“Oh yeah, right . . . well, see ya.” And with that, I sneak off toward the back, away from where my dad is talking to who I can only assume are a few fans. I slip behind the bar and out of sight.
I lean against the wall behind me and take a few deep breaths.
Ugh, the biggest cock block of all time. But if my dad caught us kissing, he would have not only killed me . . . but he would have murdered Levi.
Little less than a year later . . .
I knockon my dad’s office door and take a bite of my bologna sandwich. Whoever’s bologna this is, it’s freaking good. It’s my third one this week.
“Come in,” my dad’s raspy voice says, so I open the door and walk right in, making sure to shut the door behind me. When he looks up at me, he sets his tablet to the side and leans back in his chair. “What the hell are you eating?” he asks in greeting.
“A sandwich. Bologna. Want to try?”
“Christ, no.”
I shrug and take a bite. His loss.
You’d think winning last season would have lightened the old man up, but according to the scowl in his brow and the distaste in his expression, nothing is ever good enough for this man. I chalk it up to the new season and the pressure on his shoulders for another win. “You beckoned?”
“Yes, I did.” He leans forward now, his chair creaking beneath his large body. His bald head is shinier than ever under these lights, and the muscles in his traps look like they’re about to explode out of his shirt from the tension set in his shoulders. “I want to know why I just got a call from your college admissions saying they’re returning the check I made out to them for your tuition this semester?”
Crap.
Freaking admissions. They couldn’t give me the weekend to figure out what to say to my father? They had to contact him right away?
“They called you, huh?” I ask, going for casual.
“Yes, they fucking called me,” Dad nearly roars. “What the fuck is going on, Wylie?”
Here’s the thing, when you have a father who has been a single dad for a better part of two decades, he tends to be very cranky, very short-tempered, and very demanding of perfection. I knew he wouldn’t take this well, but he’s already at level nine out of ten, and ten is when he blows a gasket.
Trust me when I say you don’t want to see that happen.
I’ve seen it, and the fire in his eyes will make your legs quiver with fear.
Clearing my throat, I rest my sandwich on the edge of my dad’s desk. “Well, I planned on telling you after your game tonight, but since they called, I guess I’m going to have to let you in on what’s happening.”
“Damn right, you’re going to let me in on what’s happening. Tell me what’s going on, Wylie. Now.”
Yup, he’s fuming.
Tread carefully.
Still trying to be casual because maybe my soothing voice will calm him, I say, “You see, I’ve been doing some thinking for almost a year now, ever since last semester to be precise, and well, I sort of haven’t been having much fun at school—”
“School isn’t supposed to be fun, Wylie. School is supposed to be educating.”
“Yup, hear you on that one, Dad,” I say, pointing at him. “Love education, but, uh . . . well, I don’t foresee myself continuing down the road I’ve been studying.”
“The road as in business?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And what road would you like to continue down exactly?” he asks, his nostrils flaring—a sure-fire sign that the steam inside him brewing like a tea kettle is ready to spout out of his ears.
Knowing there’s no easy way of putting this, I go with the facts. “I’m not finishing my business degree. I’m pursuing independent graphic art instead.”
“What?” Dad roars, spittle flying from his mouth as he stares me down. “No, not happening.” He shakes his head and picks up his phone. “Miranda, transfer me to the University of Vancouver’s admissions.”
“Dad.” I lean forward to grab the phone from him, but he leans back. “I’m not going back there.”
“The fuck you’re not,” he says. “You have one year left. Finish it out, take your degree, and do something worthwhile.”
“This is worthwhile, Dad.”
He hangs up the phone with a slam. “Graphic art? You think graphic art is worthwhile? What are you going to do? Dream up logos for the local shipping yard? Jesus Christ, Wylie. This is your future you’re talking about, not some random idea that came into your head one lonely night.”
Growing frustrated with my dad’s ignorance—because the man does not know me at all—I say, “It’s not a random idea that’s come to my mind. I’ve been going to classes at night for a year and am really good at it. I’ve been paid a few times.”
“Paid a few times? Well, then.” Dad wipes his hands and leans back in his chair. “Then, by all means, let me roll out the red carpet. You’ve been paid ‘a few times,’ so we might as well start looking into private jets.”
My expression falls flat as I stare at the man I hold in high regard. The man who raised me and put me first in every aspect, even over hockey. When my mom left him and said she didn’t want to take me with her, he stepped in and gave me a memorable childhood. Is he controlling? Yes. Does he think he can run my life? Yes. But do I love him . . . yes, although he’s making it hard at the moment.
“Dad, this means a lot to me, and I think if you just let me show you what I can do, you will believe that I can do something great with this.”
“I have no doubt you have talent,” he says. “You’re my daughter, after all, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re throwing away a stable future.”
“A master’s in business doesn’t provide a stable future. A master’s in business is like throwing a coin in a pond and hoping someone makes your wish come true. I don’t want a desk job, something that bores me day in and day out, and over the past year, I’ve come to realize that’s exactly what will happen if I continue moving forward with this degree. I don’t want to waste my time or your money.”
“You’ve already wasted my money if you cut out a year before you graduate.” He runs his hand over his smooth head. “I don’t see why you can’t just finish the year, graduate, and then pursue whatever it is you want to pursue.”
