10. Keaton
Chapter 10
Keaton
D erek didn't text back all day.
I slammed another puck into the net, the sharp crack echoing through the empty rink. The cold air bit at my skin, but I barely noticed. My father's words from last night still echoed in my mind, each one like a knife twisting deeper.
Marry Lola, or kiss your inheritance goodbye.
Another puck flew across the ice, smashing into the boards with a satisfying thud. I leaned on my stick, breathing heavily, trying to exorcise the anger boiling inside me. Hockey had always been my escape, my sanctuary from the demands and expectations that suffocated me at home.
I skated back to the center of the rink, gathering more pucks. The NHL had always been my dream—a ridiculous one, maybe, but it was mine. It was something I wanted for myself, not for my father's business empire or his relentless pursuit of control.
Mom believed in me. She used to sit in those freezing stands for hours, watching every game, every practice. She'd wake up early to get me to practice at six in the morning, and she convinced my father to invest in sticktime, one-on-one coaching on the ice that lasted an hour and was sixty bucks a pop, plus an ice fee. She’d smile that soft smile of hers and tell me I could do anything. After she died, that belief became a lifeline. A way to keep her with me.
Another shot. Another crash of rubber against wood.
“Give up the inheritance,” Damien had said last night, as if it were that simple.
I launched another puck toward the goal with a fierce slap shot. The thought of walking away from everything I'd ever known gnawed at me—Dad's control might be suffocating, but it was familiar suffocation. And what girl would want someone like me? Cold, distant—always pushing people away before they got too close?
The puck missed wide this time, ricocheting off the post and skittering across the ice. I chased after it mechanically, not even feeling the exhaustion creeping into my muscles.
Dreams seemed so simple when Mom was around. Now they felt like chains pulling me in every direction but forward.
I lined up another shot and let it fly.
“Your shot’s off.”
The voice cut through the cold air like a blade. I turned to see Thomas Morgan, my old coach, standing at the edge of the rink. Tall and muscular, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a nightmare, all rugged lines and brooding intensity. His dark hair had started to gray at the temples, adding to the menacing aura that always surrounded him. He had that same piercing look in his eyes that made you feel like he could see right through you.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, itching for a cigarette to steady my nerves.
“I could ask you the same damn question,” he replied, his tone sharp and unforgiving.
“I’m not the one who won an achievement award and married a redhead all within the span of two weeks,” I said, lining up another shot. The puck skidded wide again, clattering off the boards.
“Jealous?” Morgan's smirk was infuriatingly smug.
Actually, I was. Deep down, there was a part of me that craved what he had—a sense of accomplishment, someone who loved him. But I pushed those thoughts down. Acceptance wasn’t something I’d ever have.
I took another shot. The puck sailed past the goal again.
“You trying to miss the net?” Thomas's voice held a hint of mockery.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I focused on retrieving another puck, feeling my frustration simmering beneath the surface. Morgan had always been able to get under my skin with just a few words. It was part of what made him a brilliant coach but also what made him insufferable to deal with.
I lined up another shot, feeling the tension coil in my shoulders. Morgan’s eyes bore into me, his presence a constant reminder of the pressure I couldn’t shake.
“Your stance is off,” he said, stepping onto the ice. “You’re too stiff. Loosen up.”
I gritted my teeth but adjusted my position, anyway. The puck slid effortlessly into the net, a perfect shot. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel a flicker of satisfaction.
Morgan gave me a long look, one eyebrow raised. “I heard Toronto and Blackwater are interested,” he said, his tone casual. “Texas too.”
I grunted, grabbing another puck. The names of those teams felt like distant dreams—ones I couldn’t afford to chase.
“You going to the draft later this month?” he asked, skating closer.
“Fuck if I know,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze.
“Why the hell not?” Thomas’s voice was sharp. “You’ve worked hard enough.”
“What’s the point?” I snapped back. “Not like I’m going to get picked.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. “You’ve got talent, Keaton. More than most.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my father.” I shot another puck, the force behind it fueled by frustration.
