Chapter Twenty-Two
Remy
“This is such fucking bullshit.” Dante’s face is only inches from Owen’s.
The man seated to the right of Dante’s now-empty chair clears his throat. “Mr. Giovanetti, as your lawyer, I suggest that you—”
Dante ignores him. “We’ve given you everything, Rourke. You were nobody before I brought you in. Some little nobody from a shit AHL team in Boston. I’m the only reason anybody knows your name.”
“Dante, please,” says one of the League reps, a man whose name I missed since everyone else seems to know each other. Whoever he is, he sounds exhausted.
Dante doesn’t flinch. He stays in Owen’s space, palms splayed on the table, mouth contorted into a snarl. Owen, on the other hand, is completely devoid of expression, which somehow makes the whole scene worse.
I remember what he told me about his father, and I wish I could intervene.
No wonder he learned to shut his face down when men start yelling.
Instead, I keep my mouth shut. Not because of the attention I’d draw by speaking, though I’m not thrilled about that prospect, either.
No, I keep my lips pressed tight together because I don’t want to spill any fuel on the fire.
Any discussion of potential misconduct would only make things worse for Owen.
The League rep rubs his palm against his forehead. “This isn’t helping anyone, Dante.”
Judging by the tension in the room, nobody actually believes that’s going to stop him.
Dante whirls on the spot so fast his chair nearly tips over. Three League reps and a small army of lawyers sit on the left side of the table; Sergio and Renee sit to the right, looking deeply exhausted already.
Dante stalks toward the reps, jabbing a finger hard enough that one of them visibly leans back.
“You know what would help? If your people could get your fucking guys under control! Rourke knows better, true, but your shithead player smashed glass into my stands and went after one of my employees in my arena.”
One of the League reps opens his mouth.
Dante steamrolls right over him. “No. Absolutely not. You don’t get to sit there acting like this was some random hockey scuffle. That girl could’ve gotten hurt. My staff could’ve gotten hurt. Fans could’ve gotten hurt.”
Sergio pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s already preparing for the legal bill.
Dante keeps going anyway. “You want to fine somebody? Fine the asshole who turned my rink into a goddamn crime scene.”
“Dante.” Renee finally cuts in. He opens his mouth to say something, prompting her to immediately reach for her phone.
Based on a whispered conversation I overheard before the meeting began, she has his wife on speed dial.
I must admit, I’m curious about the type of woman who can put the fear of God into Dante Giovanetti.
Honestly, despite the migraine he’s currently causing everyone in this room, I do appreciate him finally going to bat for his people.
Even if he’s doing it like an enraged mob boss with a nicotine addiction.
Dante takes a step back. “Fine. I’ll let the rest of you say your piece.” He lopes around the table and drops into his chair. “Proceed.”
The League rep who spoke earlier taps his pen against his notepad.
“As I was saying, Mr. Rourke, we’ve reviewed the footage from last night’s game.
Clovis Toutain has already been suspended.
This isn’t the first incident he’s instigated during a game that put innocent fans at risk…
but neither is it yours.” He steeples his fingers. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir.” Owen’s jaw is set. The obedience in his tone settles painfully in my bones.
“You’ll be suspended for at least two games.
If this were an outlier, I’d be inclined to treat it lightly, given the nature of Mr. Toutain’s behavior.
However, we have ongoing concerns with regard to your aggressiveness in the crease.
Some territorial protectiveness is normal, but you’re taking it to the extreme. ”
Owen’s throat bobs. It’s the only sign that he isn’t completely shut down. “Yes, sir. Understood.”
“Yes, sir, understood,” Dante repeats in a whiny little voice that sounds nothing like Owen’s. In his lower register, he adds, “Is that all you have to say? For fuck’s sake, Rourke, act like you give a shit!”
If Dante knew anything about Owen at all, he’d realize caring is the entire problem.
“I care,” Owen says. His eyes flick toward me, and I feel it then: the roiling wall of shame that radiates off of him. It’s almost unbearable to look at. “But I can’t argue. You saw it all happen. You know what I did.”
“Everyone knows, Rourke.” Dante pivots toward me. “Miss Callahan, you’re his crisis manager. This is a fucking crisis. Do you have a strategy in mind?”
It’s the first time since the “incident” that anyone has asked my opinion. Not that the press didn’t try last night. I got away then, but this is my job. The trouble is, I don’t like what I have to do next.
I nod slowly. “I think I do. Or at least, I think I have the start of a plan.”
“Well?” Dante’s mouth pinches. “Let’s hear it. Because I have to tell you, Miss Callahan, that your efforts suggest that you’re not the right person for the job.”
Here we go. “I agree, Mr. Giovanetti.”
The words taste awful coming out of my mouth.
