Page 6 of This is a Kissing Book

There wasn’t time to reflect.

Though I feel that slight shift, a stirring, unease. The best way I can describe it is like a torch has been lit while, at the same time, a candle goes out. It’s strange because I’m not an overly reflective kind of guy.

I just do my thing on the ice, have a good time, and pretend my father’s disappointment that I’m not frothing to follow in his footsteps doesn’t exist.

Nope. Hockey is my life.

“Summer plans?” our captain barks from the center of the room, where he stands atop the tile rendition of our team logo. I’ve never heard Holden Goudreau speak in complete sentences at a normal volume.

“The river,” Bīriņš shouts, miming basking in the sun on his boat.

Stevens, who also plays defense, smiles widely, likely thinking about his wife and three kids. “Family time, bros.”

Butcher says, “Getting ready for next season.”

A few of the guys tease him for being a suck up. He’s not. The man is built for the ice, a veritable machine on skates. That could be said about all of us to varying degrees.

Turning to me, Pete Johannessen, left on the front line, says, “And our wittle bittle Linc-y poo will be at his summer internship.”

I bristle at the nickname and roll my eyes, not wanting to think about what awaits me in Chicago for the next few months.

“My father and I had an agreement, and it’s time for me to uphold my end of things.”

“Must be hard being a nepo baby,” Butcher says, but there’s no edge to it.

They know I earned my way onto this team fair and square. However, the employees occupying the upper floors in the gleaming building on Wacker Drive likely would have a few comments to make if I ever took my father’s position.

Which is not happening. There are legitimately qualified people who deserve to be the CEO of Meridian Holdings. Yet, Dad is grooming me. Or attempting to.

I’ll be sticking to hockey, thank you very much.

But as I pack up my gear bag one last time before going home for a few months, a peculiar feeling that things won’t be the same when I return here next season chills me. Or maybe it’s just that I’ll be changed.

When I land in Chicago, a sleek black car waits. I expect instructions from my father’s assistant to pop up on my phone when I power it back on, but instead, it’s from the old man himself with two directives. Shave and meet him at the office early tomorrow.

I grunt. That’s not exactly a typical Frank Andresen move, but the dreaded time has come for me to make good on our agreement. This means he’s taking it seriously.

The Outlaw in me wants to keep the beard that I let grow each season, but I’ll play by his rules. For now. He’ll remind me it’s what my mother would’ve wanted.

When I get to my place on Lake Shore, overlooking Lake Michigan, I glance at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Admittedly, I look like a disheveled caveman, not top-shelf corporate material.

Because that definitely isn’t who I want to be.

I pause in front of the family photo on the mahogany open shelving. Mom was smiling. We all were. In her soft, yet all-seeing eyes, I can almost hear her remind me to be a good sport and play along.

I will. For now.

I’m about to text my father to see if he wants to grab a steak when I remember he’s out of town until tomorrow’s meeting—the start of what’s sure to be a summer as pleasant as a sunburn.

Looks like I’ll be dining solo, which I don’t mind after the ordeal with my ex. Most women I’ve met are after my paycheck or don’t understand the commitment I’ve made to my sport—it turns out that getting into a serious relationship is for dummies. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The next morning, I begrudgingly shave, slap on some cologne, and put on a charcoal gray suit. We wear them to games, but the way I’m dragging is the opposite of my usual excitement and anticipation, the hum in my veins before hitting the ice.

Sliding on my glasses, it’s time for me to go incognito.

The driver delivers me to the glass tower with panoramic views of the Chicago River and Lake Michigan. Dad considers this the apex. For me, that would be a packed arena, battling for the puck, and scoring the winning goal.

Who am I fooling? I wouldn’t mind having my name on the Stanley Cup either.