Chapter 8
I was struggling to breathe.
Knox drove like he did everything else—aggressive, impatient, operating on the assumption that everyone else would either keep up or get the hell out of the way.
We blew through Boston in what had to be record time.
He threaded the car through traffic with inches to spare, cutting lanes without signaling, braking late, accelerating earlier, slipping into gaps that absolutely did not exist until he decided they did.
It was the kind of driving that required either terrifying skill or a complete indifference to dying violently in a pileup.
Possibly both.
A cab honked as Knox cut in front of it. Knox didn’t even flinch.
“You gonna puke?” he asked, eyes locked on the road.
“No.”
“You look like you’re gonna puke.”
“I’m not going to puke.” I loosened my grip on the door handle by a fraction of an inch.
He shot me a sideways glance then accelerated through a yellow light that had absolutely turned red before we cleared the intersection.
Boston Wardens’ penalty minutes leader, 2022 season: Andrew Knox, 154 minutes. Second place: 89.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Knox said.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you mutter.” He downshifted, and the engine growled. “You do it when you’re stressed.”
I looked at him, surprised he’d noticed. “I’m not stressed.”
“Liar.”
I didn’t have a response to that. Mostly because my brain was busy cataloging exits and calculating stopping distance.
The Boston Wardens Training Center came into view a minute later. The building was all concrete and glass and sharp angles, the team logo emblazoned across the front in steel letters three feet tall.
I’d seen this building a thousand times. On TV, in photos, in the background of game broadcasts. But I’d never been here, and I’d definitely never been close enough to see the security gate, the player parking, or the way the glass reflected the afternoon light.
This was the kind of place you dreamed about when you were a kid with cheap skates and borrowed gear. The kind of place that felt impossible.
And now I was pulling up to it in a Porsche.
Knox jerked the wheel and dumped the car right at the entrance, the Porsche stopping so abruptly my seatbelt locked.
He killed the engine.
“Close enough,” he said, already opening the door.
I followed, my legs slightly unsteady after the ride.
The cold air hit me first when we walked through the doors, followed by that sharp, clean smell of ice and Zamboni exhaust. Then the fluorescent lights, the polished floors, the team photos lining the walls. Everything was pristine, professional, expensive.
I’d grown up watching games on a TV that only worked if you hit it the right way.
I’d played beer league in college with borrowed equipment because I couldn’t afford my own.
I’d memorized stats and line combinations and draft picks because it was the only way I could stay close to the sport after I’d accepted I’d never make it.
And now I was standing in the middle of the Boston Wardens Training Center.
My heart was pounding.
Knox nodded at the security guard—who nodded back, carefully neutral—and kept walking.
I followed, trying not to stare at everything like a kid in a toy store.
Knox pushed through a set of double doors, and suddenly we were rinkside.
The sound hit me like a physical thing. Skates cutting ice, pucks hitting boards, voices echoing in the cavernous space.
The rink was massive, professional-sized, the ice pristine and white under harsh overhead lights.
Players were running drills, moving with the kind of speed and precision that looked effortless but absolutely wasn’t.
I recognized all of them.
Number 18, the captain—Voss, center, twenty-eight years old, two-time All-Star. Number 44, the enforcer—Shaw, left wing, 6’3”, 220 pounds, known for his fights as much as his goals. Number 71, the rookie Wesley Morrison—
I stopped myself. Cataloging players like they were stats was exactly the kind of thing I couldn’t do here.
But holy shit—I was watching Voss run drills fifteen feet away from me.
My chest felt tight. Not panic—not yet. Just . . . overwhelmed. This was everything I’d wanted when I was younger. Everything I’d given up on. And now I was here, but only because I was following my boss around like a shadow.
Knox walked toward the bench, and the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. Just. . . conversations thinning out, laughter trailing off mid-sentence. Heads turned. Not hostile. Not welcoming either.
Careful. Wary.
Andrew didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care. He stepped onto the rubber mat, unlaced his jacket, dropped it onto the bench like this was just another Tuesday.
Someone near the far end of the rink muttered something I couldn’t hear.
Knox looked up. “Unless you’re planning to physically remove me, I’m skating.”
No one moved.
A coach opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.
Knox pulled on his helmet and stepped onto the ice.
The message was clear: this wasn’t a request, and it definitely wasn’t a negotiation.
I stayed close to the wall, suddenly very aware of how out of place I was. This wasn’t my world. I was just the assistant. The guy who answered emails and managed schedules and definitely, absolutely didn’t know anything about hockey.
I pulled out my phone and pretended to check something important.
“Hey.”
I looked up.
Two players were walking toward me, both in workout gear. One had messy black hair and was built like a tank, with an easy smile. The other was red-haired, with the kind of face that looked like it had been hit a few too many times.
“You’re the new guy, right?” the first one said. “Knox’s assistant?”
“Yes. Matthew Quinn.”
“Kirk Chappell.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. His grip was firm but not crushing. “Right wing. This is David Searcy, defense.”
“Hey,” Searcy said, nodding.
I knew exactly who they were. Kirk Chappell, 27, right wing, 6’2”, 205 pounds, known for his slapshot and his tendency to take stupid penalties. Twelve goals this season, eighteen assists. David Searcy, 29, defenseman, 6’3”, 220 pounds, steady presence on the blue line. Plus-eight rating.
I didn’t say any of that.
“Nice to meet you,” I said instead.
“So you’re the one keeping Knox in line?” Chappell grinned. “How’s that working out?”
“It’s. . . going.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Searcy leaned against the boards, casual. “You play?”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“Hockey. You play?” He gestured at me. “You’ve got the build for it. Compact, good center of gravity. I’m guessing. . . what, college? Maybe juniors?”
