Hate to Love You

by Jennifer Sucevic

  While my roommates are still sleeping off last night’s drunken festivities, I’m up and out the door by five. The sun has yet to rise as I get in my truck and drive over to the community rink. Ever since I started at Whitmore freshman year, my dad has rented out extra ice time on Sunday mornings so we can run through drills and work on conditioning. Around eight, we head to my father’s house, and I hit the weight room he installed in the basement. It has all the bells and whistles, including a sauna which I relax in for about twenty minutes before hitting the shower.

  Since this is the only time during the week I’m able to stop by for a visit, my dad’s wife, Amber, prepares a huge brunch for the three of us. By the time I sit down at the table with them, I’m physically exhausted but feel good. My endorphins are buzzing and I’m ready to tackle the week. Usually, we discuss any new developments with the Milwaukee franchise or potential endorsement deals that are in the works. Around noon, I head back to campus and hit the books for the rest of the day.

  You know that old saying about how there’s no rest for the wicked?

  It’s absolutely true.

  My dad, John McKinnon, played for the Detroit Redwings for a decade back in the day. After retiring from the NHL, he opened a sports management company to represent professional athletes. He started out with a couple of hockey players and has since branched out with twenty-five agents working for him. He reps guys from the NHL, NBA, NFL, and the MLB. My game plan is to play in the pros for as long as I can and then join my father at his company, which is why I chose to major in business with a minor in finance.

  Since Dad played professional hockey, he knows what I’ll be up against when I make the move to the pros next year. It’s an entirely different level—faster play, higher skill set, and a hell of a lot more physical and rigorous—and some guys can’t hack it. You’re no longer a big fish in a small pond. Everyone playing in the NHL is the best of the best. Because of this, he works me harder than any coach ever has. And I appreciate it. I’m a better player for it. So even though I only grabbed a few hours of sleep last night, you won’t hear me bitching and complaining about hauling ass at five to get here.

  Eggs, bacon, pancakes, sausage, hash browns, and a bowl of fruit have been laid out in the sunroom where the three of us sit down to eat. Famished from my workout, I dig in, loading my plate with a lot of everything.

  Amber and Dad recently celebrated their three-year anniversary. She’s fifteen years younger than he is and used to work for him. I’ve never actually sat down and counted out the months, but I suspect there was a rush to the altar because she was pregnant with my two-year-old sister, Hailey.

  The fact that my father married again after so many years doesn’t bother me. Maybe I’d feel differently if I were still in the house, but I’m not. Plus, Amber has always gone out of her way to make me feel included. And Hailey is a pretty cool kid. She’s always smiling and happy to see me when I stop by on Sunday mornings.

  “What happened to your face?” Amber asks as I dig in.

  I shrug. “Took an elbow to the eye fooling around with Sawyer. No big deal.”

  I’d almost forgotten about the shiner Reed gave me last night. I should have been quicker and blocked him. At least I bloodied his nose and gave him a black eye in return.

  You’re welcome, asshole.

  “It looks painful.” Her brows draw together. “Maybe you should ice it after brunch. I think there’s a bag of peas in the freezer.”

  “Nah, it’s fine. But thank you,” I add. I really do like Amber. As far as stepmoms go, my dad could have done a lot worse.

  Dad’s cell rings, thankfully interrupting our conversation. Neither Amber or I say a word while he’s on the phone. Once he wraps up the call, she asks, “Are classes still going well?”

  “Yeah, they’re going pretty good.” School started mid-August, and we’re a few weeks in. Practice for the season is already underway but it’ll become more rigorous once we start playing games which involves travel. I’m trying to stay on track with my classes because once that happens, I’ll have a lot less time on my hands.

  I’m not going to lie—balancing hockey and school has always been a struggle. Sometimes there doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day to get everything done. I chose to major in business because I knew it would be helpful after I’m done playing hockey. I could have picked a bullshit degree like some of the other guys on the team—something less demanding—but how would that help me in the long run?

