Chapter 21 Chapter Twenty-One
Danny POV
It was game day.
I woke up with my stomach tied up in knots, the familiar pre-game anxiety mixing with something else—anticipation, maybe, or dread.
It was hard to tell the difference right now.
The championship game was in six hours. Scouts from three different NHL teams would be in the stands. Coach had been running us into the ground all month and drilling plays until we could execute them in our sleep just for this very moment.
Everything I'd worked for since freshman year came down to today.
No pressure.
I was in the middle of my pre-game routine—coffee, protein shake, visualization exercises that my sports psychologist had taught me—when my phone rang.
Mom's photo flashed on the screen, and I felt my chest tighten. I could let it ring and ignore it but then they'd keep calling all day and I wouldn't be able to stand that.
I answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Mom."
"Danny!" Her voice was bright, warm, exactly what I needed to hear.
"Good morning, sweetheart. Are you ready for your big day?" she called
"As ready as I'll ever be," I said, managing a smile even though she couldn't see it.
"Where are you guys? Still in the city?"
"Actually," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice,
"We're in town. Got in last night. Your father wanted to surprise you."
My stomach dropped.
"You're here? In New York?" I asked
"At the hotel downtown. The nice one near campus." There was a rustling sound, like she was moving around.
“Why did you guys rush over” I asked and she hummed
"We wanted to watch you play, of course. This is the scouting game, Danny. We couldn't miss it."
Of course they couldn't, because God forbid Trent Glover miss an opportunity to evaluate his son's performance on the ice.
Before I could respond, I heard my father's voice in the background, muffled but insistent.
Mom sighed softly.
"Your father wants to talk to you," she said, her tone apologetic.
"Great," I muttered.
"I heard that," Dad's voice came through, sharp and clear. He must have taken the phone from Mom.
"And you can lose the attitude, Daniel. We drove six hours to support you."
I bit back the response that wanted to come out—that he'd never missed a game in four years, so this wasn't exactly a special occasion.
That his version of "support" usually involved a detailed critique of everything I'd done wrong.
"Thanks for coming," I said instead, keeping my voice neutral.
"The scouts will be there today," Dad continued, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Henderson from the Rangers, Mitchell from the Bruins, and I heard the Blackhawks might send someone too. This is your chance to make an impression, Danny. To show them you're ready for the next level."
"I know, Dad."
"Do you?" His tone sharpened.
"Because I've been hearing some concerning things. Your coach mentioned there's been some team drama. Something about you and another player having issues?"
Of course Coach had mentioned Marco,probably in some context about team leadership challenges or whatever diplomatic way he'd phrased it.
"It's handled," I said tightly.
"Handled," Dad repeated, skeptical.
"Danny, you can't afford distractions right now. Not when everything you've worked for is on the line. If there's a problem with a teammate—"
"I said it's handled." I gritted, my voice came out harder than I'd intended.
Silence on the other end, then he mumbled
"We're having dinner after the game. You, me, and your mother. No arguments."
It wasn't a question. It never was with my Dad.
"Jonathan," I heard Mom's voice again, sounding exasperated.
"Give me the phone."
More rustling, then Mom was back.
"Ignore your father. He's just nervous. You know how he gets it."
Yeah, I knew exactly how he got . Controlling. Demanding. Unable to separate his own terminated NHL dreams from my actual life.
My father was a hockey hero, losing his leg in a fight hadn't changed that but it wasn't enough for Trent Glover, his son also had to be the best .
"Dinner sounds nice, Mom," I said finally to appease her because at least she was trying.
"Wonderful!" She sounded genuinely pleased.
"We'll take you somewhere nice. Celebrate your win."
"What if we lose?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"You won't," Mom said with absolute certainty.
"You're a Glover. We don't lose important games."
Right. Because that wasn't pressure at all.
We talked for a few more minutes—Mom asking about my classes, my apartment, whether I was eating enough vegetables—before she finally let me go.
I hung up feeling more tense than before the call, which was pretty much standard operating procedure when it came to my father.
I sat on my bed, staring at my phone. My carefully constructed pre-game routine was shot to hell now, my mind racing with thoughts of scouts and expectations and my father's disappointed face if I didn't perform perfectly.
This was exactly why I'd never told them about Vanessa, because the second my father found out I was in a relationship, he'd find a way to make it about hockey.
About how it was distracting me, affecting my performance, jeopardizing my future. He'd done it before, back in high school, when I'd dated Sarah Mitchell, hadn't stopped criticizing that relationship until we broke up. So I didn't have any hope he would do anything different this time. I glanced at the time. Four hours until game time. I needed to get to the rink, start warming up, get my head in the game.
But first...
I pulled up my messages and found Vanessa's contact.
We hadn't texted since she'd last tried to return my notebook to me. I typed out a message, then deleted it. Typed another one, deleted that too.
God, when did I become this person?
Some guy who agonized over text messages like a teenager asking someone to prom?
Finally, I settled on something simple.
I have a big game today. I know you're not big on hockey, but... would you want to come watch?
I stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send and then I immediately wanted to take it back.
I was an idiot, inviting her to the place that she hated the most.
My phone buzzed almost immediately, and my heart jumped. But it was just Dylan in the group chat.
Henry: GAME DAY BABY! Who's ready to crush some dreams?
The Booker twins responded with a string of flexing emojis. Ethan sent a gif of someone smashing through a wall.
Even Marco—who'd been mostly silent in the chat since our fight sent a simple–Let's go.
I was about to respond when another message came through. This one from Vanessa.
My breath caught.
I don't know if I can handle being there again. The last time was...
She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to. The last time she'd nearly had a full breakdown.
I typed quickly
I get it. I totally understand. Just thought I'd ask.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. I watched them like my life depended on it.
Do you have my notebook?
A lifeline. She was giving me an opening.
Yeah, still have it. I've been keeping it safe, I thought I might give it back to you after the game.
What time does the game start?
She asked.
Seven. But you don't have to stay for the whole thing. Could just come by before, grab the notebook...
I was giving her an out. Making it easy for her to say no to watching the game while still getting what she needed.
Where would I meet you?
My pulse jumped. Player entrance. South side of the rink. I can come out before warm-ups.
Okay.
Just okay, nothing else. But it was something.
Thanks, Vanessa. Really.
She didn't respond to that, and I didn't push. I'd gotten more than I'd expected—a commitment to see me, even if it was just for two minutes in a parking lot.
I set my phone down and tried to refocus on my pre-game routine,if she came maybe I could convince her to stay.
Make her see that hockey wasn't just a bad thing, maybe I was delusional and she'd grab her notebook and bolt before I could even say hello.
Either way, I had a game to win first.
I grabbed my gear bag and headed for the door, running through plays in my head, trying to visualize perfect execution.
Trying not to think about my father in the stands, watching with his critical eye or the scouts with clipboards, evaluating my every move.
Trying not to think about green eyes and wild ginger hair and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she'd decide to stay and watch me play.
My phone buzzed one more time as I reached my car. I pulled it out, expecting another group chat message.
But it was from Vanessa.
Good luck today.
Three words.
But I stared at them like they were a Shakespeare sonnet, a smile spreading across my face despite all the pressure and anxiety and fear churning in my gut.
She wished me good luck.
That was enough to make me feel like I could take on the world.
I drove to the rink with a playlist of pump-up songs blasting, in six hours, I had a game to win.