Chapter Five Will
CHAPTER FIVE
WILL
You asked how life is annoying. That’s fucking how.
M Y FATHER THINKS HE ’ S THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN EVERY ROOM .
Granted, in Della’s Diner, on a Monday afternoon, he probably is. I certainly don’t see another U.S. congressman occupying any of the red vinyl booths. The problem is this congressman is more pompous than most, which says a lot, because I’ve never met a politician who wasn’t obsessed with himself.
Dad’s in a self-absorbed class entirely of his own, though. Just because he might be more successful than most people that he encounters doesn’t give him the right to puff out his chest and talk down to everyone. Or worse, dismiss them. Their presence, their opinions. I’ve been dismissed by my dad my entire life. He actually uses those words when I’m at home for the holidays. He’ll look up from beneath his glasses and say, “Dismissed, William.”
He’s the only one who calls me William. And I suspect that’s only because he likes hearing his own name come out of his mouth. Yep, I’m a junior. William Larsen II. Could be worse. At least he doesn’t go by Bill. Then he’d be calling me Bill all the time.
Congress is in session, so the fact that Dad flew from DC to Massachusetts to visit his son at college tells me this is important—to him anyway. What I’ve learned in my twenty-one years on this earth is that my father and I rarely agree on what we deem important.
“Thank you,” he says when the waitress delivers our coffee.
I ordered lunch but he didn’t. I expect he’ll be gone before my food even arrives, and I’ll be forced to eat alone. Which is probably preferable.
He gives the waitress his big fake smile that he always uses on the campaign trail. The one he saves for the little people.
“Can I trouble you for some sugar, young lady?”
This waitress is pushing fifty and should know better than to fall for it. Most women see right through the pandering and find it infantilizing when he calls them that. But the man’s instincts are spot-on. He can read people so well and tells them exactly what they need to hear at all times.
This one blushes like a fourteen-year-old girl and waves her hand demurely. “Oh, hush.”
I try not to roll my eyes as she saunters away.
“How are your classes?” Dad asks.
“Fine.”
“Alessia sent me your schedule. I noticed you didn’t enroll in Ethics like I recommended.”
Yeah, because it’s my schedule, not yours .
I bite back the retort. And I certainly won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that the syllabus for Ethics looked pretty interesting. Doing the opposite of what Dad wants is sort of a knee jerk for me. But at least in this case, it didn’t backfire on me—the class I chose instead is equally interesting.
“Why would you take a biology class?” Dad pushes.
“It’s an engineering lab.”
“But why? I don’t see the rationale here. We talked about this.”
No. He talked about this. He likes to plan my life. Every time a new semester starts, I’m obligated to email a copy of my schedule to his assistant, who shows it to him so he can decide whether he deems it worthy.
I’m a political science major. Pushed into it by Dad, of course, who’s basically groomed me for politics since I was five years old. He thinks we’re going to be a presidential dynasty. Father and son. Which is unlikely, because one, that would require the voters electing his smarmy ass into the White House someday, and I like to think most of them can see through his fake bullshit. And two, it would require me wanting it—and I don’t. I have zero interest in being a politician.
It is my senior year, though, and I can’t help but think about what the future would look like. Honestly, I have no fucking idea. Sometimes I think maybe something behind the scenes in politics. Campaign managing perhaps. Getting a candidate, a real one, into office. Someone who could make real change and not the fake promises that my dad and his allies like to sell to the hapless masses.
“William,” he says.
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m saying you don’t want to be a scientist. Why waste your time looking in microscopes and examining slides?”
“Because I find it interesting. Isn’t that the point of college? To learn about shit you think is interesting?”
“Language,” he says.
I try to change the subject. “How’s Kelsey?”
Kelsey is my stepmother. They got married when I was four, so technically, she’s the only mother I’ve ever known. I don’t remember anything before her. Dad does keep pictures of Mom on the mantel, so when we get photographed for interviews, it shows that he has feelings. That he desperately loved his first wife. I’m sure he did. Although according to my grandfather, theirs was more of a beneficial marriage than one based on love. Mom came from another political dynasty and some nice money. Combined fortunes and all.
Kelsey doesn’t have the fortune, but she has the connections. She was a law student when they met and now practices criminal law in DC.
Truth be told, I like my stepmother. She’s cool. Warm. What she sees in my father, I’ll never know.
“She’s excited to have you home for Thanksgiving,” he says. “All your cousins are coming too. It’s perfect. We haven’t had a good photo of the whole clan for a while.”
Nothing like a photo op to make Thanksgiving magical and unforgettable.
I take a sip of my coffee. I could just blurt out, what the hell do you want? But Dad doesn’t like to be interrogated. He likes holding the seat of power. If I asked him, he would just stall. Give me a lecture about how he wants to see me and then take an even more roundabout way to get to the real reason he’s here. So it’s best to pretend I don’t know he has an ulterior motive. Then he’ll just reveal it faster.
