“Daryl played the ‘I’m going to take care of your girl when you’re gone’ card,” Dad says with a snort. “We weren’t close friends. I didn’t like him, but I tolerated him. Had to, because we were teammates. Your mother, well, she had a different opinion. She thought he was sweet, and she accused me of being paranoid for distrusting him. But I played with the fucker for three years, so I knew what kind of man he was. An arrogant prick, not above playing dirty, and damn sneaky—he was a ladies’ man, but around your mother he acted like a choirboy.”

Dad shoves a forkful of eggs in his mouth, chews, swallows, and then reaches for his coffee. “You know, it’s not even that he made a play for your mother that bothers me. He could’ve been upfront about his intentions. Could’ve said, ‘Hey, I’m attracted to Marie and I’m going to tell her.’ Admittedly, I would’ve laughed in his face, but then I would’ve said, ‘Sure, go ahead.’” My father smirks. “I never had any doubt about your mother’s feelings for me.”

Must be nice, I want to say. I hadn’t doubted Jake’s feelings, either, and he turned around and dumped me.

“But he went about it in an underhanded way. You don’t have to love all your teammates, but at least respect them. He cozied up to your mother, planned study sessions, platonic outings. And one night they went out with a group of friends, and he walked her home. Escorted her all the way upstairs and then tried to paw her outside her apartment door.”

“Please tell me he stopped when she said no.”

Dad nods. “He stopped. But not before accusing her of leading him on, using him to help her study, taking his time and affection but then denying him what I guess he believed was his right. Finished off the speech by telling her she needed a real man to satisfy her.”

“Gross.”

“When I found out, I drove all the way to New Haven from Burlington—I was a skating coach at the University of Vermont at that point. Took me four hours to get there, but it was worth it to hear the sound of bone crunching when I slammed my fist into Pedersen’s jaw.”

“Go Dad.”

“She was my girl. You don’t disrespect a man’s girl.” Dad shrugs. “He didn’t go near her again after that.”

“And that was like twenty years ago and you still hate him.”

“So?” He pops up a cucumber slice into his mouth.

“So don’t you think maybe it’s time to bury the hatchet?”

“Can I bury it in his skull?”

I snort. “I was thinking the metaphorical hatchet. Letting bygones be bygones and all that. You got Mom, had a beautiful daughter—” I wink at him. “You’re a three-time championship-winning coach. And he’s a bitter prick. Why not let it go?”

“Because I don’t like the man and that’s never gonna change. Sometimes people don’t like each other, Peaches. Get used to that, because it’s a fact of life. People are going to hate you because you hurt them, either intentionally or inadvertently. People will hate you because they don’t like your personality, or the way you talk, or whatever superficial bullshit some idiot can’t get past. There’ll be people who just hate you on sight for no good reason—those ones are strange.” He sips his coffee. “But at the end of the day, that’s the way it is. Not everyone is going to like you, and you’re not going to like everybody. I don’t like that man. I don’t need to change that.”

“Fair enough.” I gaze down at my plate as the thought of Jake once again creeps into my brain.

“I’m sorry about you and Connelly.” I guess my sad expression and the reason for it weren’t hard to decode.

“Since when? You told me to stay away from him, remember? Compared him to Eric.”

“That comparison might have been made in anger,” Dad grumbles. “Connelly has a good head on his shoulders from what I’ve heard.”

“I told you so. He’s the one who helped me rescue Eric.”

“Speaking of that, have you heard from Eric since then?”

“No, and I have a feeling I won’t.”

“Good. Is there a way to forward all his calls to you to my phone? So I can give him a piece of my mind?”

“Dad.” The murderous glint in his eyes is a tad worrisome. “You’re not allowed to give him the Liam Neeson speech. Let’s just hope his mom convinced him to go to rehab. Maybe winding up in someone’s bushes was the wakeup call he needed.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

I’m not, either. It’s been five years since high school and Eric still hasn’t even acknowledged that he has a problem.

“But I am sorry about Connelly,” Dad says, steering the subject back to Jake.

“Me too.”

He lifts a brow. “Thought you said it wouldn’t go anywhere.”

“I did. That’s what I told him, anyway. He dumped me and I pretended not to care,” I confess. “I didn’t want him to see how upset I was. But I was upset. He’s the first guy I’ve met in a long time who I could see myself being in a relationship with. He was good for me, and he was good to me. Like, when I was nervous about coming home to talk to you, he lent me his—oh my fucking God!”

“Language,” Dad scolds.

I’m already flying out of my seat. I forgot about Jake’s bracelet. I forgot to give it back to him, dammit.

After my talk with Dad the other night, I went upstairs to take a shower and I remember shoving the bracelet in my nightstand. And I spent most of Thursday and Friday at Summer’s, because even though my basement is ready, I haven’t moved back in yet because I didn’t want to be alone. I’m afraid that if I’m alone I’ll just be thinking about Jake all the time. I completely pushed him out of my head these past few days. And since he wasn’t on my mind, neither was his good-luck charm.

He’s playing Michigan today. Crap. Why hasn’t he called or texted? Hasn’t he noticed he doesn’t have his bracelet?

“I have Jake’s good-luck charm,” I blurt out. “He gave it to me before we broke up and I totally forgot to give it back, and he’s playing today in Worcester!”

Coaching hockey players for more than two decades, my father has undoubtedly encountered a crapload of superstitions, charms, and rituals. So I’m not surprised when his expression turns grave. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.” I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “What should I do?”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” He sets down his cup and scrapes his chair back.

“What are you doing?”

“You don’t mess with a man’s ritual, Brenna.” Dad checks his watch. “What time does the game start?”

I’m already looking it up on my phone. “One thirty,” I say a moment later.

Right now it’s eleven. It’ll take an hour or so to get to Worcester. Relief fills my chest. I can make it there long before the game starts.

Dad confirms my thoughts. “If we leave now, we’ll get there with plenty of time to spare.”