Hidden Scars: An MM Hockey Romance (Darby U Hockey Boys Book 1)
Hidden Scars: Prologue

THE PLASTIC SHEETING UNDER me crinkles as I breathe, refusing to let my body do any more than lay there and take it. The sharp inhale of breath and the clenching of my jaw is the only indication he gets that he’s bothering me.

The scalpel pierces the skin of my abdomen while I lie on our dining room table and stare at the intricate pattern on the ceiling’s whitewashed copper tiles. I know there’s exactly fifty-two squares up there. I’ve laid on this fucking table more times than I can count. Probably more times than I’ve sat here to eat since this is the formal dining room; we don’t normally eat in here. No, this room is only used when Father is trying to impress someone.

Blood trickles down my side and onto the plastic. The burn as he slices through my skin in that controlled, smooth motion has my body dampening with sweat and starting to tremble. I close my eyes to focus on my breathing, slowing my heart rate, and convincing my muscles to relax.

“Why are we here, Charles?” My father’s matter of fact voice interrupts my breathing, just like he knew it would.

Because you’re a sadistic fuck who gets off on cutting up your kid for some perceived mistake that somehow brings shame to our name?

The cutting motion stops, though the scalpel is still in my skin, and Father looks at me. I don’t need to look at him to know it. I hesitated too long so now we have to drag this out. What I wouldn’t give for a hit of fentanyl or morphine right now, but since I’m drug tested regularly and have no reason for them, I can’t have them. The privilege of pain meds was taken away years ago, I had to have been thirteen or so the last time he gave me any. But I’m not shackled to the table, so that’s something, I guess.

Who knew being the son of a world-renowned plastic surgeon came with being his guinea pig? Lucky fucking me. Why couldn’t he just hit me like a normal abusive father? Oh, that’s right, because he can’t risk damaging his hands. My corrections are all about him, after all.

“Charles!” Father barks my name and I force myself to refocus on his question. What did I do this time? Nothing. I’m being forced to move to fucking Colorado instead of attending Boston University to play hockey. Could I have told him to fuck off? Sure, but then my naïve little sister becomes the new victim. She’s too sweet, this would destroy her. That innocent girl is the only bright spot in my life. She must be protected. So here I am, on his fucking table once again, adding to the scars that already litter my body. This is the last time I’ll lie on this table in this room. Next time I’ll have the distraction of a new ceiling to study, and unfamiliar sounds. Though, the last few years I’ve seen more of the inside of the Danbury condo than this one in Boston. I didn’t stray far from town when I played for the Hat Tricks in Connecticut, so Father leased a place for me to be called back to when I needed correction.

“As a reminder of what will happen if I step out of line.” My voice is flat, devoid of all emotion. He continues with his cut, it feels about three inches long, between my ribs and hip bone. The scalpel is gone and my body sags in relief. I know I’m not done, he’s going to stitch it up, but for a second the air in my lungs flutters and my eyes threaten to roll back as I get light headed.

I will not panic. I will not panic. I will not panic.

My body tries to take over, to allow instinct to kick in and protect me, but I can’t let it go. I can’t get out of my head. Not yet. That comes later. Much, much later.

The sting of the suture needle makes me hiss, the following slide of the thread through my skin has my body tensing back up. All my muscles tighten as I feel the sutures being placed. It’s the worst part. The tug on my skin and the feel of the thread pulling through my flesh turns my stomach.

Bile inches up my throat and saliva pools in my mouth. I gag at the next stitch, my stomach clenching and arching my back just a little.

“Charles. Control.” My father doesn’t look up, just snaps the words at me. He has always expected perfection from me. Maybe because I’m his spitting image? I get confused for him often, despite being a hockey player and obviously much bigger than him. Do I need a face tattoo for people to stop comparing me to him? He’s twenty years older than me, but you’d never guess it. He looks to be much closer to my age. Like a brother.

I manage to get through the rest of the stitches without throwing up and he cleans up the blood, puts a bandage over the wound, and I’m allowed to roll off the table. My shirt is folded neatly on the seat of a chair. Without pulling the chair out, I grab the shirt and slide it on, feeling better with my scars covered. We must appear perfect. Always. Hide the dirty truths behind smiles.

Dad cleans up his supplies while I deal with sanitizing the plastic sheet, folding it, and putting it away. Our ritual after the deed is done. It’s happened so many times over the years I don’t think about it anymore, my body just does it.

Once the dining room is put back to rights, Father walks me to the door and pulls me into a hug like he always does.

“Thank you,” the words tumble from my lips without thought because that is what is expected of me. It’s what I’ve been trained to do.

“If you would behave, I wouldn’t have to hurt you, Charles. I just want what is best for you. You will be an NHL star if you keep your focus. I do this for you.” His words would sound warm and even encouraging to an outside observer, but to me, they’re contriving. He’s trying to show everyone what a great dad he is while justifying the abuse. He’s making me better, right?

The worst part? I don’t know how to make it stop. Over the years, a few have tried to help but they’ve either been intimidated into silence or disappeared. Gone. And I think the first person who tried to help me was my mother.

It wasn’t long after Lily went to kindergarten that our house was broken into, leaving us motherless. I came home from school to replace police and a medical examiner at our house. This house.

Now I’m leaving what few memories I have of her, leaving the Division One school I picked to play college hockey at to scramble to get another offer from a school in Denver because that’s what is closest to him. I could take my pick of schools. I’m one of the best defensive players in junior hockey history, soon to be college history, yet I’m expected to pick up and switch my plans at the drop of a hat.

Make miracles happen while dancing with the devil.