Page 41 of Game Misconduct

Silence stretches between us. I want to do it. I do. But I’ve been trying to give Bex the space she wants from me.

“She’s not interested in talking to me.”

“You know,” Elsy drawls, “her mother did a number on her. Just like your dad did to you. I bet you have more in common than you think.”

Whitney’s not close with his parents. They didn’t even attend the World Juniors competition all those years ago. They were minimally involved in the wedding, and didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about the marriage itself. I never thought to consider whether Bex was estranged from them, too.

“I’ll see what I can do. No promises,” I finally say.

“Just keep an eye out. And maybe let me know if she seems different.”

“I’m not a snitch, Els.”

Her hearty laugh warms me. “It’s not snitching. It’s heading off a potential mental health crisis.”

“Is it that bad?”

She falls silent, and the line crackles with tension. “It has been in the past. Three years ago… well, she’s better now. But the last few weeks, I get the sense she’s backsliding. I hate that I’m so far away. That I can’t help more.”

My heart pounds at her words. Three years ago. That would be around the time we hooked up. Maybe she’s not as unaffected by this as I thought. Maybe she still thinks about me, too.

I hate that our night together triggered her or caused her issues, but if there’s even a chance she might be interested…

“I’ll let you know if I see anything you need to worry about.”

“Thanks, Mitchy. You’re a doll.”

“Yeah, yeah.” My face heats at her praise.

A commotion sounds out in the hall, and a familiar voice stops my heart. “I’ve got to run, we’ve got weights in a few.”

If I tell her my father is here, she’ll go ballistic. I’ve never seen Elsy physically assault someone, but I have no doubt she’d take a swing at him. Hell, I don’t blame her. I’d like to as well.

“Okay, I’ll let you go. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I mutter, hanging up the call.

What the hell am I going to do?

Fred Mitchell is an alcoholic. This is an indisputable fact.

He destroyed his liver so badly, he needed a transplant when I was a freshman in college. My mother refused to let me donate since it would end my college hockey season, and my coaches weren’t enthusiastic about the idea, either.

So she gave him half her liver.

She was fine. It was routine surgery, or so they said. I didn’t need to come home from college for it, she said. My father would take care of her.

The recovery would take a few days in the hospital, a few weeks on the couch, and less than two months later, she would be good as new. My dad would be better, too. He promised to lay off the booze. Swore up and done he’d seen the light. That rehab changed him for good.

Until she developed a post-op infection.

Until she went septic.

Until she died a slow, painful death.

Paul stands at his station, arms crossed and eyeing me warily. “He says he knows you,” he says as I approach. “Are you okay?”

The man making a racket in the rink lobby may be my father, but he’s no family to me. He’s skinny as a string bean, balding, and his skin is sallow. The whites of his eyes have a familiar yellowish tinge—where they’re not bloodshot. Waves of stale alcohol radiate off his skin, the stench overwhelming even in the open, well-ventilated room.