Alex (Cold Fury Hockey #1)(99)

       
         
       
        

"Dad-" I try to interrupt.

But he talks right over me. "I'm even more ashamed that some of the things I did to you … I'd probably still have done even without the alcohol lowering my inhibitions … so desperate was I to make you into a star. That is probably my greatest shame."

I stand up abruptly from the loveseat and start pacing. This conversation is extremely uncomfortable and I want to flee.

Straight to Sutton, so she can tell me how to handle this.

My dad looks at me, his eyes slightly shining with moisture. "Alex … I need to make amends. I need you to forgive me."

"Why?" I ask, somewhat demandingly.

"Because I don't know if I'll stay sober or not. It's going to be a hard battle … so they tell me. But if I don't … if I can't and something happens to me, I need my conscience clean."

My dad doesn't wear vulnerable well, but he's talking straight from the heart, I can tell. Part of me wants to punch him but part of me wants to hug him-for what would be the first time in my life.

Neither one seems right to me, so I say the words he wants to hear. "I forgive you, Dad."

***

My dad and I eventually struggled through an awkward hug. We talked about him leaving rehab before completing, and the concerns I had. While he understood them, he wasn't willing to go back. He felt he was equipped to handle his addiction, and had grand plans to join AA as soon as he got back home. Didn't stop me, though, from hiding the alcohol when he went to take a shower.

His plans are to leave in the morning for home, because I'm leaving for my game road trip. So we have tonight to start to forge some type of new relationship before we head our separate ways.

I slapped a frozen pizza in the oven and I'm cutting it now as he walks into the kitchen, his hair still damp. He doesn't waste any time, cutting through to the other elephant in the room.

"So what's going on with your game?" he asks as he sits down at the kitchen table.

His apology, while heartfelt and accepted, does nothing to erase the years he dictated to me how I should model my behavior, so my hackles rise up. "What? You mean you're not going to tell me what my problem is? Not going to tell me how to correct it?"

My dad swallows hard. "I'll give you advice if you want it. If you want to tell me what you think the problem is."

I put a couple of slices of pizza on two plates and bring them to the table, setting his down in front of him. After I take my chair, I look at him while picking at a pepperoni. "I'm not focused," I admit.

"Can't focus your brain on something, maybe it's focused somewhere else," he offers, and I know this is a direct slap at Sutton. 

"You mean my girlfriend," I accuse.

"What else is there?" he counters.

"Well, let's see," I say sarcastically. "Maybe because my dad is a drunk and is killing himself. Maybe because my dad has been in rehab and I'm dealing with all that shit."

At least my dad has the grace to blush at my words, but his tone is censuring, "You can't blame me for all the wrongs in your life."

"Can't I?" I throw at him.

Pushing his plate away, my dad rests his hands on the table. "Look, Alex … I know you're angry at me and you have every right to be. I did wrong by you. But I also did right. You are a superstar. You have an amazing career and more money than you know what to do with. There are a few things that you could thank me for, perhaps."

It's surreal how his words have a sting of truth, even though his methods were for the most part completely barbaric.

Before I can respond, my dad continues. "Look … I'm sure that girl … Sutton is perfectly nice. But you're twenty-six. You have, at most, another four to five years of top-level play in that body before you'll start to get overtaken by the next hot young player out there. That's not a long time, and you shouldn't waste it on things that don't lead toward an intense focus on the game. It's professional suicide."

His words penetrate deep, and for once, I can say that my dad is absolutely one hundred percent correct in his evaluation of the situation. Hockey careers are fleeting, particularly because it's such a violent sport. I have only a few more years to stockpile my way to an early retirement.

While every cell in my body wants to buck against what he's saying, I can't say the idea hadn't crossed my mind. That perhaps my focus is too fractured, between my newfound love for the game, a new girlfriend who is in love with me but whom I've yet to truly figure out my feelings for, and my alcoholic father, who could die.