Chapter Twenty-Two Will
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WILL
My wife will murder you without hesitation
I ARRIVE AT THE RINK FOR MORNING SKATE WITH A PEP IN MY STEP . I don’t even care that it’s barely past eight. I’ve got Charlotte Kingston on the brain. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about the girl since Beck and I got home from our date last night.
Man, she can kiss.
I want to kiss her again. Everywhere.
But she left us last night with no clarity about whether she wants to pursue this. She wanted a good-night kiss, yes, but that doesn’t mean she’s interested in hanging out again. Taking things further. I’d love to blow up her phone asking to see her again, check how she feels about things, tell her how much I want her, but I don’t want to scare her away.
Beckett doesn’t want that either. He talked me out of double texting her after the Glad you made it home safe, thanks for tonight message I sent when we got home.
I would’ve loved to see her again tonight, but we’re playing the first game of a two-game weekend series later. Coach Jensen, who’s usually waiting for us on the ice at practice, is in the locker room today when everyone starts filing in. He’s accompanied by a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes who I’m certain I’ve seen before but can’t place. The newcomer wears a gray Briar U hoodie and has a whistle dangling around his neck.
Coach waits for the room to fill up before clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention.
“Shut up,” he barks, and within seconds, he’s met with silence. “I’ve got an announcement to make. This is Coach Hollis. He’ll be joining the coaching staff as of today. Coming on board for the rest of the season.”
Everyone waits for him to continue. He doesn’t.
“See you out there,” he says brusquely, then stalks off.
“He hasn’t changed one bit,” Coach Hollis says, beaming from ear to ear. He claps his hands too. “All right, I’ll keep it quick. I’m Mike Hollis. You can call me Coach or Hollis or Mike—honestly, I’m not picky. Names mean nothing.”
Beside me, Case lets out a soft snort.
“There’s only one thing that matters,” continues Coach/Hollis/Mike, “so I need all you boys to open your ears and really listen to me right now, okay? With your ears.”
Case and I exchange a look. I’m still not quite sure what to make of this dude. He seems…colorful.
And I suddenly remember where I’ve seen him. He was leaving Jensen’s office the day I came to talk to Coach about my dad’s intrusive interviews.
Speaking of interviews, I have one today after practice. The writer from Capitol Magazine finally managed to pin me down with a date.
“My daughters are off-limits, you hear me?” Hollis’s stern eyes conduct a sweep of the locker room. “The twins and Anika are too young for you, so don’t even fucking look at them. But RJ is age appropriate— especially don’t look at her. This is nonnegotiable. My wife will murder you without hesitation. She is a scary woman. Now what’s the rule?”
There’s a murmur of confusion. The rule? What is this man babbling about? Nobody cares about his daughters.
“Let’s all repeat the rule,” he says, gesturing for us to speak. When everyone continues to stare at him, he grumbles in irritation. “Say after me: your daughters are off-limits.”
After a beat, a chorus of voices rings through the room.
“Your daughters are off-limits.”
“…off-limits,” finishes Patrick, who came into the chant late.
“You’re good boys,” Hollis says, nodding firmly. “All right, gear up.”
Chatter fills the room again, everyone turning toward their lockers to get ready. In the stall next to me, Ryder peels his sweatshirt off. His head pops free at the same time as our new assistant coach ambles over.
“Hey! Luke! You remember me from your wedding, right?”
Ryder dons a blank face. I don’t blame him. There were about five hundred people at his wedding. Against his will, of course. Gigi’s dad was in charge of the guest list.
“My pants ripped on the dance floor when I did the splits?” Coach Hollis prompts. “Tore right at the crotch?”
“Oh yeah!” Shane exclaims from the other end of the bench. “I remember that! Those were some killer splits, bro.”
Shane sounds like he means that. Shit, I guess Diana really did turn him into a dancer. I’m both impressed and afraid.
Hollis takes another step, officially encroaching on Ryder’s space cushion.
Ryder’s expression doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s on the alert, wondering what this overly enthusiastic man wants from him.
“Listen,” Hollis says, his tone grave enough to raise my concern. “I need you to talk to Garrett for me.”
“What about?” Ryder asks, his forehead creased.
“I want access to Dad Chat.”
“Oh. Uh, sorry, Coach, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Dad Chat!” Hollis sputters. I can’t tell if he’s outraged or upset. Maybe both. “It’s by invite only, and those assholes won’t let me join. Fitzy got in because of the Di Laurentis connection. Connelly’s in because he’s basically trying to fight Logan for G’s number-one best friend slot, but Logan ain’t gonna take it standing up.”
“Lying down,” I correct.
Hollis blinks in confusion. “Huh?”
“The phrase is ‘won’t take it lying down.’”