  “One of my finance classes is a little tough, but I’m working through it,” I say as soon as I swallow down my eggs. I’m not sure what she adds to them, but they’re delicious. “Thanks for making brunch. Everything’s great.”

  “You’re welcome. I love when we get together like this.” A smile pulls at the corners of Amber’s lips, but it’s tinged with sadness. “It’s going to be lonely without you stopping by on Sundays or us going to watch your games.” She glances at Dad. “I’m not sure what he’s going to do when you leave for Milwaukee.”

  “I’ll work more,” he replies before shoving a piece of bacon in his mouth. The man works a minimum of seventy hours a week and is constantly flying off to meet one client or another. I don’t know how he could possibly work more than he already does unless he starts living at the office.

  Amber worked for my father for about five years before they married. It’s not like she didn’t know what she was getting herself into. By all outward appearances, she seems to accept that work comes first. “Maybe we’ll get Hailey into skating.”

  Dad shrugs before changing the subject back to school. “I spoke with your advisor.”

  “Dr. Miller?”

  He nods. “She said you didn’t do so hot on the last exam and now you’ve fallen from a B to a C.” He gives me a look. One that’s chock-full of meaning. “The last thing we need is for you to get benched going into the season.”

  “I know.” There are actually two classes that have fallen into the C range, but if he doesn’t know that, I’m not going to mention it. All I can do is keep working my ass off in those classes and hope it pays off. When I have questions, I stop in for office hours. It’s not like I’m sitting on my duff, twiddling my thumbs.

  “Look, Brody, I know school has been a challenge. You have one year left, and then you’re done. You’re ahead of the game with Milwaukee already being lined up. There are a few endorsement deals that are being considered. Once May rolls around, you’ll be able to focus on hockey full-time. You just have to push yourself a little harder.”

  Push myself a little harder.

  I’m not sure how much harder I can continue pushing myself. Every moment of my day is spent either on school or hockey. I’m genuinely stumped at how some of these guys party the way they do.

  Who the fuck has time for that?

  I know people around campus assume I’m just coasting through school waiting to get to the NHL, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. My degree matters. Yeah, maybe I should have picked something a little less rigorous. It’s not like Dad wouldn’t hire me afterward without majoring in business, but still…

  This is what my mother wanted and fulfilling her wish is my gift to her.

  “I’m working as hard as I can,” I say.

  “You can’t afford to get benched,” he repeats.

  Does he seriously think I’m oblivious? Of course, I’m aware of that! The very idea of riding the bench for even a few games this season is enough to induce nausea.

  “John,” Amber says softly as she lays a hand on his forearm.

  Not that my father and I get into it often, because we don’t, but Amber doesn’t like tension or raised voices. She’s one of those Zen human beings. I’m not sure if it’s an overabundance of Xanax or yoga, but my hat’s off to her on achieving inner peace.

  I’d like some of that, please.

  As soon as she senses Dad getting ramped up, she immediately steps in to smooth things over. Sometimes I feel
like I should pull her aside and tell her that she doesn’t have to get in the middle of it. I’m a big boy. I can handle my father. I’ve been doing it for twenty-three years.

  Just as he turns to his wife, Hailey lets out a loud cry over the baby monitor sitting on the buffet.

  Setting her napkin aside, Amber rises to her feet. “I better check on her. She was up a lot last night with an ear infection. The doctor just called in a prescription.” She looks at my dad expectantly. “You’ll need to run over to the pharmacy after brunch and pick it up.”

  Dad nods and waves her off. “Sure. Fine. I have to swing by the office for a couple of hours anyway.”

  Once Amber is safely out of earshot, Dad mutters under his breath, “She wants another one.”

  My brows pull together as I ask, “Another what?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m just glad we’ve veered away from the topic of my grades.

  He shoots me an exasperated look. “Another baby. Amber would like us to have another baby.”

