“Only it may be your goalie’s kid,” says Dad with a frown. I round on him again. We’re equally matched in height, but I’ve got over fifty pounds of muscle on him. He may swing a few golf clubs every month, but I’m a starting NHL defenseman. I will pound him into this mauve wall right against that stupid fucking picture of sleeping bunnies in a basket. “My goalie has a fucking name, and I wanna hear you to say it.”