“Why the fuck would anyone be lying down for a fight?”
I’m about to explain, but Hollis makes another impatient noise and continues.
“So I said, fine, I’ll be the bigger man. I don’t need to be in the chat. Me and Conor can start our own chat. We’re not close but we can be. Nobody says we can’t be.”
“Who is Conor?” I hear someone whisper.
I have no idea.
“And then I find out Conor got into the chat last year! Jake added him because they’re married to sisters.” Hollis growls. “How is it my fault I’m not related to any of these assholes? What? I should have nailed Dean’s sister instead of marrying my wife? Is that it? Do they want me to divorce my wife?”
“I’m going to leave now,” Shane says, and then he brazenly just…leaves.
Ryder, Beck, and I remain, somehow locked into this conversation despite the precedent Shane just set. We could hurry up and throw our pads on, but nobody does.
“Uh, I can text him later if you want,” Ryder tells our new assistant coach.
“Do it now. I’ll wait.”
“Um. Yeah. Okay, bro. Sure.” Ryder gives us a look, then reaches for his phone.
After practice, I shower and change into my street clothes and drive back to Hastings. I chose Della’s as the venue for our interview because I don’t want some random DC journalist over at my house.
The bell above the door dings when I enter. I stop, scanning the brightly lit diner until my gaze lands on the likeliest candidate for out-of-towner. The woman in the back booth has that city feel to her. Glossy, perfectly styled hair, impeccable makeup, and a white silk blouse that looks tailored to her slight frame.
She notices me at the door and lifts her hand in a brisk wave.
I unzip my coat as I walk toward the booth, nodding hello on my approach. “Ms. Diaz?”
“Call me Tessa,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Will.”
I don’t think it’s meant as a jab, but it’s definitely a reminder that I’ve been putting this off for weeks now.
The last thing I want to do is sit down for an interview, but this is my lot in life. To be jerked around like a marionette on a stage, my father peering down at me as he pulls my strings.
Tessa Diaz seems like a nice enough woman. Closer to my age than I expected—she can’t be a day older than twenty-five. But she’s still a political operative. A fixture in the DC media.
In other words, she can’t be trusted.
I settle in the seat across from her, running a hand through my hair to smooth it out after the November wind just had its way with it. I order a coffee when the waitress pops over, then make small talk with Tessa until my cup is filled.
Tessa places her phone face up on the table, open to a recording app. “Do you mind if I tape this?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Great. Thank you.” She hits the Record button. “So. Will. Tell me about your mother.”
I give her a rueful smile. “I thought this was supposed to be about hockey. Because that prompt feels dangerously close to a therapy session with a stranger.”
She flashes a perfect, white smile. “Only if you have deep-seated issues about your mother.”
“No,” I say, chuckling. “I don’t. To be honest, I remember very little about her.”
“You were young when she died. Five?”
“Four.”
“That must have been tough.”
“Again, I don’t remember much. After she died, Dad hired a few nannies. I only really remember one—Jodie. She was nice.” I shrug. “And then about a year later, he met Kelsey. A year after that, he married her.”
“Yes. Your stepmother, Kelsey Lowen. She has an impressive résumé. Well-respected in the law circles. How do you feel about her?”
“Seriously, aren’t we supposed to be talking about hockey?”
“We’re talking about everything. I like to form a complete picture of the person I’m profiling.”
“Remind me again why I’m being profiled?”
“Well, technically, your father is being profiled.”
So why the fuck are you talking to me?
I plaster on a polite smile. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. If the point is to unearth some family drama, dig up some skeletons—”
Tessa laughs. “That’s not the kind of journalist I am, Will. Did you not look up any of my previous work?”
I did, actually, and it did seem like her byline was attached to a lot of puff pieces, but that doesn’t mean I can trust her. Who’s to say this isn’t the day she decides to write a scathing exposé?
“Do you mind if I turn this off?” She gestures to the recorder.
Suspicion flickers through me. “Sure.”
Tessa presses the Stop button. “Do you really think I attended Yale journalism just so I could graduate and write glowing pieces about a congressman’s son’s college life?” Her tone is amused rather than antagonistic.
“I mean, that’s sort of what you’re doing…”
“Yeah, it’s called paying your dues. There’s basically an entire department at the magazine for this kind of transactional bullshit.”
“Transactional how?”
“Meaning I write a beautiful story about how wonderful Congressman Larsen’s son is. What a fine young man he raised. And then, at a later date, he throws a piece of intel our way. Leaks that a particular vote isn’t about to go as unexpected. Reveals that a particular House member is about to be arrested for tax evasion. That sort of thing.” She shrugs. “Eventually, once I’ve written enough of this fluff, I get to work on the more hard-hitting stuff. So I assure you, this isn’t an elaborate trap. These questions are simply formalities that will help me wax poetic about how you persevered after your mother died and that rather than living out the Cinderella archetype with your evil stepmother, you and Kelsey Lowen actually get along wonderfully.”
