Page 100 of Like a Power Play
“Hey Peanut!” My dad’s cheery voice fills my ears, and I can’t help but smile. We’re pretty close, Dad and I, but neither of us really care to talk over the phone often. Mostly because I’m busy, and he likes to think about things before he says them out loud. Avery and I are more like our mom in that way. We say whatever comes to mind.Most of the time.“How was practice?”
I wipe the sweat off my face with my sleeve. “It was good.”
“Good, good.” He pauses for a beat, then another. “Not overworking yourself I hope.”
“Huh? No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “How’s Ayve and Mom?”
“They’re good. We’re all good. Avery’s excited for you to come for Christmas.”
“He didn’t say that,” I reply pointedly, like I know it for a fact. Which I do, because Avery’s candidness doesn’t exactly reflect his affection toward people.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s super sweet, if you can look past him pointing out a giant zit on your forehead, or the persistent, antagonizing smirk tugging at his lips. I think I have that too, I’m just more bubbly so I can play it off. Still, when you really get to know him, you’ll realize he’d do anything for you.
Avery hates the rink. He can’t stand the cold, the smell of the rubber, or the hum of the refrigeration system. To this day, he refuses to go to any games or practices. But there was this one time, when I was seven, that he had no choice but to show up. My mom and him had just come from a doctor’s appointment, and she wanted to drop off lunch for my dad and me.
Avery was up in the stands, sulking, when I slammed into the boards. He didn’t even think twice. He was on the ice before anyone could blink, wearing nothing on his feet but worn Clifford sneakers. Of course, he slipped and banged his head before he could even reach me and ended up with a concussion instead.
But he tried. He tried to get to me before anyone else could. And that’s been his way ever since.
My dad pauses, considering. “No, he didn’t. But I know he is. He came by with Pumpkin yesterday and asked what day you’d be here.”
“That makes me feel honored, actually.”
A laugh escapes him. “It should.” Another pause. “How are you feeling about the con tournament? Think you guys have a chance this year?”
My cheek goes raw between my back teeth as I gnaw mercilessly, all the muscles in my body stiffening. Heaviness creeps into the center of my abdomen, digging its way into my stomach, and dragging it down, down, down.
How am I feeling about the LNHLs?
Like I’m going to vomit.
“Yeah,” I say, pausing to buy time.
My dad was recruited to the NHL four days after his eighteenth birthday. I’m twenty-one.
Granted I know it’s different as a woman. The NHL is never going to seek me out in a draft, and the PWHL was founded when I turned nineteen. Logistically, I could never mimic the pace of my dad’s career. And I don’t want to. But when I see articles flying around aboutHarrison Clarke’s Legacy,I get stressed.
What if this is as far as I make it?
The thought claws at the back of my mind, sinking its nails deeper and deeper until it climbs its way to the front. Part of me wants to pretend I’m okay with that. A small league, just enjoying the game, no pressure. But the other part, the part that’s been silently screaming at me for years, knows that it would prove what I’ve feared all along.
That I’m only here because of my dad.
If the Sabertooths see something in me, if they decide I’m worth it, maybe, just maybe, I’ll feel like I’ve actually earned this.
I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay.
“Yeah, it’s, um… I really think this is the year!” I try to sound upbeat, but my voice shakes, and my heart pounds against my chest like it’s trying to escape. I swallow hard, willing the anxiety back down into my stomach. Willing the water out of my lungs.
My dad shifts on the other end of the phone, his voice soft but steady. “Good. I’d love to make it out to the tournament, but—” I brace myself. “I know it would be better for you if I didn’t.”
My throat tightens, and I blink hard, trying to fight the sting in my eyes. “I know, Dad. I’m sorry. I promise, when I’m in the pros, you can come to every game you want.”
I can hear the small, knowing chuckle in his voice. “Okay, Peanut.” He pauses, his tone softening. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”
I feel it then, the ache in my chest. The water rising, the curdling of my stomach. I swallow repetitively hoping the saliva will push it down. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Yeah, I know, Dad.”
”Okay, good. Because…” He falters, taking his time to choose his words. “Even if things don’t go the way you want, you’re still a rockstar. And I have no doubt that you’ll make it to the pros if it’s what you choose. But just—just know that. Okay?”
