Chapter 5
Wes
The college sprang for an executive suite at TD Garden, a fancy-ass private box with a gleaming floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the arena below. The celebratory bottles of Dom that had been delivered, however, were courtesy of my shithead father. The prick is riding the high of our win as if it had been him out on the ice this afternoon—I even heard him bragging to one of his buddies that he was the one who taught me that triple-deke move I used to score the winning goal in the third period.
Bullshit. The old man hadn’t taught me a damn thing. From the moment I was able to hold a hockey stick, he threw money at coaches and trainers and anyone else who could groom his only son into a superstar. The only credit I’m willing to give him is that he’s really f*****g good
