Forever Wild (Wildcat Hockey Book 5)

JACK

“You’d think I was the one that took the summer off.” Nick bends over at the waist, hockey stick resting on his thighs, as he catches his breath. “Are you sure they didn’t give you a robotic knee?”

A half smile tugs at one corner of my lips, but the feeling doesn’t shake off the turmoil raging inside me.

I skate off to the side and take a seat on the bench. Nick follows, watching me from the other side. His son, Aidan, is skating and Nick lets his gaze flick in that direction before focusing back on me.

“Everything good?”

Resting my stick against the wall, I run a hand through my hair and then take a long drink of water before answering. “Yeah. The doctor says I should be ready to scrimmage next month at camp and I’m feeling stronger than ever.”

“That’s great,” Nick says. “But I wasn’t talking about hockey.”

I shoot him a warning glare.

“I know you said you don’t want to talk about it, but you’re firing pucks at the net like you’re imagining somebody’s face.”

“I am.” My own.

It’s been two weeks since I saw Everly. She went to Briar Lake for her internship. I only know because Ash mentioned it. He got back into town yesterday. Leo too. The others will all arrive sometime over the next couple of weeks.

Camp is coming and I’ve never been as anxious to throw myself into training.

Nick looks like he’s ready to pry more, so I add, “I’m grateful to be back after the accident. That’s all. I’m not going to take one second for granted. Everything else…it’s not important right now.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me. I’m not sure I do either, but I’m focusing on things I can control. And I am grateful to be back. I missed this. All of it. The ice, hockey, my teammates. I live for hockey season. I’m too numb to appreciate it now, but I will once the season starts. I hope so anyway.

“All right, but if you ever want to talk…” He trails off, but the invitation is clear. I’m relieved he doesn’t mention Everly, but there’s no way he hasn’t pieced it together. Between her picking me up in my Lamborghini and the day she showed up at Wild’s when I told her we should end things, it isn’t that complicated to figure out why I’m back to being a grumpy asshole.

I know I did the right thing. I’m sure of it. She had to go. That doesn’t seem to make me feel any better though.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat and tip my head toward his son. “Aidan’s looking sharp out there.”

“Yeah.” Nick’s usual reserved demeanor shifts and a big smile spreads across his face as he looks at son. “He’s been working really hard this summer.”

“It shows.”

Aidan circles around the back of the net in his full gear and skates over to us.

“Did you see my slapshot?” he asks me. His dark hair sticks to his forehead around his helmet.

Nodding, I say, “Yeah. Where’d you learn that?”

“My dad,” he says proudly. I know that feeling, that pride and excitement of learning something from your old man. Dad and I used to go to the rink on weekends and hit the puck around. And occasionally he’d even go out in the backyard with me, and we’d practice shooting into an old net. One time I missed it so badly, I took out a neighbor’s window. But when I managed to impress him, nothing felt better.

I shake the memories from my head.

“Are you sure?” I ask him, then look at Nick skeptically. “This guy? Nah. Can’t be. I think you’ve been watching me.”

Grabbing my stick, I head back out onto the ice. Aidan follows me. I skate to an abandoned puck and pass it back to him. Moving with the puck, he comes to a stop in front of the goal and rockets it into the net.

“Definitely my slapshot,” I tell him, giving him a high five.

Nick’s all smiles as he gives his kid props with a fist bump, then taps the top of Aidan’s helmet gently. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

“Already?” Aidan’s disappointed frown makes a real genuine smile pull at my lips.

“We need to finish back to school shopping,” Nick says.

The frown turns to a scowl.

Nick chuckles and a very reluctant Aidan heads off the ice.

“If you aren’t busy for dinner, you’re welcome to come over,” Nick says as he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Thanks, but I have plans.”

Nick nods slowly. “All right. See you tomorrow.”

He joins his son off the ice and they make their way toward the locker rooms.

I stay where I am, standing in the empty rink. I used to think there was nowhere else I’d rather be, but the thrum of anxiousness won’t let me fall into the same feeling of contentment.

When I’m finished at the rink, I head to Brettwood. I need to check in on my dad. Things have been quiet, which always has me more worried than when I’m being called to pick him up from some random bar because he’s causing a scene.

The sun is just beginning to set when I park in the driveway and walk up to the front door of my dad’s house. I own the place, but I still knock before letting myself in. Muffled voices from the TV filter out, and when I don’t get an answer on my second attempt, I push the door open.

“Dad?” I call through the cracked door.