“One of the reasons I wanted to see you—” he starts.
See? Wait, and he shall deliver.
“—is to pick your brain about this UCS mess.”
“What about it? It’s not my school.”
“No, but it’s your sport.”
“What the hell does that mean? A bunch of hockey players allegedly haze someone to their death, so that means I’m culpable too?”
“Lower your voice.”
I roll my eyes. “Contrary to what you believe, no one is eavesdropping on us or recording this conversation. Nobody in Hastings gives a shit. And Briar Hockey has nothing to do with UCS.”
“No. But this isn’t the first time an NCAA hockey team has gotten a bad rep for unruly behavior.”
“Have you met Coach Jensen? That man runs a tight ship. Briar players don’t fuck around.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
I’m starting to get aggravated. Why can’t he just be a normal dad who wants a pleasant visit with his son? A dad who asks how my game went this weekend, if I think we might make it to the postseason, if I’m dating anyone.
He notes my expression, and his lips tighten as he visibly grits his teeth. “William. No man is an island.”
He’s throwing rote phrases at me now? Deep Thoughts with William Larsen Senior?
“What the hell are you talking about?” I grumble.
“It means that it’s not only what I do that reflects on me. What my son does reflects on me. My son plays hockey. And my son goes to college. In a vacuum, that might be innocuous. However, at the moment, a college hockey program has been implicated in a hazing scandal that ended with a kid plummeting off a roof. And naturally, the vultures in DC have questions now. First and foremost: Congressman, what does your son think about it?”
“What do they care what I think?”
“Because they care about me.”
Me, me, me, me, me. That’s what it always boils down to, isn’t it?
“So you think this’ll reflect poorly on you because I play hockey? Come on, Dad. Nobody cares.”
“I truly don’t know why you’re being combative right now. One would think we’d be on the same page in our condemnation of the Sacramento program.”
“Is that what you need? Like, seriously, get to the point. Do you want me to give a statement condemning it? Because, sure, I’ll do it. I shall condemn.”
He shakes his head at my sarcasm. “That’s merely lip service. And in this political climate, we need to show more than lip service, so with that said…”
My stomach sinks.
“I’ve arranged for Capitol Magazine to write a profile about you.”
“No,” I say instantly.
“William. You don’t say no to an interview with Capitol .”
The waitress chooses that moment to return with my burger and fries. Joke’s on her. My appetite has gone the way of the dinosaurs.
As she sets the plate down, Dad flashes his winning smile and thanks her, but the second she’s gone, his scowl returns. Mine never left.
“I don’t want a profile written about me,” I say in a low voice.
“Well, it’s already been confirmed, so…” He shrugs. “You can either gripe about it or you can behave as a congressman’s son should behave and speak to the journalist.”
I clench my teeth.
“I’ve also arranged for a camera crew to follow your team around,” Dad says, casually stirring his coffee.
“I’m sorry, what? A camera crew? You said it’s a written profile.”
He eyes me over the rim of his mug, his politician’s face set in that infuriatingly calm expression he always wears.
“It’s both. You’ll have a few sit-downs with the Capitol journalist—Alessia will arrange everything for you, so don’t worry. It’s all taken care of. But the magazine is partnering with Capitol TV to produce a short segment. They’ll shoot footage of your next few games and conduct interviews with some of your teammates.”
“Absolutely not.”
“William.” His tone is firm. Impatient. “This is about ensuring there’s transparency, showing that your team is clean and aboveboard.”
“We are clean,” I snap, feeling the frustration bubble up. “And regardless of that, it’s not your job to dictate the level of transparency from the Briar Men’s Hockey Program. We don’t need a camera crew invading our space to prove anything.”
“Appearances matter, son. This interview will show the public that there’s nothing to hide.”
“You mean it’ll show that you have nothing to hide,” I mutter, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“Don’t be petulant. This is for the best.”
“The best for who, Dad? Definitely not for my team. We’re not some sideshow for your political image.”
He sighs, a familiar sign of his patience wearing thin. “I recognize this isn’t ideal for you or your teammates. But this isn’t merely about hockey. It’s about safeguarding our family’s reputation. One bad story and it’s a feeding frenzy. This way, we’re ahead of any potential issues.”
“You always care more about how things look than how they actually are.”
“That’s not fair. I care about you, and I care about our family’s name. Sometimes, that means making tough decisions.”
“And sometimes, it means making decisions that screw over the people you claim you care about.”
He doesn’t flinch, just stares at me with those piercing eyes. “You’re young. One day, you’ll understand the importance of managing public perception.”
I lean back in the booth, crossing my arms. “Coach is never going to go for this.”
