Page 75 of Puck, Marry, Kill

Choice? He thinks there’s a choice here? That’s what’s wrong with him in the first place, because I don’t see a decision to be made. Not at all.

“I’d still get paid, though, right?” I say with a shit-eating smirk.

He blinks, not expecting that response to his nuclear meltdown, which is exactly what I hoped for.

It’s time for me to tell Coach how I see this going down.

I stand, meeting his eyes as I plant my hands on his desk and lean in closer. My voice hard, I tell him, “You can control what I do on the ice. You can control my position on this team. What you can’t do is control what I do outside this arena.” I point toward the door, then drive my finger into his chest. “And what you’ve never done is give a single, solitary shit about what Briar wants or needs. You left her when she was seven years old and never looked back, so don’t start acting like you give a fuck about her now.”

I step back ... move away ... toward the door. I need to get out of here before I do something I can’t take back. I have listened to Briar talk about how she felt when her father basically abandoned her. I heard the tears in her voice, understand the damage he did, not only with his own actions, but by leaving her vulnerable to a man like Tyler because as far as I’m concerned, Coach Boothe carries some responsibility for that too. I have seen how alone she’s been since her divorce, without a bit of support from the man in front of me.

He is not a dad. He’s not a father. He’s the worst kind of man: a leaver.

Every protective instinct inside me is surging up, urging me to punish him for the ways he hurt her. To make him bleed for every time his daughter needed him and he wasn’t fucking there.

“Lee.”

I don’t stop, the doorknob in my hand. “See ya later, Coach.” I sneer the honorary label I have said to many men that I’ve respected to varying degrees over the years, but none I’ve respected less than Coach Boothe. “Guess I’ll be riding the pine.”

“You will not see her again!” he bellows.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see how red-faced and furious he is. “See, that’s the difference between you and me. You picked hockey. I’ll pick Briar every. Single. Time.”

He flinches at the dig, but it’s only for an instant before his face hardens and he opens his mouth to give some anger-fueled, snappyreply. Probably that I don’t know the whole story, or I don’t understand what he was going through, or whatever justifications he’s spoon-fed himself over the years. Repeating them over and over, so many times until he started to believe his own bullshit.

Not wanting to hear any of it, I cut him off. “Fuck this.” I mutter it under my breath, but intentionally still loud enough for him to hear. “Bye.”

With that, I walk out into the locker room. There’s at least a dozen guys standing there, eyes wide in shock, having heard every word. Sabine recovers first. “Dom?”

“Apparently, Coach is pretty serious about his ‘no distractions’ rule,” I spit out.

“Probably has something to do with the fact that you’re in love with his daughter,” Kipson offers dryly. I meet his eyes. He warned me. He knew this would happen. And we both know exactly who sold me out. I give him a nod, trusting that he’ll handle things appropriately.

Spying Tomville looking shell-shocked in front of his locker, I point at him. “Team call is five. Be here at three thirty so we can get you ready. You’re debuting in the first line tonight, brother.”

I might not be starting tonight, but I’m not abandoning my team. That’s not the kind of man I am.

I’m supposed to be heading home for my pregame routine of fuel and nap. Instead, I send Briar a text that simply reads:Incoming. Don’t talk to your dad, before driving to her house as fast as I can.

In front of her cute little house, I take a deep breath. This is going to suck. She thought her dad was finally coming around with the zoo thing, especially when he named Hadiah for her. But he hasn’t changed a bit.

Hockey first, last, always, and only.

But I don’t play like that. I don’t live like that.

Well, to be fair, I used to. Hockey has been my priority for my entire life. I have missed school events, birthday parties, family dinners,and more because I was on the ice, for either a practice or a game. But for all I’ve given to hockey, it has given me back an entire life filled with celebrations and sorrows, skills and lessons, teammates and brothers.

The most important thing I’ve learned is: It’s a game. On my deathbed, I will look back on hockey fondly, but what I will want to see and feel and experience again and again is ... a life with Briar and Harley.

I don’t have to knock. Briar is already opening the door, as though she was listening for my truck. “What’s wrong?” she asks instantly.

“Let’s go inside,” I say, ushering her back into the house. “Sit down,” I tell her, guiding her to the couch.

“You’re scaring me,” she whispers. “Is Dad okay?”

I huff a humorless laugh. “Depends on your definition.” She pales and I quickly say, “Sorry. He’s fine. Just ... your father.”

I see the moment she understands in real time—her shoulders round, her perpetual smile evaporates to be replaced with a frown, and her eyes cloud over. “He knows about us.”