“Living room,” he yells back.

I step inside, bracing myself. I never know what kind of mess I’m walking into. One time he’d pissed himself and ruined the couch. Another time he had broken a bottle of red wine— underneath an area rug in the center of the room, I bet the stain is still there—and needed two stitches.

But today, everything is in place. Dad is reclined back in his leather chair watching TV. An empty plate sits on the end table next to a glass of amber liquid. A strange sense of relief washes over me. He rarely goes on a bender with the expensive liquor. It’s contradictory, I know, but when he’s at his lowest, it’s cheap beer and vodka that smells more like rubbing alcohol.

“Jackie boy.” He smiles as I walk through the living room, taking it all in. His eyes, the same dark blue as mine, are clear and sharp.

“Dad,” I say with a tip of my head.

“Did I know you were coming?” he asks.

“No. I just hadn’t heard from you and thought I’d check in.” I take a seat on the couch.

“There are burgers in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

“No thanks.”

I sit back and glance at the TV. Twins are playing, bottom of the fourth inning.

“Lopez is shit this year,” Dad says as the pitcher throws another ball.

“He’s still coming off that elbow surgery.” I feel a hint of defensiveness. It might be the same for me. Sure I’ve gotten movement and flexibility back and am working on strength, but there’s no comparing that to what it’s like in a game.

Dad huffs, a noncommittal noise that tells me he isn’t sure that’s the issue. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“They drafted that young kid from Arizona, Flynn Holland. I don’t know why they haven’t called him up yet. Lopez can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

I’m used to Dad’s grumbles and nod along.

“How’s everything going with you?” he asks as he tears his gaze off the TV.

“Everything is fine.”

“You look like shit. Is the knee holding up?”

“The knee is fine.” I get up and go to the kitchen. Dad keeps Gatorade stocked for me, even though he hates the stuff. It’s a small consolation for him knowing how to push my buttons at all times. Aren’t parents supposed to lie and say things like, “Looking great, Son,” even when you don’t. I could use some of that about now.

I grab the drink and take it back to the couch, wishing it was something stronger. It’s real irony that my alcoholic father often drives me to wanting to drink.

“When’s camp?” he asks.

“Three weeks. I can’t wait.”

“I remember that feeling.” He drags his gaze away from me and sighs. “I couldn’t even enjoy vacation because I missed being on the ice.”

It’s hard to remember a time when he cared about anything that much. Certainly not me. Actually, that’s not true. He was a good father before he lost his job and became a full-time drunk. But those happy memories are buried so far in my mind it almost feels like a story someone told me instead of my own recollection.

“How’s the new girlfriend?”

My head snaps toward him and my brows furrow. “Girlfriend?”

“That girl that came with you last time. Sharp’s sister. She’s pretty.”

“Everly.” Her name feels like glass in my mouth. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

And pretty? Sure, saying she’s pretty is like saying hockey is fun. True but uninspired.

He studies me for a moment, then a grin takes over his face. He’s smiling so big that my skin itches with discomfort.

“Now I see,” he says.

“You see what?”

“Why you look like shit.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “I didn’t think you’d let that one go so easily.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Have another drink.” I tip my head to his glass.

His jaw flexes and I feel like shit for stooping low.

“I might not be the smartest man in the world, but on the topic of you, I am an expert,” he says.

It’s rich coming from a guy that hasn’t been to my house or watched me play in years. Sure, he catches it on TV, but it’s not the same. We only have a relationship because I make the effort to check in on him. Who knows how long we’d go between talking if I didn’t.

“Drop it, okay?”

“Fine. Fine.”

We fall quiet as our attention goes back to the game. Watching sports is the one thing we’re capable of doing without being at each other’s throats. Baseball, football, even motocross. Outside of that, we’ve never been good at communicating.

When the game’s over, I get up and head for the door. Dad pushes his chair upright and stands.

“If I don’t make it back before the first home game, tickets will be at will call as usual.” I can’t look him in the eye because if I do, I know I’ll see his answer before he says it.

“You don’t need to waste tickets on me. I prefer seeing all the angles and replays right here.”

I nod and ignore the disappointment. I knew he wouldn’t come, but I buy the tickets every year just in case.

“By the way, this Everly…”

I sigh loudly. “Dad, it’s really not like that.”

Not anymore at least.

“Got it.” Dad works his jaw back and forth like he might want to say more, but then decides against it. “Well, thanks for stopping by.”

My feet pause on the doorstep. “Call if you need anything.”