“It’s already been taken care of.”
“You spoke to Coach Jensen?” I’m grinding my teeth so hard I fear I’ll crack the enamel.
“Yes. He’s agreed to let the crew into the locker room for your next couple of games and to give a few short interviews about college hockey. He thinks it will bring more recognition to the program.”
Bullshit. Jensen didn’t agree to it. I bet Dad went to the dean first.
He confirms that suspicion by saying, “Dean Allen is also on board. Anything to highlight and showcase Briar’s achievements.” He gives me a pointed look. “Now eat your food before our lovely waitress starts to think something is wrong.”
I offer a fake smile and shove a french fry in my mouth.
He nods. “There you go.”
I have an afternoon class that doesn’t start for a couple hours, so usually I’d go home and grab a nap first. Today I decide to drive right to campus, heading for the Graham Center. The arena’s namesake donated a shit ton of money to Briar in order to upgrade the facility. We’re talking massive upgrades—a brand-new gym and training center, hot and cold tub rooms, two rinks, an entire corridor of media rooms. It’s probably the best hockey facility in the entire country.
I make my way to the coaches’ offices, reaching Jensen’s door at the same time as a man exits. He looks like he’s in his early forties, with hair that’s more gray than brown and blue eyes that give me a once-over when they land on me.
“I feel like I know you,” the man accuses.
I blink. “Oh. Maybe? I’m not sure.”
“Do you know a kid named Hudson? Fitzgerald?”
“No…”
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.” He’s squinting at me now. “You don’t look like a freshman. Hudson’s a freshman.”
“At Briar?”
“No, he goes to UConn.”
Then why would I know him? I want to yell.
This entire exchange is baffling and uncomfortable, so I inch toward Coach’s door with a hasty, “Anyway, gotta go.”
I make my escape, knocking on the door even as I’m already opening it. Coach is at his desk, glancing up at my entrance.
“Coach, hey.”
“What is it, Larsen?”
“You spoke to my father,” I respond in a flat tone, because he didn’t mention anything about it at practice this morning.
He nods. “Come in.”
I close the door, then sit in the uncomfortable chair in front of his desk. There is no way Coach is going to offer comfortable visitors’ chairs. The man doesn’t want visitors. Everything about him, from his no-nonsense buzz cut to his perpetual scowl, screams stay the hell away from me .
I slump into the chair. “I’m sorry, Coach. I didn’t know he was going to do this. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.” I shake my head at Jensen. “Why would you agree to it?”
“The dean didn’t give me much of a choice. Besides, I’ve dealt with bigger nuisances, and I run a clean program with good men. We have nothing to hide.”
“I know, but it’s annoying.”
“There is very little about life that isn’t annoying, kid.”
My gaze flits toward the photographs on the shelves behind his desk, all featuring smiling members of his family. Jensen sports a smile in some of them too, which is, frankly, shocking.
“I don’t know,” I point out, nodding toward the frames. “Your life seems pretty good.”
Pretty great , in fact. He has two daughters. A couple of grandkids. A wife who’s still smoking hot even in her sixties.
“Trust me, they annoy me too. My daughter Taylor is throwing my granddaughter a unicorn party for her tenth birthday. Morgan insisted on it.” He scowls. “Everyone has to wear horns.”
I swallow a laugh. “Don’t worry. I think you could rock a unicorn horn,” I say helpfully.
He glares at me. “And then to add to the annoyance dogpile, my grandson decided he’s coming to Briar next year.”
That makes me raise a brow. “You mean Connelly?”
AJ Connelly is one of the most talked-about players in high school. That kid’s getting a full ride and four years of ego stroking at any college he chooses. Briar would be lucky to have him.
“I heard the NHL was trying to butter him up. He’s not going right to the pros?” I ask.
“No. My son-in-law wants him to earn a degree and let the NCAA develop him before throwing him to the wolves.”
I love how casually Jensen just drops this. The son-in-law in question is Jake Connelly. Literally a living legend. He led Edmonton to more than one Stanley Cup win.
“I’m confused. You don’t want AJ to come here?”
“Oh, I’d love to have him. This kid is faster than his dad ever was.”
Holy shit. That is saying a lot. Jake Connelly’s nickname was “Lightning on Skates” back in the day.
“I still don’t see the annoying part.”
“My goddamn son-in-law!” Jensen grumbles. “And don’t get me started on my daughter. Those two are going to be back-seat coaching the entire time.”
I snicker. “I mean, there are worse problems to have.”
“Yes,” he says, albeit grudgingly. “But you asked how life is annoying. That’s fucking how.”
“Honestly, Coach…” My shoulders once again sag in defeat. “I think I’d rather have your problems than an egomaniac dad who cares more about his image than his son’s privacy.”