  The expression on his face is priceless. I chuckle and shrug my shoulders. “What’s wrong with that? Hailey’s a cute kid. It would probably be good for her to have a sibling.”

  “She has you,” he points out, not looking the least bit swayed.

  “That doesn’t really count. I think Amber wants Hailey to have a playmate closer to her own age. And I’m not around very much as it is.” I’d love to visit more, but there just isn’t time for that. Whenever I walk through the door, Hailey grabs my fingers and drags me up to her playroom. There aren’t many people I’ll admit this to, but I’m well-versed in changing her baby dolls’ diapers, feeding them bottles, and wrapping them in blankies. “Next year, I won’t be around at all. She needs another kid to play with.”

  “We’ll see,” he grunts, sounding none too pleased with the prospect. “I’ve got a lot on my plate with the management company. We’re thinking about expanding and opening an office in New York within the next six months.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and adds, “I’m fifty years old. I’m not sure I want another baby at this point in my life.”

  I can’t resist the smirk that settles around the corners of my mouth. “What’d you think was going to happen when you married a woman fifteen years younger than you without kids?” Seems like a no-brainer to me.

  He takes a sip of his coffee. “When the hell did you get so smart? Guess you better keep that information tucked away for future reference.”

  Is he crazy? “Kids aren’t part of my ten-year plan.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Using his fork, he points to my face. “So, how’d you really get that shiner?”

  I shrug and continue shoveling in my breakfast. “I told you. I was just fooling around at the house.”

  He raises a brow. “Fooling around, huh?” He sits back on his chair and stares at me for a long, ponderous moment.

  I hold his gaze and say nothing. I’m not about to admit what really happened. If I know my dad, he’ll blow it out of proportion.

  “Since when does getting into a fistfight at a party with one of your teammates constitute roughhousing?”

  I groan. “It’s not a big deal.”

  He sucks in a deep breath and releases it slowly as if he’s trying to rein in his temper. “Actually, it is. The fact you’re even saying this tells me you don’t see the severity of the situation. Do you really want Milwaukee getting it in their heads that you’re not a team player? Or that you’re a troublemaker? A loose cannon? Or worse, that you can’t get along with your own teammates?”

  His response seems a little overblown, but I’m smart enough to keep that opinion to myself. This is exactly why I didn’t tell him the truth.

  He throws his hands in the air in frustration. “It’s one thing to get into it with players from an opposing team out on the ice in the heat of the moment and quite another to get into it with one of your own. The latter, if you hadn’t already guessed, is unacceptable.” He leans forward and steeples his fingers together on the table. “Do you really think you’ll be a good sell for prospective advertisers if there’s video of you knocking the shit out of someone? Is that an image any company wants representing their brand?”

  Fine…maybe he has a point. It’s not like I was considering future endorsement deals when Reed mouthed off. The only thing I’d been concerned about was shutting him up.

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  Do I regret it?

  Not one damn bit.

  I won’t, however, admit that to my dad. It’ll only send him over the edge.

  “I’m sorry.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair and say with the proper amount of contrition, “It won’t happen again.”

  The apology may take the edge off his anger, but he still looks exasperated. “We’ve talked about this, Brody. You need to keep your nose clean. That means no fights. No binge drinking. No baby mamas coming out of the woodwork looking for a payday. Nothing that’s going to tarnish your image. In my day, there wasn’t all this social media crap floating around. People weren’t taking pictures or video every time you left the house. It was a lot easier to keep a lid on shit.” Dad shakes his head. He’s had to clean up more than one client’s PR nightmare thanks to bad decisions and social media. “Now, the moment you fart, it goes viral. When you’re a professional athlete, people can accuse you of almost anything—even if there’s not a grain of truth to it—and ruin your career. I’ve seen it happen. You need to be careful.”

  This time when I mutter an apology, I actually mean it. Sometimes I forget that my dad has my best interests at heart. He’s on my side, trying to steer me in the right direction. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Last night got out of control. I let my emotions get the better of me. I’m usually more careful about that.