“Your father doesn’t define your worth,” Morgan replied, his voice steady but intense. “You do. And if you don’t believe in yourself, why should anyone else?”
I clenched my jaw, fighting back the anger bubbling up inside me. It wasn’t just about the draft or hockey—it was everything weighing down on me like an anchor.
“You’ve spent your whole life letting others dictate your future,” he continued. “It’s time you took control.”
I scoffed but felt a sting of truth in his words.
“You think you’re the only one who’s had it tough?” he asked, his voice softening slightly. “Life doesn’t hand out guarantees, Keaton. But you’ve got a shot here—don’t waste it.”
I stared at him for a moment, absorbing what he said. There was no pity in his eyes, just a fierce determination that mirrored my own.
With a deep breath, I lined up another shot, focusing on everything Morgan had drilled into me over the years. The puck sailed into the net effortlessly.
Maybe he was right.
But admitting that felt like another battle altogether.
Morgan skated closer, his eyes locked on mine with that same unyielding intensity that always made me feel exposed. “You ever wonder why I picked you for the team four years ago?” he asked, his voice low and challenging.
I shrugged, keeping my gaze on the ice. “My last name? Or maybe my father slipped you a check.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d sell out for money?”
I didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes.
He took a deep breath, his expression softening just a fraction. “You were raw, Keaton. Rough around the edges. But you had something none of those other draft picks had.”
I shot another puck, more to avoid looking at him than anything else. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Heart,” he said simply.
I stopped mid-motion, the word hanging in the cold air between us. I turned to face him, skepticism written all over my face. “Heart? That’s what got me on this team?”
Morgan nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “You played like you had something to prove. Every practice, every game—you left it all on the ice. That’s rare.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but something in his voice made me pause. Morgan had always been brutally honest—sometimes too honest for my liking—but he wasn’t one to lie or sugarcoat things.
“You’re good at reading plays,” he continued, stepping closer. “Anticipating moves before they happen. You’ve got a natural instinct for defense—something that can’t be taught.”
I felt a strange mix of pride and disbelief swelling inside me. It was easier to think my place on the team was bought and paid for by my father’s influence. It meant I didn’t have to acknowledge any real talent or effort on my part.
Morgan’s gaze softened slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost... proud? “You’ve got leadership potential too,” he added quietly. “The guys look up to you—even if you don’t see it.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked, my voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.
“Because you need to hear it,” Morgan replied firmly. “You’ve spent too long doubting yourself—letting your father’s expectations define who you are.”
His words hit harder than any puck could.
“Believe in yourself, Keaton,” he said softly but with conviction. “You’ve got what it takes—don’t waste it.”
For once, I found myself unable to argue back. Maybe—just maybe—he was right.
“That, and you aren’t afraid to throw a punch,” Morgan said wryly, his eyes steady. “Maybe too eager for it.”
I felt a slight twitch at the corner of my mouth, a half-smile that never fully formed. “Yeah, well, some people deserve it.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I get that too,” he said, his voice softer. “When my own life felt out of control, hockey was the one thing I could control. It was my safe place—something that was always there for me. It could be that way for you too, if you don’t drown yourself in alcohol and pussy.”
I scoffed, but the words hit closer to home than I cared to admit. My grip tightened around the stick as I prepared another shot. “My father wants me to marry Lola,” I muttered.
“Lola?” Morgan’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t you date her in high school or something?”
“Yeah,” I snapped, the memory still raw. “And the bitch fucked me over.” The puck flew off my stick with a sharp crack, slamming into the boards. “I walked in on her with my cousin. Then found out my best friend at the time, fucking Carlyle Hart, had a few fucks with her too. Bitch spreads her legs for anyone with a platinum credit card.”
Morgan stayed silent, absorbing my words without judgment. His silence made it easier to keep talking.
I took another shot, the puck sailing wide. The anger surged again, hot and unrelenting.
“I can’t stand the thought of being tied to her,” I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. “But Dad... he doesn’t care about that. It’s all about business to him.”
Morgan nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re more than just a pawn in your father’s game,” he said quietly.
