Page 117 of Wyatt

Even worried? Huh. Wyatt had never thought about that possibility.

“But most of all, I just wanted to prove to the coaches that I had what it took to be a Blue Ox. And I wanted to prove to my father, if he was out there watching, that I didn’t need him. That I was just fine without him.”

He looked at Wyatt now. “But see…Ididneed a father. And it wasn’t until Eden pointed out that I had a heavenly Father who loved me—who I didn’t need to prove anything to—that I started to realize that God had actually made me the person I was in order to rescue me and my mom from our lives. He was my good, good Father.”

“I had a father, Coach.”

“If I remember correctly, your father had just died when you showed up at the Blue Ox arena.”

Wyatt stared at the ceiling. Silence pulsed between them. “My father didn’t care about hockey. He only came to one game my entire life. I don’t think he wanted me to play hockey at all.”

Jace had suddenly decided to clam up.

Fine. “You know, when he died, he’d already left something for everyone else? He’d written it down, like he might be expecting to die or something.” Wyatt slid off the table. His hips had warmed, the swelling down. “He left Reuben his Pulaski—it’s this fire ax he used to have when he was a hotshot. And Knox got his class ring. Tate got his badge from when he was a range cop, and Ford got his letter jacket. You know what I got?” Wyatt slid his feet into his flip-flops. “HisBible.Yep. A worn-out Bible. Because while everyone got a piece of his life, he just couldn’t stop telling me that I wasn’t good enough. That he had to fix me.”

“So that’s where it comes from.”

“What?”

“You’re not trying to prove to your father you’re a good enough hockey player. You’re trying to prove you’re a good enoughson.”

“What? I was a great son.”

“I am sure you were, Wyatt. You’re definitely a great player. You do everything we ask. You show up for events, smile for the press, and even play when you’re in pain. And why? Because you want to be noticed.”

“Whatever.” Wyatt moved to pick up his water bottle.

Jace got off the chair. “I’ll bet you thought that if you were just better, he’d show up, right?”

“Get away from me.” Wyatt pushed past him, but Jace put his hand on his shoulder.

“If you were just good enough, he’d pay attention to you, like he did your brothers. You’d be one of the Marshall boys—”

Wyatt shoved his hand away, started for the door, then turned. “I’mthe one in the paper. I make four times what my brothers make. I walk into a room and every woman there—okay, not every one, but a number of them—know my name. I’mnotsitting on the bench—”

“And if you were?”

Jace slammed into him, bumping him against a table.

Wyatt bit back a howl, rounded on him, and before he could stop himself, he sent his fist flying at Jace.

Jace dodged it.

Wyatt pulled back, breathing hard. “What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing will be enough for you, Wyatt. Because you’ll never prove to your dead father that you were enough forhim.”

Wyatt glared at him.

“But youareenough to your heavenly Father.”

Wyatt pressed his hand against his aching hip.

“You will never stop enough pucks. You will never have enough stats. You will never land on enough covers. Never. Because the problem isn’t up here.” He pointed at Wyatt’s head. “It’s in here.” He poked now at Wyatt’s chest. “You need to hear the same thing my wife said to me. You will not be free of the striving until you hear the voice of your true Father telling you that you are loved. You are delighted in. You areenough, Wyatt.”

Wyatt looked away, his chest burning where Jace had poked it.

“It’s not because of anything you do, but because of who He is. He decided it. And when we get free of the idea that we have to do something to be enough for God to love us, that’s when we are truly free. But that striving only traps us. You’re enough, and you’re loved because God says so. Nothing else.”