It takes me a second to realize what happened, at which point I’m completely mortified.

Me: Kill u! I meant KILL u. Damn autocorrect.

Him: Surrrrrre. Let’s blame it on autocorrect.

Me: Shut it.

Him: I think someone wants to kiss me…

Me: Goodnight, Graham.

Him: U sure you don’t want to come back here? Give our tongues some exercise?

Me: Ew. Never.

Him: Uh-huh. PS—check your email. I sent u a zip file of music. Actual music.

Me: Which will be going straight to my trash folder.

I’m grinning to myself as I send the message, and Allie chooses that exact moment to wander into my room.

“Who are you texting?” She’s drinking one of her nasty juices, and the straw pops out of her mouth as she gasps. “Holy shit! Is it Justin?”

“Naah, just Graham. He’s being an annoying jackass as per usual.”

“What, you two are friends now?” she teases.

I falter. It’s on the tip of my tongue to voice a denial, but it feels wrong when I remember I spent the past two hours confiding in Garrett about my issues with Cass and then serenading him like a frickin’ troubadour. And honestly, as insufferable as he is at times, Garrett Graham isn’t as bad as I thought he was.

So I offer a rueful grin and say, “Yeah. I guess we are.”

9

Garrett

Greg Braxton is a beast. I’m talking six-five, two hundred and twenty pounds of pure power, and the kind of speed and precision that’s going to land him a plum contract with an NHL team one day. Well, only if the league is willing to overlook all the time he spends in the sin bin. It’s the second period and Braxton has already taken three penalties, one of which resulted in a goal courtesy of Logan, who skates past the penalty box to give Braxton a smug little wave. Big mistake, because now Braxton’s back on the ice, and he’s got an axe to grind.

He slams me into the plexi so hard it jars every bone in my body, but I luckily get the pass off and shake the disoriented cobwebs from my brain in time to see Tuck flick a wrist shot past St. Anthony’s goalie. The scoreboard lights up, and even the groans and boos from the crowd don’t diminish the sense of victory coursing through my veins. Away games are never as exhilarating as home games, but I feed off the energy of the crowd, even when it’s negative.

When the buzzer signals the end of the period, we head into the locker room leading St. Anthony’s 2-0. Everyone is riding the high of the two-period shutout, but Coach Jensen won’t let us celebrate. Doesn’t matter that we’re ahead—he never lets us forget what we’re doing wrong.

“Di Laurentis!” he shouts at Dean. “You’re letting number thirty-four toss you around like a rag doll! And you—” Coach glares at one of our sophomore D-men. “You’ve given them two breakaways! Your job is to shadow those assholes. Did you see that hit Logan delivered at the start of the period? I expect that kind of physical play from you, Renaud. No more pansy-ass hip checks. Hit ’em like you mean it, kid.”

As Coach marches to the other end of the locker room to dish out more criticism, Logan and I exchange grins. Jensen is a total hard-ass, but he’s damn good at his job. He gives praise when praise is deserved, but for the most part, he pushes us hard and makes us better.

“That was a brutal hit.” Tuck shoots me a sympathetic look as I lift my jersey to gingerly examine my left side.

Braxton absolutely pummeled me, and I can already see a bluish discoloration forming on my skin. Gonna leave a helluva bruise.

“I’ll live,” I answer with a shrug.

Coach claps his hand to signal it’s time to get back on the ice, and the skate guards come off as we file down the tunnel.

As I make my way to the box, I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t seek him out, but I know what I’ll find if I do. My father, hunkered down in his usual seat at the top of the bleachers, his Rangers cap pulled low over his eyes, his lips set in a tight line.

St. Anthony’s campus isn’t too far from Briar, which means my father only had to drive an hour from Boston to get here, but even if we’d been playing hours away at a weekend invitational during the snowstorm of the century, he’d still be there. My old man never misses a game.

Phil Graham, hockey legend and proud father.

Yeah fucking right.

I know damn well he doesn’t come to the games to watch his son play. He comes to watch an extension of himself play.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I sucked ass. What if I couldn’t skate? Couldn’t shoot? What if I’d grown up to be a scrawny twig with the coordination of a Kleenex box? Or if I’d been into art or music or chemical engineering?

He probably would’ve had a coronary. Or maybe convinced my mother to give me up for adoption.

I swallow the acrid taste of bitterness as I join my teammates.

Block him out. He’s not important. He’s not here.

It’s what I remind myself every time I swing my body over that wall and plant my skates on the ice. Phil Graham is nothing to me. He stopped being my father a long time ago.

The problem is, my mantra isn’t foolproof. I can block him out, yes, and he’s not important to me, hell yes. But he is here. He’s always here, damn it.

The third period is intense. St. Anthony’s is playing for their lives, desperate to keep from being shut out. Simms is under attack from the word go, while Logan and Hollis scramble to hold off St. A’s starting line from rushing our net.