  “You’re too damn close to having everything you ever wanted to fuck it up now. You need to remember that your behavior has consequences. You’re not a kid anymore. So, don’t act like one.”

  “It was a momentary lapse in judgment,” I add for good measure, wanting to smooth things over before I head back to campus. Looks like I’ll be taking a page from Amber’s book on how to handle my father. Maybe there’s something to that Zen crap after all.

  “Momentary lapse in judgment, my ass. Who’s the girl who caused the ruckus?”

  Fuck.

  I should have known none of this would get past him. He’s always been vigilant where my career is concerned. And most of the time, I’m appreciative of that. I wouldn’t be where I am today—with a contract signed and endorsement deals rolling in—if it weren’t for this man. But sometimes, he can be a little intense and overbearing. I wish he would give me some breathing room and let me figure things out on my own. He said it himself—I’m not a kid anymore. So, let me handle my own shit like an adult the way most twenty-three-year-olds do.

  When I say nothing, he raises a brow and pulls out his phone. He taps the screen a few times and says, “I assume that this,” he pauses and squints, “Natalie Davies is the reason a fight broke out between you and one of your teammates?”

  I huff out a breath. “Yeah.”

  He frowns and tosses the phone onto the table. “Why would you get into a fight with a fellow player over a piece of college ass? I’ve been on campus. I’ve seen the girls at your games. There’s more than enough to go around. You don’t need to fight over the same piece of tail.”

  I glare, annoyed by the turn this conversation has taken. “Natalie isn’t some piece of ass.” Even using that term leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  He points to the phone and the lit-up Facebook screen. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times that getting involved is a mistake. The last thing you need is to lose focus. Everything you’ve been working for is finally in reach. Don’t fuck it up now. Not over something like this.”

  I plow my fingers through my hair again, feeling agitated. “It’s not like that, okay? You’re making a big deal ou
t of nothing.” I knew he would blow this out of proportion.

  “Really?” He arches a brow. “So you and Reed are all good?”

  Reed Collins and I have never been good. And I don’t see that changing at this point.

  “No,” I bite out.

  He shakes his head, and his eyes fill with disappointment. “I’ve always told you to go out and have fun. Enjoy as much pussy as you want.”

  I roll my eyes and grumble, “Jesus Christ, Dad. I seriously don’t want to have this conversation with you over Sunday brunch.” Everything I’ve just inhaled feels precariously close to revolting.

  “What?” He smirks. “You think I didn’t do the same thing when I was your age? I boned every girl who would let me.” His look is knowing. “You and me, we’re not so different. You work hard on the ice, you earn the right to blow off a little steam and play just as hard off of it.” Getting serious again, he jabs a finger at me. “But you play smart. That means not getting serious about a girl at this stage of the game.”

  Even though I’ve only plowed my way through half of the eggs and pancakes, I push my plate away. When I remain silent, he continues.

  “End whatever’s going on with this girl before it gets out of control. You don’t need the distraction. Especially now. You have enough to focus on with classes and hockey.” He waves a hand in the air. “You want some pussy, be my guest. No one is stopping you. But that’s all it is. There will be plenty more when you hit the pros.”

  I rub my forehead, just wanting to put an end to this conversation. “Natalie’s a friend. That’s it. This isn’t something you need to worry about, okay? Just chill out.”

  And for the love of God, stop saying “pussy.”

  Before I left for juniors, my dad sat me down and had a very similar discussion about not getting involved in relationships and the necessity of keeping my focus on hockey and my NHL dreams.

  Have there been girls I would have liked to get to know better?

  Yeah. A few.

  But I didn’t pursue them. I’ve done exactly what he wanted and kept women at a distance. I can’t say that he wasn’t right. I see what most of these girls are like. They want a piece of you because of who you are and where you’re going. I don’t need that.