I’m aware of Owen’s reaction in my peripheral vision as his facade of indifference drops. His face goes pale, and he opens his mouth as if to argue, but no sound comes out. I can practically see the moment his heart drops through the floor.
“I’ve been working with Owen for several months now, and without divulging anything that has been revealed to me in confidence, I believe that it would be better for me to pass this assignment off to another member of my firm.
When it comes to events and community-facing activities, Owen’s great.
He’s especially wonderful with kids. Kind.
Patient. Protective in ways most people never bother to notice.
He doesn’t need my help on that front. When it comes to the on-ice interactions, though, there isn’t much I can do.
I thought we’d made progress, but I think my presence was a significant part of the problem yesterday.
If I hadn’t attended the game, I don’t think this incident would have occurred. ”
The admission feels like cutting off my own arm.
“Remy,” Owen croaks.
“I have two colleagues in mind who I think would be a good fit, actually. Both of them work at my firm, so I can vouch for them personally.”
“Remy,” Owen says again, slightly louder this time. “He went after you. On purpose.”
The desperation in his voice nearly cracks my resolve on the spot.
This part sucks, but I had all night to think it through, and I know this is the right choice. I turn to face him and fold my hands in my lap, doing everything within my power to keep my facade professional and controlled. Owen’s eyes are red and puffy.
“Exactly,” I say. “Both of the colleagues I have in mind are men, and they both specialize in cases like yours.” I don’t elaborate because the situation with Owen’s parents isn’t common knowledge.
I don’t know how much Dante knows. The League reps probably know even less.
I dance around the root of the problem in ways that I hope Owen will understand.
“You aren’t aggressive with your teammates.
I’ve seen no evidence that you’re aggressive in your personal life.
I don’t think a PR spin is enough. I think you have things you need to work through, either through an anger management program or some form of therapy. ”
Not because I think he’s dangerous all the time. Because I think he’s been surviving in emergency mode for far too long.
Owen wilts. He shrinks in on himself. “Oh.” The tremor in his voice devastates me. That one tiny sound hurts more than Dante screaming ever could.
“You need to learn tools that can help you avoid repeat events in the future. And unfortunately, I can’t be the one to facilitate that process.”
Especially not when my own judgment where Owen is concerned has already become dangerously compromised.
Owen closes his eyes. He sways slightly in his chair. “Okay.”
“And you think someone else can fix him?” Dante asks.
I immediately hate the wording.
I breathe through my nose. Honestly, it’s a miracle that nobody has punched Dante in the face.
At the moment, I’m tempted to do it myself.
“I think someone else will be better equipped to have these conversations with Owen, yes. And they’ll have a better sense of how to approach conversations about impulse control. ”
Even as I say it, I know that reducing Owen to a control problem misses half the truth.
Dante’s lip curls up. “Therapy. Ha. Well, if that’s what it takes.”
“Perhaps we can discuss this later. In private.” I smile at the League reps. “If that’s okay with you?”
“I think it’s a good idea, Miss Callahan. In fact, this would address the League’s concerns more effectively than anything we had discussed in private.”
“Wonderful.” I want to reach for Owen. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but that I tossed and turned all night, and this is the best solution I could come up with. I want to tell him this feels awful because I care about him far too much already.
The Dallas players went after me to taunt him, and it worked.
And I can’t shake the memory of Owen’s face as he beat that man bloody on the ice.
From what I’ve heard since, the worst of Clovis Toutain’s injuries actually came from smashing through the plexiglass, but even so.
As hard as it is for me to be sympathetic to that asshat, there’s no denying the fact that I keep returning to:
Owen scared me yesterday. Not because I thought he’d hurt me. Because I saw how completely fear can take him over. I’d convinced myself that the punch that started this whole affair was an outlier, but now that’s demonstrably untrue.
I can’t rein Owen in. He needs help I can’t provide. And hating this decision doesn’t automatically make it the wrong one.
“Of course.” I stand up from my chair, and the others do the same. Only Owen remains frozen in place, still processing everything that just happened.
Dante suddenly steps into my path before I can leave.
For one terrifying second, I think he’s about to start yelling again.
Instead, he offers me his hand. “Miss Callahan,” he says gruffly, “despite this entire clusterfuck, it’s been a pleasure.”
Slightly stunned, I shake his hand. “Sir?”
“You handled yourself well,” he continues. “I’ll keep you in mind if the organization ever needs your expertise again.”
Coming from Dante Giovanetti, the words feel strangely significant.
“Thank you.”
He nods once before immediately turning back into a hurricane. “Now, somebody get me an aspirin and my wife before I sue the entire goddamn League.”
A startled laugh almost escapes me, but then I glance at Owen. And the ache comes roaring back.
There’s nothing I can say to make this easier, and I have work to do. So even though it feels a little like ripping something open inside my chest, I finally do the thing I should have done weeks ago after our first hookup. I walk away.