a fight was a hell of a lot better than losing one.
“We’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said, holding the door open.
Bree brushed past him without so much as a glance his way. He let the door shut behind him and caught up with her at the bottom of the porch steps.
He went ahead, opened her car door, glad he’d given the boys at the rink the bags of candy, and waited for her to catch up. And waited. And waited.
If she walked any slower, she’d be moving back in time.
He hated that haircut. It was too short. He preferred it the way it’d been before, the dark strands long and loose to her shoulders. And what was with those clothes? Her pink sweatpants were snug, the bottoms dirty and frayed from dragging on the ground, her T-shirt huge, the hem reaching her midthigh.
He hoped like hell Maddie didn’t let his daughter dress like that for school.
Bree stopped a foot away from him, looking so morose and resigned to her fate, he almost told her to forget the whole thing. That she could just stay with Big Leo.
But it was past time she learned she didn’t always get what she wanted.
“We’re going to your grandparents’ house for dinner, maybe watch a movie,” he told her, “not your execution by firing squad.”
“I know,” she said and, if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a silent “duh” there at the end. She looked pretty damn regal, too, as she spoke. Shades of her mother again.
After she was in her seat and all buckled up for safety—which took her twice as long as it should have—her bag on her lap, he shut the door and went around to the driver’s side. He backed out of the driveway. Glanced at her before heading down the street.
He sucked at this, didn’t know how to deal with his daughter. What to do or say. Had no clue how to have a conversation with this child he’d helped create. He didn’t understand her. Couldn’t see even the slightest piece of himself in her, other than the color of her eyes. She was bright and sensitive. A straight-A student who always had her nose in a book while he’d barely made passing grades and couldn’t remember the last time he read something that wasn’t the newspaper or playbook.
“You have soccer practice tomorrow, huh?” he asked as he pulled up to a stop sign.
“Pops just told you that,” she said.
Right. Neil cleared his throat. “How often does your team practice?”
She slouched in her seat. “Every day except Sundays.”
“How’d today’s practice go?”
“Fine.”
“What position do you play?” He should probably already know that, but this was her first year playing soccer and he’d been busy winning the Stanley Cup and trying to get his sister’s life in order.
“Left midfielder.”
“That’s a good position.” He pulled ahead and signaled to take the on-ramp leading to the highway out of town. “Has your coach picked the starting lineup?” When she didn’t answer he glanced over. “Bree?”
She shrugged.
“You don’t know?” he asked. “Or he hasn’t picked?”
She gave another one of those mournful sighs, as if completely put out by his interest in her, in what she was doing. “He says he’ll let us know before our first game.”
He waited, wanting her to fill in the silence. Wanting her to take a turn in this conversation, to ask him some questions or tell him a bit about herself and her life without him having to pull it out of her.
Wanting her to take some of the slack off of him.
No such luck.
“When’s your first game?”
“Next Saturday,” she mumbled. He felt, more than saw, her look at him. Watching him. Sensed her having some internal debate. “But we have a scrimmage this Saturday. You could come. If you want to.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I would like to....” And he sounded as enthusiastic as if he was gearing up to have his eye poked out with a dull spoon. “Really. But I’m flying out Saturday morning.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe Grandpa Carl can record it, like he did that softball game last year.”
“Maybe.” There were no tears, no anger that he wouldn’t be able to see her play.
He was busy, he assured himself. He had to get back to Seattle and start getting ready for next season. Winning the Cup was only the beginning. He wanted that rush again, that sense of fulfillment of having made one of his lifelong goals a reality.