“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.”
“Great.” Coach glances at me and nods. “Enjoy your weekend.”
I follow my father out the door, curious and somewhat sick. I’m not sure what he’s planning or what he’s already done. We stand in silence in the elevator and exit on the floor with the suites. I saw him watching me with his friends during the game, but I was more interested in Violet.
Violet, who has pulled a disappearing act.
Worry squirms in my stomach.
And yet, I’m not entirely surprised when we arrive at my father’s suite, and the man who had been posted outside the door steps aside to reveal Violet and another woman.
Her mother?
Violet sits in the corner, her legs drawn up to her chest. And the other woman, identity to be confirmed, paces in front of the glass. On the ice, the Zamboni is making slow passes. There are still people lingering in the seats, taking their time filing out. The last dregs, it would seem.
My teammates are long gone.
At our entrance, the woman stops moving. Violet shoots to her feet.
“You’re bringing him into this?” the woman spits.
My father doesn’t react. He just watches her for a moment, then nods to his guard who followed him in. He’s one of the newer bodyguards, unlike some of the others my father employs who have been around since I was a kid. I don’t even know this one’s name.
This one doesn’t seem to have a moral compass, because he marches over to the woman and grips her forearm, hauling her toward us.
“It’s about time he learned the family secrets, don’t you think?” He shakes his head at her, then gestures to the woman. “This is Leigh Reece, Greyson. Violet’s mother.”
As I suspected.
When I don’t react, Dad faces her. “I’ll get to you in a moment. Let’s have a little chat about your daughter.”
My shoulders inch higher. He better not have his guard manhandle her like he did to her mother, or I’ll go fucking mental.
“Violet.” There’s a new chill in Dad’s voice, laced with something like… disappointment?
She cringes, still sitting in the far corner. She seems so fucking small like that, and I clench every muscle in my body to stop myself from reacting. I need to know what my father is planning—and that means he has to reveal a few more cards before I can act.
He doesn’t wait for her to stand. He sends his fucking guard over there with a look, and I ball my hands into fists to stop myself from reacting when he bodily lifts her out of the chair and marches her over to us. She lets out a squeak, and her gaze cuts to me.
I can stop him, she’s thinking. And she’s wondering what keeps me immobile two steps behind him.
When the bodyguard releases her next to her mother, she takes a quick step back. My father pins her with a glower, and she goes still.
“You and I had an agreement, young lady.”
She swallows. Her throat moves, and she brings her hands in front of her. Her fingers tangle together. I hate her nerves and that she ended up here. How did she even get up here? Was she caught by my father’s guard like a fish in a net… or something worse? Led here by her mother? Or perhaps she came up here simply because he asked.
But this is the confirmation I needed that he did do something. And this is the last time he’s going to see Violet. I’m going to make sure of that.
My dad glances at me. “She was going to stay away from you.”
How did my father turn into this?
I have so many questions, and I know I won’t get the answers I want.
“Her physical therapy is expensive, and little Violet Reece hopes to be a ballerina again one day. Since you took that away from her, I assumed it wouldn’t be a hardship on her to just stay away.” Dad narrows his eyes at her. “But she couldn’t do it, could she?”
Her mother gasps. “Physical therapy?”
“No,” Violet says. Her voice is steady, her expression bland. She ignores her mother and instead tells me directly. No, she’s not going to put up with this. And I can tell she’s trusting me to catch her, since she’s abandoning any chance of lying.
“Our agreement is null and void,” he snips. He waves a hand, and that guard-turned-lackey retrieves a folder from Dad’s briefcase across the room. When the pages settle into Dad’s hand, he flips through it. “Four thousand, four hundred sixty-three dollars and fifty-two cents,” he says slowly. “You can write a check… or I’ll take cash.”
He holds it out for her.
I step forward and take the folder from his hand, opening it to the first page. An invoice.
“Well, this is fascinating.” I run my finger down the list of itemized charges, which of course included her therapy bills, but also include service charges, labor, and tax. It’s laughable. And completely ridiculous. The labor and service charges are almost forty percent of this invoice.
Leave it to my father to try and bury her for this.
“Greyson.” Dad snaps his fingers at me.
Of all things.
I can’t fake my way through this anymore.
“Fuck off, Dad.”
Wow. That felt better than I thought it would.
“Fuck you and your pretentious ideology, and fuck the way you think you can bully the woman in my life.” I hold out my hand to Violet, and she practically leaps forward. As soon as her palm connects with mine, a weight lifts off my shoulder. I pull her into my side and wrap my arm around her shoulder.
I throw the folder down at his feet. “And fuck this inflated bullshit you have going on here,” I add. “You can’t just meddle in my life like this anymore. I’m done.”
Silence.
My father laughs.
Laughs.
My face gets hot. My body flushes. I’m so fucking sick of him, I can barely see straight.
“Grey,” Violet whispers. “It’s not worth it.”
I grimace… and then I notice my father’s expression. He doesn’t like to lose control—and he’s lost control of the most important thing: me . And the room. Violet’s mother has resumed pacing, casting glances at us like we’re about to start fist fighting. She keeps gnawing at her fingernails, too. Violet’s hand slips under the hem of my shirt, pressing against the small of my back. She’s grounding me.
I look down at her, and my resolve hardens.
She’s mine . Not something to be manipulated by my father. Not a pawn or a toy or leverage.
When Dad’s laughter has subsided, the mirth falls from his expression. His tolerance for disobedience is low at best. Something tells me that I should’ve held out longer. That he still has a trump card to play.
And sure enough, he seems smug when he says, “This girl you’re championing has been stealing from our family for months.”
