Unloved: A Novel (The Undone)

It’s the last week of school before Thanksgiving break. Most everyone is packed up or has gone home—half our professors canceled their last classes for the week, which means I’ve been riding a high.

Mostly, because of a pretty tutor propositioning me for a date.

We’ve met up only once this week, for our usual tutoring session—which was mostly filled with me trying to distract her. Fingers tracing the smooth skin of her thighs, whispering I like your skirt, princess, while I tried to get her to break the silent floor’s rules.

Other than that, she’s been busy. Between helping Sadie with her brothers and finishing her application for the internship she’s applying for, I haven’t wanted to distract her.

We lost our Harvard game over the weekend, which I am trying not to see as a reason we need Toren Kane—who, it turns out, is banned from playing in Harvard’s arena. I found the concerning footage of his last game there before we left—only after scrolling through far too many fan edits of the six-five defenseman.

A weekend without Toren worked like a vacation, but we’re back to our regular chirping now as he spins past me, clipping my shoulder.

“Heads up, superstar,” Toren snarls.

I look over at him, ready to chirp back, when I realize the taunt is a real warning—a group of suits are standing at the railing of the seats, with Coach Harris and the assistant coaches lingering. All their arms are crossed, like some strange group domination standoff.

I skate over, followed by Rhys and Bennett at my back—Holden sprinting over from the other side. Even Toren lingers a little closer—nearly my entire line together.

“I’ve told you three times, Mr. Fredderic, it’s a closed practice.”

My dad sneers but hides it quickly. “Just a few minutes of seeing Matthew play. I brought some scouts from—”

Coach Harris cuts him off. “Did he tell you folks that Matt Fredderic is a free agent? Because he’s signed with Dallas and doesn’t have any plans to change that. Right, Freddy?”noveldrama

“Right.”

My dad rolls his eyes. “I don’t think you’re the expert here. And, as Matthew’s future agent—”

“You’re not my agent.”

John Fredderic’s attention slides to me, his face turning red in barely concealed frustration. “Your mom’s not here.” His voice barely drops. “A goddamn bitch—”

My blood boils.

“Don’t fucking talk about my mom,” I snarl, stomach cramping. Heart aching.

It’s impossible to remove the memory of my mom from hockey. They’re intertwined, more than with my NHL player father.

Mom loved hockey—always had. When I was young, we’d gone to all the games together. But something had shifted. I remember her turning sadder, her expression less hopeful and happy with each game. Until the last one we attended.

My dad has another girl here, dressed in his jersey and sitting in our spot. She’s young, beautiful, but not like how my mom is beautiful.

Mom stands on the stairs only a few rows up from our reserved seats, frozen in her pretty black overalls and Dallas beanie with the fluffy bit on top that I’d asked to play with the whole drive in. I’m wearing my Dallas jersey with Dad’s number on it, staring at the ice with a bright smile as I try to catch his attention.

But he’s blowing kisses to the woman in our seats. His eyes flicker lightly over my mom with a slight hesitation before giving me a quick wave and turning back to warmups.

He said hi. But something about it feels wrong.

The feeling worsens as Mom pulls me back up the stairs too fast, tripping up them. We’re in the empty back hallway toward the exit when someone shouts for her.

“Elsie!”

I look over my shoulder at the man in the suit, squinting until I realize it’s Coach Ace.

He’s as tall as my dad, broader but dressed in a dark suit with a Dallas green tie. Dark hair, dark eyes, and dark caramel skin that makes my mom’s fair coloring look even lighter.

I tug on my mom’s arm a little, trying to make sure she can hear him yelling for her. She slows, but doesn’t stop, wiping her longs-leeve shirt under her eyes in a way that makes my stomach hurt as I look up at her.

“You okay, Mommy?”

“Yeah, baby,” she sniffs, trying to give me a smile, but it doesn’t look right. She’s so pretty, even with red eyes and flushed cheeks. She says I have her eyes, but hers are so much better, like spring grass under sparkling sunlight.

“Elsie, wait,” Coach Ace says, stopping right in front of us, smiling quickly at me as he pats my head. “Hey, champ.”

“Coach.” I smile. He’s always nice to me, always plays with me when I come to practice and Dad’s too busy. He tells me to call him Archer, or Ace, but sometimes I like calling him Coach—it makes me feel like I’m part of his team.

My mom is looking at Coach Ace like she’s going to cry, and something about her expression makes him heave a deep breath and wrap his arms around her in a tight hug.

