‘That’s my boy,” Senator Devereux says to his colleagues. “Coach Roake made a smart move sending him out to clinch the deal.”
There’s a general consensus. Agreements about his son’s talent, the coach, the team. I twist my fingers together. My palms are sweating. Even up here, in our glass box, I can sense the crowd’s energy. Their excitement. But it doesn’t touch us.
My nerves are rioting, and it takes everything in me to sit still.
Knox and Steele join Grey. Miles takes his place in front of the goal. They begin, and I hold my breath when Grey gets the puck. He’s checked by a Knight and goes sprawling.
The senator grumbles. Just as quick, though, Grey is back up and charging after the puck. He wins a battle for it and takes it all the way into the Knights’ territory. He flicks the puck toward the upper-left corner of the goal.
The goalie is quick to snatch it out of the air. He tosses it back to one of his teammates. And they’re off again. Miles blocks one, two, three shots from their opponents.
My heart remains in my throat until there’s only precious seconds left. In the end, it’s Knox who scores the final goal. He fakes a shot, which the Knights goalie falls for, and then sails it easily between his open legs.
The stadium erupts. The ice is immediately swarmed with Hawks players, closing in fast on Knox and Miles. They’re jumping up and down, celebrating their much-needed win. I lean forward and see the senator accepting congratulations like he won. He mentions something about scouts and his son getting recruited, then waves his hand toward the door.
They all leave, and his bodyguard follows. The door swings shut, and there’s a heavy snick of a deadbolt sliding home. They’ve locked my mother and me in.
46
GREYSON
“Devereux,” Coach calls.
I stop mid-stride and turn back toward him. I was on my way to find Violet. She disappeared partway through the third period, and she never returned to her seat.
Neither did Willow.
Knox, just behind me, makes a face. But he keeps moving toward the doors.
I sigh. On my own.
Except… not. Coach slaps my arm and gestures for me to follow him. We get in the elevator and ride it in silence, getting off on the publicist’s floor.
He glances at me. “You’ve got natural charm,” he says. “Use it.”
I nod. I don’t have time for this, but it’s my future. There must be a scout looking to speak to me… and Coach is acting like it’s a big fucking deal.
So I staunch my worries about Violet and follow him down the hall to the publicist’s office. She’s there, pouring a cup of coffee from her side table. She turns and brings it further inside and hands it to…
My father.
I grimace but quickly smother it. No need to show my disgust. Our phone call this morning was rather abrupt, and I had planned on telling him to fuck off. That was part of the plan. No, the main part of my plan. And then Violet and I were going to ride off into the sunset together and pretend none of this shit ever happened.
Wishful thinking.
“Ah, Greyson.” Dad draws attention to me. He’s standing beside a man I can only assume is an NHL scout. He wouldn’t waste his time on anyone less. “Good game, son.”
“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a smile.
The charm came easier before I knew what sort of demons he keeps close. Still, I straighten my spine and step farther into the room with Coach Roake at my back.
“Yes, most impressive,” the scout says. “Tim Monroe, with the Boston Bruins.”
I almost choke. Almost. Not just a scout—the fucking coach of one of the best teams in the league. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
He smirks. “A hat trick at this level? You’re going to go places… but only if your record remains clear.”
He eyes me, and I eye him back. He’s the guy who coaches the Bruins. He’s got a thick head of light-blond hair, smooth skin. His beard is trimmed and neat. I wonder how many other players he’s personally visited…
Coach Roake nudges my foot. A subtle prod to stop being so fucking starstruck and respond.
“My record will be clean,” I promise.
He nods. “Good.” We shake hands, and then he turns to my coach. “A word?”
The publicist looks back and forth between us and murmurs something about stepping outside. The door shuts softly behind her, leaving me alone with my father.
Dad’s face contorts.
“Are you fucking new at this?” he growls.
I raise my eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re supposed to be getting yourself into the NHL, and when an opportunity comes along, you clam up. Is that the man I raised you to be?”
Wow.
I guess that’s how he sees it. One chance and then it might be gone forever. That’s how it was for him, after all. One chance with my mother, and he had to nail her down or she would’ve left him before ever stepping foot in a church. That didn’t matter so much in the end, though. She found a way to leave us both. One chance for his political career, snatching the opportunity that came sailing his way.
But I’m a junior. I have another year to impress scouts—and it isn’t like Tim Monroe is going to recruit me now. If anything, he’ll wait. See how I mature… and if I can keep my face out of the newspapers for reasons that don’t revolve around hockey.
Then I’ll face the draft.
If not him, maybe someone else will want me.
Dad sneers at me. “You’re a disgrace. But you’ll learn how to be a real man soon enough.”
A chill sweeps down my back. “What does that mean?”
“Play the part, and I’ll show you.” He inclines his chin just as the two coaches step back inside.
I run my hand down my face, trying to wipe away the emotions my father always seems to inflict, and smile at them. Tim Monroe offers us some pleasantries, shakes my hand and then my father’s, and departs. The publicist follows him out.
Coach Roake looks back and forth between the two of us, finally landing on my father. “Let me get one thing straight with you, Senator.”
My father’s eyebrow raises. I don’t know the last time someone talked to him like he’s done something wrong—besides me anyway. And my mother. He’s become overwhelming with his power, surrounding himself with people who only ever agree with him.
“I respect your authority, but you will not tell me how to run my team. And asking me to pull my best player before one of the most important games—”
“Respectfully, Roake? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Dad scowls. “I told Greyson this morning after he took a similar approach.”
Coach Roake glowers at him. “Then you’ve got a problem, Senator, because someone called me pretending to be you.”
I swallow. Could that be Violet’s stalker? They would’ve seen with their own eyes that Violet’s no longer at her apartment—she’s no longer as accessible as she was. And maybe he’s trying to lash out. Him, confirmed, thanks to this. Unless it was a masterful trick on the stalker’s end to disguise their voice.
“A problem, indeed,” my father responds. He sends a quick text message, then stows his phone back in his breast pocket. “I’ll have my people look into it.”