maybe I needed to start that back up again. Maybe his routine magically corrected more than the anxiety. Maybe it aligned something in my head so I could think during the game more clearly.

I decided to try it tonight in the game against Merrimack. After I had my gear on, I leaned back in my stall and breathed deeply while listening to some relaxing music on my noise-cancelling headphones. I had a little trouble conjuring up my “happy place,” a place where I felt zero stress. I used to think about being in bed with Indi immediately after sex, but that didn’t feel right when we weren’t on speaking terms. So I imagined I was Deke on his wheel, running for the sheer joy of running. Step four, challenging and rejecting all the negativity in my head, was just as challenging. I’d recently seen an article about me online that said I had great hockey sense but wasn’t demonstrating the skating skills I’d shown in the past.

No shit.

The comments below the article were even worse.

I didn’t need that crap clouding my brain, so I pictured the article, printed on paper, then mentally lit it on fire and watched it burn. Then I concentrated the rest of the time on visualizing myself owning the ice, executing plays with crisp precision, assisting my teammates in achieving their own highlight moments, and performing so well that Coach Keller took me aside for some words of praise.

Turned out, after the game, the coach pulled me aside all right, but not for praise.

“Forte, what in the ever-loving fuck is going on with you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were deliberately fucking with me. Just when I’m fed up and ready to mark you down as a healthy scratch, you pull something out of your ass to change my mind. Then the very next day, you’re back to your old tricks. Your teammates complain that you don’t listen to them, that you see yourself as some kind of wunderkind who can carry the team all by yourself and I didn’t want to believe it. But tonight in the third period, I told you to get the puck to Daniels and you flat out ignored me.”

I swallowed hard. “Coach, I…I didn’t hear you.”

“How the hell could you not hear me? I was literally right behind you. Get the fucking cotton out of your ears, will you? And