“Archer.”

“I’m sorry, Els.” He holds her like I’ve seen moms and dads hold each other, his hands gentle. He kisses her forehead, petting her hair the way my mom does when my brain feels too loud.

I’ve never seen Dad touch Mom like that.

But I have seen Coach Ace hold Mom before, I remember. When Dad crashed the car and pulled me out of my car seat, I remember crying for her, but my dad was walking us away, leaving her there as he sat me down on the grass. And someone was screaming, running from behind us toward her.

Then Coach Archer was there, wrenching my mom’s door open and pulling her out, holding her in his arms.

I remember it most because he was crying hard, harder than I was, and he was shouting at my dad.

“Call 911!” he was screaming as he laid her on the grass like a sleeping princess, pressing on her chest hard. She’d been okay, but sometimes I still had nightmares about it. And now, with Archer holding my mom while she cries, I have that same hurting feeling that makes me use both my hands to press hard on my chest. Like I can make it stop.

Make it stop.

I shake my head, feeling the tears forming. Make it stop. Make it stop.

“Fuck you” is all I can say, my voice torn and broken.

“You wouldn’t know what was good for you if it slapped you in the face, son,” he growls.

“Get out of my fucking rink.”

Everyone freezes at the slightly raised, threatening tone from Coach Harris.

“Now,” he shouts, and I feel my team’s response.

The men in suits behind my father are already leaving, and I can’t stop myself from smiling sardonically and waving my gloved fingers to them as they scurry up the stairs and out.

My dad, however, doesn’t move.

“William—”

“Harris to you, asshole,” he snaps. “You’re banned. No games, no practices, nothing that involves you stepping foot in this arena. Do you understand me?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not at all. Hell, I’d ban you from campus if possible. And if I find you sniffing around the Dallas GM or anywhere near Freddy’s contract, I’ll find you and deal with you myself. Get the fuck out of here.”

“Do you know who I am?” The cliché slips from my father’s mouth a little shakily.

“A washed-up has-been who never touched a Stanley Cup? Yeah, I know who you are. How many years have you been punishing Freddy for being better than you?”

My stomach drops.

I wait for the embarrassment to completely overtake me, my skates slipping and sliding on the ice beneath me before someone—Rhys, I realize—grabs me across the middle of my back. He gives me a quick nod, a check-in to ask if I’m good, all while keeping his arm around me.

I nod back, huffing a little breath. Thankfully my cage covers some of the redness of my cheeks; thankful even more for the pillar of strength Rhys personifies.

“That’s what I thought.” Coach Harris nods when my dad doesn’t answer him. “Now get the hell out of my arena.”

This time, John Fredderic does something I’ve never seen him do before: listen and follow directions.

Bennett and Toren, the giants of the Wolves, stand like sentries on either side of our core group, the rest of the team that was practicing before all watching from the sides of the rink. I would bet my entire scholarship and contract deal with Dallas that it’s because of Coach Harris’s shouting—the man never raises his voice.

The entire rink is silent enough that the sound of the door closing at the top of the stairs seems to reverberate.

“Practice is over. See you all tomorrow for the last one before Thanksgiving. Just because we don’t have a game this weekend doesn’t mean we’re resting.” He claps his hands twice and everyone sets into motion, scattering toward the tunnels in small, quiet clusters.

“And, Freddy?” he calls before I can even unstick my skate from the ice enough to turn.

“Yeah?”

“Keep the head up, kid.”

His voice is so gentle it reminds me of Archer, and I close my eyes, if only to bask in the warmth of it for one more moment.

Rhys and Bennett stay with me on the ice as everyone else exits, both quietly offering support. But it’s Rhys who finally says, “Your dad’s an asshole, Freddy.”

I snort and nod at him. “Yeah. I can’t say the same, Rhysie.”

Bennett raises his hand and pulls off his mask, shaking out his curls with a smile. “Don’t look at me. Adam Reiner would never.”

There’s a slight chuckle among the three of us before I slap them both on the back to start toward the tunnel.

“C’mon, slackers. I’ve got places to be and people to see,” I say, my signature Freddy smirk back in place.

The truth is nothing my father said today can fully stop the soaring feeling within. Coach Harris’s defense of me only ignited me further.

I’ve got a date with Rosalie Shariff. I’m beaming inside, even if it’s slightly dimmed with a pinch of anxiety. I’m determined to be good enough.