“Because it’s a waste of time, Dad. It’s a giant waste of my time, and you, out of everyone, know how time is an invaluable commodity. You never get it back. So why would I waste a year of my life to appease someone else?”
“Because I’m your father, and I’ve paid for your college until now. I’ve housed you, fed you, taken care of you.”
“And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Dad, but I’m twenty-two, and I think I should be able to start making my own decisions, don’t you?”
“No,” he says flatly, not even considering it.
I sigh heavily. “Well, I don’t know what else to say other than I’m not going back to school, so if you want to pay for my classes, by all means, pay for them, but I won’t attend.”
He does not take too kindly to that because his jaw tenses, then works back and forth as his eyes remain fixed on me.
That look would have scared me right out of my shoes a few years ago. I would have apologized and told my dad I’d do whatever he wanted. But over the past few years, I’ve grown a thicker skin. I’ve started to realize what I want—well, at least what I don’t want. The direction of my graphic art aspirations is still a little foggy, but I do know I want to be creative.
“Fine,” he says while placing his hands on the desk. “If that’s what you want, then you can cut out of school.” Why do I feel like that’s not the end of the conversation? There’s no way he’s going to let me just quit school, not with the anger boiling inside him.
“Fine?” I ask. “I can pursue graphic art?”
“Yes, of course. If anything, I want you to be happy.”
I don’t believe that for a second. He has something up his sleeve.
“But . . .”
And there it is.
“Since I paid for your five years of college, I believe you owe me something.”
I sigh heavily, knowing it was too good to be true.
“And what do I owe you, Dad?”
He folds his hands together. “Here’s the deal. I don’t think you’re making a smart choice.”
“That much is obvious,” I say as I fold my arms across my chest.
“Therefore,” he continues, “I think you owe me one semester.”
“Of school? What’s the point—”
“Of working.”
“Working?” I ask.
“Yes, working. Working a job that you might possibly have to work in order to pay the bills while you attempt to pursue this graphic art thing. I’ll call admissions, tell them you’re taking a semester off and to expect you back at the beginning of the year. Unless you can prove to me that you can hold a steady job and make headway on your graphic art desires.”
“Where’s the catch?” I ask.
“There is no catch,” he says.
“Dad, come on, there has to be a catch.”
“Well, you will have to be financially independent from me.”
Boom. Yep. The catch.
It’s not that I need my dad’s money. I could survive on my own. I have a few thousand saved from the few jobs I’ve taken. I could find a job and make a living, prove to him that I don’t need his money or a stupid master’s in business to make my life work.
I shrug. “That’s fine.”
“Cut off from me completely,” he says. “No housing. No car. No insurance. Nothing.”
No housing?
Well, when he puts it like that, I might have to get a pedicure so I can start selling feet pics. Housing in Vancouver is expensive, and I don’t have THAT much money saved.
“Dad, it’s really expensive to live here in Vancouver.”
“Not if you have a well-paying job that you earned through a solid college education.” He smiles at me with an I got you look. “Don’t worry, though,” he continues. “I’ll give you a week to get on your feet. I won’t kick you out immediately, and I’ll hook you up with a job that will resemble what you might have to do to make your dreams come true.”
“And what sort of job is that?” I ask, knowing full well he’s probably setting this up for me to fail.
“What all other struggling creatives do . . . a personal assistant.” He smiles, and I swear a gleam beams off his tooth.
I see what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to scare me. Make me think that I can’t do this. That my life will be filled with retrieving coffees and returning clothes while trying to sneak in some personal time to be creative when I get a moment, but little does he know, I’m just as stubborn as he is because if he cuts me off, makes me move out, creating a scenario where I’m bound to fail, it only makes me want to prove him wrong that much more.
So with my chin held high and my confidence brimming with I can do this, I lend out my hand and say, “Deal.” Surprised, he takes my hand in his and gives it a shake. “Now, who will I be assisting?”
Chapter Two
LEVI
“Who the fuck keeps eating my bologna?” I yell as I toss the empty bologna bag in the trash. “And who leaves the empty deli bag in the fridge? That’s fucking rude.” I turn toward OC who is sitting at one of the tables in the cafeteria, eating a protein bar. “Is it you?”
His nose crinkles. “Dude, I know better by now not to touch your bologna.”
“Please tell me when you say bologna, you’re talking about Posey’s disgusting sandwiches and not something else?” Silas asks as he walks into the cafeteria and grabs an electrolyte drink.
Silas Taters is one of my very best friends and our right wing. A quick motherfucker, he practically tiptoes across the ice, nearly outskating all our opponents. He was a grumpy asshole for a bit before he met Ollie, who is now the most important person in his life. He lives and breathes to see her, and they’re together, thanks to me.
And before you get confused and ask who the other best friends are, let me just give you a quick rundown.
Pacey Lawes is our goalie. Ten out of ten in the stretching department, he can do the splits without cracking his nuts in half. He’s probably the most levelheaded out of all of us and is currently engaged to Winnie. They’re in love and happy . . . because of me.
Then there’s Eli Hornsby. Our other defenseman besides myself. He has the prettiest goddamn face you will ever lay your eyes on, likes green apples and French silk pie, and got Pacey’s sister, Penny, pregnant. They had a baby, named him Holden, and now they’re living happily ever after and in love . . . because of me.