“Uh. Beer league in college. Nothing serious.”
“’Nothing serious,’ he says.” Chappell laughed, elbowing Searcy. “What position?”
“Center. Sometimes wing.”
“See? I knew it.” Searcy looked pleased with himself. “You can always tell. It’s the shoulders. Hockey players have different shoulders.”
They kept talking, asking questions, making jokes, being genuinely friendly.
And all I could think was: They don’t know.
They don’t know I’ve watched every game this season.
That I know their stats, their tendencies, their strengths and weaknesses.
That I could tell them Chappell’s shooting percentage has dropped two points since February or that Searcy’s been averaging twenty-three minutes of ice time per game.
Knox had told me on day one: Don’t talk about hockey.
So I smiled and nodded and played the part of the guy who didn’t care about the sport at all.
Even though being here, rinkside, smelling the ice, hearing the sound of skates, felt like coming home.
After a few more minutes of small talk, Chappell and Searcy headed back toward the ice.
For the next few hours, I stayed by the wall, watching Knox skate.
He moved differently than the others—not better, necessarily, but more aggressive.
Like he was trying to work something out of his system with every stride.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. Mr. Hunter. My landlord.
Fuck.
I stepped away from the boards, heading toward the exit. The corridor was quieter, emptier. I answered on the third ring.
“Mr. Hunter.”
“Matthew.” His voice was clipped.
“I already know what you’re going to say. I wanted to call you. I just started a new job.”
I heard him sigh. “You’ve told me that before.”
“This one is different,” I said quickly. “It’s guaranteed pay, not hourly. The issue is timing. First check doesn’t clear for a couple weeks, but after that I’ll be current. I can add a late fee. Interest. Whatever you need.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Matthew,” he said finally, slower now. “I don’t doubt you’re trying. But I’ve heard ‘a couple weeks’ every month since November.”
“I know,” I said. “And I get why you don’t believe me. I just—this one will actually stick. I can show you the contract if you want.”
He exhaled. I could hear paper shifting, keys clinking.
“When can you pay something?”
Relief hit so hard it almost made me dizzy. “Soon. Not the full amount yet, but a partial payment. My sister has some school fees, and then I’ll get caught up. I’ll pay the rest the moment the check clears. Plus the late fee.”
“I hope this job really is different, Matthew,” he said. Not unkindly. Just tired.
The line went dead, and I stared at my phone.
“Ready to go?”
I spun around. Knox was standing a few feet away, duffel bag over his shoulder, hair damp with sweat. He wasn’t looking at me—his eyes were on his phone—but there was something in his posture that made me think he’d been there longer than I realized.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding my phone into my pocket. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He started walking toward the exit without another word. I followed, grateful he wasn’t asking questions.
The drive back was quieter than the drive there. Knox didn’t push the speed limit this time, didn’t weave through traffic like he was trying to prove something. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift.
I stared out the window, trying to shake off the phone call. I could make it work. I had to make it work.
“Thanks,” Knox said.
I looked at him. “What?”
“For the rink.” He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “It was a good idea. Needed to get out of the fucking house.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I shrugged. “No problem.”
He was quiet for a few beats, like he was lining something up in his head.
“You didn’t act like I expected,” he said.
I frowned. “How’s that?”
“Most people get weird in there in a different way,” he said. “Starstruck. Awkward. Or they won’t shut up.” He glanced at me briefly, then back to the road. “You were… tight. Like you were bracing for something.”
My chest tightened again, unhelpfully.
“I was fine.”
“Sure,” he said, not unkindly. Just unconvinced. “It didn’t look like your first time in a rink. It also didn’t look like you wanted to be there.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it? I had wanted to be there. Too much.
I searched for something neutral. Something uninteresting.
“It’s just not really my world,” I said finally.
He took a turn, smooth and deliberate. “Still—Chappell and Searcy liked you. They don’t usually bother with—” He stopped himself. “They don’t usually bother.”
“They were nice,” I said.
“They’re idiots.” He pulled up to a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.
The light changed. He accelerated, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
When we pulled into the garage, Knox parked in his spot—his number stenciled on the concrete—and shut the engine off. He didn’t move right away.
“You made it to the end of the week,” he said.
It took me a second to process that. Then I realized: Friday. End of the week. The deadline he’d set on day one.
“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. You can stay. Another week. We’ll see how it goes.”
It wasn’t a compliment. Wasn’t even really approval. Just acknowledgment.
But coming from Andrew Knox, it felt like winning something.
“Thanks,” I said.
He shifted in his seat, glanced over at me. “Heard you mention your sister earlier. On the phone.”
What? He’d been listening? How much had he heard?
Wait.
Angelica.
The honors ceremony.
That was today.
I checked my phone with shaking hands. 6:47 p.m.
The ceremony started at six.
“Fuck.” My chest constricted. “Fuck, fuck, I—I completely forgot. I told her I’d be there. She—she got an award. She’s been talking about it all week, and I—”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She’d been so excited. She’d reminded me three times. I’d promised.
“I’m the worst—I can’t believe I…she’s sitting there alone and I—”
“Matthew.”
“Everyone else has their parents there, and she just has me and I fucked it up, I—”
“Quinn. Address.”
I blinked at him, my vision swimming. “What?”
“Where’s the school?” Knox was already restarting the engine. “Give me the address. Now.”
“You don’t have to. It’s too late. It already started. I—”
“Address.”
I fumbled with my phone, hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it. “Brighton. Commonwealth Avenue. Brighton High. It’s—oh my god, she’s going to hate me.”
He threw the car into reverse. “Buckle up.”