“That wouldn’t even be a lie,” I say with a laugh. “She’s great. We’re having lunch next week.”
“Sounds lovely. Now, shall we continue?” She reaches for the recorder.
I nod, feeling some of the pressure lift off my chest. I always have to be so careful about what I say in these situations, but I sensed nothing but sincerity from Tessa just now. And knowing I’m not walking into any traps causes me to speak more openly than I usually would.
We talk more about my stepmother. My classes. Why I wanted to attend Briar and how I chose to play hockey when I was six because all the other sports bored me.
“So you like excitement,” Tessa prompts.
She doesn’t know the half of it.
But my sex life, alas, is not the subject for this article.
“I guess I do,” I answer, shrugging.
“What about violence? Is that another draw for you?”
“I wouldn’t call it violence, per se. College contact rules are strict. Fighting isn’t tolerated.”
“Aggression then. The physicality of the sport. You enjoy that.”
“I mean…” I grin at her. “Nothing gets your heart pumping and your adrenaline running the way hockey does. It’s fantastic.”
Tessa’s lips curve. “I believe that is the first genuine smile you’ve given me today.”
“It’s a fun sport.”
“But no plans on going pro?”
“Honestly, I don’t think I want that life. It’s a lot to put my body through. A lot of pressure to always be at the top of my game. A lot of traveling and time away from home.”
“Hmm, and who would you want to go home to? Do you have a significant other?”
“Not at the moment. But yes, I’d hate to be away from my girl for long stretches of time. Professional hockey is a sacrifice. There are men who’ve missed the birth of their children because they’re on the road playing a five-game stretch. It’s a whole other level of dedication. There are guys on my team—Colson, Ryder, Lindley. They’ve wanted to play in the pros from the second they threw on a pair of skates. But me, I never grew up saying I wanted that.”
“What did you grow up wanting to do then?”
“I don’t know. I changed my mind all the time,” I admit. “Sometimes it was a cop, sometimes a firefighter. Sometimes I thought about being a doctor, till I realized you deal with way too many bodily fluids.”
She laughs. “What about following in your dad’s footsteps?”
I grimace. “Hard pass.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy being a politician?”
“No, I don’t need that kind of attention. Media scrutiny all the time, always having to say the right thing.” I pause. “I’m not against the behind-the-scenes stuff, though.”
“Hey, if you like excitement,” she says, waggling her eyebrows enticingly, “there’s nothing more exciting than working on a campaign. Did you ever help out with any of your dad’s?”
“Other than the obligatory photo ops, no.”
“Interesting.”
“But like I said, I wouldn’t be against it. It does sound challenging, taking a raw candidate, polishing them up, bringing them in front of a national audience, and giving them an opportunity to sell their policies and ideals to the public.”
“Yet you won’t do that for your father.”
I shrug. “If I ever worked on a campaign, it would have to be for someone who—”
I stop, recognizing the land mine I almost stepped in.
“Finish that sentence,” Tessa urges.
“Nah, it’s fine.”
“Puff piece,” she reminds me. “Your dad’s staff made it clear not a single negative word will be on the page. They have final approval before it goes to print.”
Shrugging again, I decide to finish the sentence, because she’s right—Dad paid good money for this piece; there’s no way he’d allow them to print what I’m about to say. Besides, I like Tessa. She seems smart. I hope she gets to write the hard-hitting stuff one day.
I meet her gaze. “I would want to campaign for someone who’s more deserving.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You believe your father is undeserving?”
“That’s not what I said. He’s good at what he does. But I feel like I’d probably connect better with someone else’s policies and overall approach.”
She changes the subject again. “What are your thoughts on the UCS scandal?”
Thankfully, I’m prepared for this one. Dad’s PR firm sent me a stock reply I’m supposed to use.
“I keep my head focused on my own program. But if there’s any truth to the allegations, then I would want to see the perpetrators punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
At that, the interview comes to an end, and I honestly can’t say I hated it. Tessa says she’ll contact me if she has any follow-up questions, and I walk her to her car before getting into mine and driving home. I have just enough time to catch a nap and grab some food before I need to head back to campus to meet the bus. Both games this weekend are in New Haven.
I’m pulling into the driveway when a notification lights my phone.
Charlie.
My heart instantly kicks into second gear. I don’t think I’ve ever been more eager to open a message.
CHARLIE:
How about tomorrow night? Your place. No expectations, no promises. We can watch a movie or something?
I waste no time typing back a response. I know Beck won’t mind. He wants this as badly as I do.
LARS & B:
Sounds like a plan. See you then.