The truth in his words stung like ice on a fresh wound. For years, I’d let myself believe that my worth was tied to my father’s approval—to his plans and his demands.
“I just want out,” I admitted finally, feeling a strange sense of relief at saying it out loud.
“You’ve got options,” he said firmly. “But you need to believe in yourself first.”
I stared at him for a moment longer before taking another shot. The puck slid smoothly into the net this time.
Maybe—just maybe—he was right.
"Dad would never let me play in the NHL," I said, my voice laced with bitterness.
"It's a good thing your dad doesn't get to dictate your life anymore," Morgan shot back, his eyes hardening.
"So, what, I'm just supposed to give up my inheritance?" I demanded, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me.
"It's better than giving up your life," he fired back without missing a beat.
I shook my head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Whatever," I muttered, trying to push past the turmoil inside me.
"Get your head out of your ass, Keaton," he snapped. "You have potential. Who gives a shit whether your dad thinks it's true or not? He doesn't matter. If you think you can do it, that's all that matters. You're going to have to decide if you're going to that draft. You have a week to let them know."
"I'm a fucking old-ass man?—"
"You're twenty-two," he cut me off. "And yeah, it's old for the draft, but fuck it. There are plenty of people who weren't drafted young, who showed up old and went on to do great things in the NHL."
"Maybe they could," I said, feeling a deep-seated doubt gnawing at me. "But I can't do that shit."
Morgan sighed heavily. "Fuck," he said, his tone dripping with exasperation. "I didn't realize you were such a goddamn pussy. If I'd known you were this much of a bitch, I wouldn't have picked you in the first place."
The words hit like a slap across the face. Anger flared up inside me, hot and fierce. "You don't get it," I snapped back. "You don't understand what it's like living under his thumb."
"No, Keaton," he said, his voice steady and unyielding. "I get it more than you think. But at some point, you have to decide what's more important—living your life for him or living it for yourself."
I clenched my jaw, feeling the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside me. His words rang true in ways I didn't want to admit.
"Think about it," he continued, softer now but no less intense. "You've got one shot here. Don't waste it because you're too afraid to step out of your father's shadow."
I stared at him for a moment longer before turning away, grabbing another puck and lining up another shot.
The silence between us was thick with unspoken challenges and unresolved anger.
But maybe—just maybe—there was also a sliver of hope buried somewhere in there too.
For now, though, all I could focus on was the next shot.
The puck sailed smoothly into the net.
Maybe there was still time to figure this out after all.
I lined up another shot, feeling the weight of Morgan's words settle over me. My stick wavered slightly as doubt gnawed at the edges of my resolve.
"You think I can?" The question slipped out, tentative and unsure—a far cry from my usual confidence.
Morgan's eyes met mine, steady and unwavering. "Yeah, I do," he said, his voice firm. "You've got what it takes, Keaton. More than you know."
The sincerity in his words hit harder than any critique ever had. It was more encouragement than I'd ever heard from my father, and for some reason, that pissed me off even more. I clenched my jaw, channeling that anger into my next shot. The puck flew off my stick with a resounding crack, slamming into the net with precision.
Morgan wasn't wrong, though. The truth was glaringly obvious—I needed to take control of my life. No more bending over and taking it just because it was easier or familiar.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, retrieving another puck. "Why do you care?"
"Because I've been where you are," he replied, his tone softening slightly. "And I know what it's like to feel trapped by expectations that aren't your own."
His words resonated with a part of me I'd tried to ignore for too long. I fired another shot, the puck sailing smoothly into the net.
"I don't want to be like him," I admitted quietly, more to myself than to Morgan.
"Then don't be," he said simply. "You have a choice, Keaton. You always have."
I looked at him. My father had always made it seem like there was no other option—that his way was the only way. Mom showed me there was more, but it was hard to remember that with her gone.
I took a deep breath and lined up another shot, feeling a flicker of determination ignite within me. It was time to show my father that I wouldn't bend over and take it anymore.
The puck sailed into the net once again, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a glimmer of control returning to my life.
"You have one shot here," Morgan said quietly but firmly. "Don't waste it."