I run a hand through my hair, and Case’s gaze fixes on my left hand. Just like that, his laughter dies.
“Christ, Ryder. You married my ex-girlfriend,” he says flatly.
“No, I married my wife.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, pale blue eyes focusing on his feet. Then he sighs again.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to, like, hang out with you guys. Just the three of us.”
“I wouldn’t put anyone through that uncomfortable torture.”
He snickers. “But I’ll get over it,” he says, shrugging. “You’re not a bad guy, Luke. I know you didn’t do this on purpose.”
“I didn’t.” I sigh too. “Can’t help who you fall for.”
“No. You can’t.” He sticks out his hand. “We’re good if you want.”
“I want.”
I shake his hand, but he surprises me by yanking me in for a side hug. I return it, giving him a determined look when we pull apart.
“I won’t let this Klein bullshit screw with my head,” I promise.
“Never thought you would.” There’s a steely look in his own eyes. “Those assholes are going down tomorrow. Don’t worry, we’ll make them regret pulling this stunt.”
The next morning, I awake to a missed call from Julio Vega. I’m instantly sick to my stomach, because I highly doubt the Dallas GM is calling to wish me luck in the finals today. Just happens to coincide with the fact that my sordid family history suddenly became hot news.
My hand is shaking as I step onto the balcony holding my phone. Shane is still asleep. I woke up ahead of the alarm, as if my subconscious sensed I missed a call from the man who holds my future in his hands.
There’s a chill in the air, and I wish I threw my hoodie on first. I stand there in a T-shirt and track pants, cold fingers scrolling to return his call.
“Luke, I’m glad I caught you. Sorry for the early hour.”
“No problem. I was up.”
“Some media storm you found yourself in,” Vega says, cutting right to the chase. “Way to draw focus away from what really matters, huh? It’s the Frozen Four. That’s what they should be writing about.”
My stomach twists into knots. “I’m sorry, sir. I had nothing to do with—”
“Oh, you misunderstand. I’m not laying the blame at your door. It’s those vultures. And judging by the source of the initial article, it seems your opponent was trying to unnerve you.”
“Seems so.”
“Well, I wanted to touch base and let you know you have the full support of myself and the franchise on this matter.”
I’m so shocked I almost drop the phone off the ninth-floor balcony. “I do?”
“Of course. Not only will you be part of the family soon, but it’s just common decency. You lost a parent at a very young age. That shouldn’t be made into a spectacle or a piece of gossip.”
I swallow. “Oh. Well, thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
“I lost my mother at a young age too. Not under such appalling circumstances, but painful nonetheless. If you need anything—you want me to speak to the prosecutor in Phoenix, arrange for you to attend the hearing without it being a media circus—just let me know. We’ll do everything on our end to help.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And good luck today. We’ll be rooting for you down here in Dallas.”
After I end up the call, I’m embarrassed to realize I’m blinking back tears. But, Christ, the relief that gusts through me is almost an emotional release. I fumble with my phone to text Gigi, filling her in on the call with Vega. She’s awake too and texts back immediately.
GISELE:
I’m so glad, baby.
She’s still typing.
GISELE:
Maybe now you can stop waiting for the other shoe to drop all the time? Dallas wants you. They’re waiting for you. Stop doubting yourself.
ME:
I’ll try not to.
GISELE:
Good. Now go get something to eat and try not to overdo it during morning skate. Save it for the game.
ME:
I will. Love you.
GISELE:
Love you too.
I do my best to keep my mind relaxed, my body loose. After a very light game-day skate, I make my way to the hotel conference room for the press event.
Dread rises as I near the door. Fuck. I don’t want to do this. But I’m not going to run from it. I’m not a coward.
The moment I slide through the door, Coach Jensen pulls me aside and says, “Anything you don’t want to answer, just say, ‘No comment,’ understood?”
I nod.
“Don’t feel bad about it or explain why you’re not commenting. ‘No comment.’ Period, end of sentence.”
“Yessir.”
Two long tables are set up at the head of the spacious room with a podium between them. I settle in a chair between Colson and Demaine. Coach sits at the far end of the table, a slim binder in front of him. Talking points courtesy of Briar’s PR gurus, I assume.
At the Arizona table is their head coach, team captain, and two assistant captains, one of whom is Michael Klein. I don’t even spare the curly-haired guy a look. I sense him watching me, but he doesn’t deserve acknowledgment.
To my relief, the first question, posed by a college sports blog, is about Briar’s season and how we turned it around to reach this point. Colson fields that one. He’s good with the crowd. Easygoing and articulate. The next question is directed at the Arizona captain. I’m starting to think I’ll get out of this unscathed when a female journalist addresses me.
“Some very shocking details were revealed about your family yesterday. Do you believe this will affect your mental state today?”
Jensen looks ready to intervene, but I lean toward the microphone to answer. “You say ‘shocking’ and ‘were revealed’ as if my background was a secret, something I was trying to keep hidden. It wasn’t. Anyone with a computer or phone could have known about my family history prior to yesterday. The fact that a bunch of people are talking about it now makes no difference to me. My head is always in the game.”
Shockingly, she drops it and nobody else asks about my parents.
One annoying reporter, however, does decide to bring up the other elephant in the room.
“Michael, the last time you and Luke were on the ice together, you were teammates in the World Juniors. That particular encounter ended poorly, is that fair to say?”
“Poorly?” he echoes derisively. “I ended up in the hospital.”
“It’s evident there’s still plenty of residual tension here,” the intrepid reporter hedges, looking between us. “Have you two spoken since Worlds, and have or are you willing to bury the hatchet?”
Klein just laughs into the mic.
The sound is grating and raises my hackles. Asshole.
I’m not the only one irritated by him. From the corner of my eye, I see Case lean into his microphone.
“I have a question,” Colson says. With a raised eyebrow, he looks toward the Arizona table. “For you, Klein.”
My former teammate narrows his eyes. His coach tries to intercede, but Colson speaks before he can.
“What’d you say to Ryder in the locker room to get your jaw broken? Because I’ve played with this guy all season, and he’s got the patience of a saint and the composure of a brick wall.”