Page 44 of Pucking Forbidden

Wait…this isn’t right. Mom just left. Lucas should still be here…

“Where is he?” I demand to know, my voice shifting from a little kid’s. “Where’s Lucas?”

Dad doesn't answer. He’s sitting perfectly still in the deepest shadows of the room, the dim light from the hallway barely catching the harsh, jagged angles of his face. He’s motionless, save for a single bead of sweat that rolls down the side of his temple. His eyes cut straight through the gloom, cold, unblinking, and sharp as shattered glass.

He’s a ticking bomb, the lethal, barely contained violence vibrating off him.

My eyes dart downward, tracking the movement of his hands. I watch, my throat going dry, as his fingers curl into massive, white-knuckled fists. A cold sweat breaks across my own skin. I know that exact movement. I know what happens the second that fragile thread of his control snaps.

My body throbs in phantom sympathy, my ribs aching under my shirt as my mind flashes to the deep, purple-black bruises still painting my torso from the last time his control burst.

He stands up, rising out of the shadows like a towering, inescapable nightmare. I’m painfully aware that Lucas is gone. Mom is gone. It is just the two of us now.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he snarls, stepping closer.

“I’m not,” I assure him, moving back a step, my body trembling. “I’m not going anywhere, I swear.”

“That’s fucking right!” he bellows. He lunges forward, his face contorted into something monstrous as he points a thick, shaking finger at my chest. “You know she wouldn't have walked out if it wasn't for you! You’re the reason she’s gone! You! Get the fuck over here!”

The first hit comes fast, his fist slamming into my cheek, and the pain is sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs. I fly to the ground, but I know that’s not the end of it. More’s coming. There’s always more.

I brace for the next impact…curling up into a ball as tears flow down my cheeks…

My eyes snap open, my breath coming too fast. My chest feels tight, like I’ve just sprinted a mile.

The room is dark and silent, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m alone.

It was just a dream. I’m in my apartment, on my couch, safe and sound. Dad is gone. He can’t hurt me anymore.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face.

I check my phone, and the clock reads 4:07 a.m.

I sit up, put my elbows on my knees, and drop my head forward.

“It’s fine,” I say under my breath. “It’s done. You’re fine.”

My voice sounds rough in the quiet. Fuck, it’s been a while since I’ve had a dream like that. I force my breathing to slow. My nerves start to calm, and the shaking in my hands stops.

I never belonged in that house, with my family. Mom and Lucas left, and it was just Dad…and he was convinced I had ruined his life.

Mrs. Clay never made me feel that way. She was always there, and she always gave a shit. Something settles in my chest, and I realize I know what I have to do. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have hockey or anything close to this life.

When I was a kid trapped under my father’s roof, I had zero control. I was entirely at the mercy of a monster's volatile temper, forced to sit in the dark and wait for the fists to fly. I survived by learning how to anticipate the blows, how to shrink myself down until I was invisible.

Hockey changed all of that. On the ice, I found my power. I found my team. Every drop of sweat, every broken bone, every brutal morning skate was a way of carving out my own destiny. For the last few years, I’ve finally been the one steering my own ship.

Until now.

With this new hotshot trade rolling into town to take my spot on the line, that old, suffocating feeling is clawing its way back up my throat. I’m being shoved back into the dark.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my laptop and open my email. My fingers hesitate over the keys a moment before I start typing.

Subject: Confidential Follow-Up / Trade Inquiry

Coach Williams,

I’m reaching out regarding your earlier emails inquiring about my interest in discussing a transfer. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m ready to hear the details of what joining The Ironclads would look like for me.