Chapter 9
Boston blurred past the windows.
Knox drove fast—not reckless, but efficient, cutting through traffic with the kind of precision that made me think he’d done this before. Every lane change was calculated. Every turn smooth.
I couldn’t breathe.
My phone was in my hand. I’d locked and unlocked it four times. Opened my texts with Angelica.
I’d missed it. I’d missed her ceremony because I’d been at the rink. Because I’d let myself forget everything else for a couple hours.
What was I supposed to say to her?
I’m sorry felt pathetic. I’m on my way was too late. I forgot was the truth and somehow worse than all of it.
I locked the phone. Unlocked it again.
“Stop spiraling,” Knox said.
“I’m not—”
“You are.” His eyes didn’t leave the road. “You’re sitting there cycling through every worst-case scenario. I can practically hear it.”
I locked the phone and pressed it against my thigh. “You don’t get it.”
“So explain it.”
“She—” My throat closed up. I forced the words out.
“I’m all she has. Our parents aren’t—they’re not in the picture.
It’s just me. She lives with me. I do . .
. everything. And I told her I’d be there, I promised, and she—she doesn’t ask for much.
She never asks for fucking anything. And the one thing she wanted—”
My voice cracked, and words failed me.
Knox was quiet for a moment. His hands shifted on the wheel.
“She’ll understand,” he said finally.
“She shouldn’t have to.”
We hit a red light. Knox braked, smooth and controlled, engine idling. He glanced over at me.
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
He nodded slowly. Looked back at the road. The light turned green.
“You’re doing your best,” he said.
It didn’t feel like enough.
Brighton High sat back from Commonwealth Avenue, brick and concrete, lit up against the evening dark. Families streamed out of the main entrance—parents with cameras, kids in their best clothes holding certificates and flowers.
The ceremony was over.
Knox pulled into a spot along the curb. Cut the engine.
I was already opening the door.
“I’ll wait here,” he said.
I nodded. Couldn’t speak. Climbed out and crossed the lawn.
The crowd thinned as I got closer. More families leaving, car doors slamming, engines starting. I scanned faces, looking for—
There.
On the steps.
Angelica sat with her backpack beside her, certificate rolled up in one hand.
She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t on her phone. She was just sitting there, watching people leave.
The last time I’d seen her wait like that was right after we moved in together.
She’d been fourteen, backpack at her feet, pretending she wasn’t watching every car that passed.
Angelica saw me, but her expression didn’t change.
I walked up the steps and stopped in front of her.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” She stood, shouldering her backpack. “It’s over.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I—”
“Matthew.” She held up a hand. “You’re here now, okay? Stop freaking out.”
But I could see it. The tightness around her eyes. The way she wasn’t quite looking at me.
“What did you get?” I asked, nodding at the certificate.
She unrolled it, handed it over.
National Honor Society. Angelica Quinn. In recognition of outstanding scholarship, leadership, service, and character.
Pride and shame hit me in equal measure.
“This is amazing,” I said. “Angie, this is—you worked so hard for this.”
“Yeah.” She took the certificate back, rolled it up again. “Mrs. Yarborough gave a whole speech about academic excellence and future leaders. You would have been bored.”
“I should’ve been here.”
“You had to work. I get it.”
Because I had been working. Technically. But I’d also been standing rinkside, watching drills. Breathing in cold air and ice. Forgetting the time. Forgetting everything.
“Were you the only one alone?” I asked.
She looked away. “It’s fine.”
Which meant yes.
I wanted to throw up.
A car door opened behind me. Footsteps on pavement.
Angelica’s gaze shifted past my shoulder. Her eyes went wide.
“Is that Andrew Knox?”
I turned.
Knox had gotten out of his car. He was standing at the hood, phone to his ear, gesturing sharply at someone I couldn’t see.
“—don’t give a shit if it’s a fire lane. I’ll move when I’m ready to move.” His voice carried across the lawn. “You want to write a ticket? Go ahead. I’ve got money.”
A campus security guard stood a few feet away, looking deeply uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
“You brought Andrew Knox here?” She was staring now, not even trying to hide it. “Like, the Andrew Knox? Boston Wardens’ Andrew Knox?”
“Unfortunately.”
Knox hung up on whoever he’d been yelling at, shoved his phone in his pocket, and crossed his arms. Still glaring at the security guard.
“Matthew. Oh my god.” She was already walking down the steps toward him.
“Angie—wait—”
Too late.
Knox noticed her approaching. Something in his posture shifted, the aggression draining out, shoulders relaxing slightly. He waved the security guard off without looking at him.
“Five minutes,” he said. “Then I’m gone.”
The guard retreated.
Angelica crossed the lawn, stopped a few feet from Knox, and just looked at him for a second like she was confirming he was real.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Angelica. Matthew’s sister.”
Knox straightened slightly. “Andrew.”
“I know who you are. You scored four goals against Montreal last season in the playoffs. The crowd went insane.”
A flicker of something crossed his face. Surprise, maybe. “You follow hockey?”
“Have to. I live with this guy.” She hooked her thumb in my direction. “He watches every game. Has your stats memorized. I’m pretty sure he knows your plus-minus rating better than you do.”
Shit.
Knox’s gaze shifted to me, and I wanted to evaporate. Just cease to exist entirely.
“She’s exaggerating,” I insisted.
“I’m not.” Angelica grinned, that specific grin that meant she knew exactly what she was doing. “He literally recites hockey stats when he’s anxious. It’s weird.”
I was going to kill her. I was going to actually kill her.
One blond eyebrow went up. “That’s what that muttering is?”
Oh my god. He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed.
“Wait,” I said, desperately trying to salvage whatever shred of professionalism I had left. “No. It’s not—it’s not like that. Angie—”
“What?” She stared back at me innocently. “It’s true.”
Knox was looking at me now. Really looking at me. Like he was re-contextualizing every interaction we’d had through this new lens: Matthew Quinn is apparently obsessed with me.
Which I wasn’t. I just—I watched hockey. That was normal. Lots of people watched hockey. It didn’t mean anything that I could recite his career highlights or that I knew he’d gone plus-three against the Wolves in December or—
Fuck.
I grabbed the certificate from her hand and shoved it between us like a physical barrier. “She was inducted into The National Honor Society tonight.”
“Matthew—”
“Congratulations,” I said to her, too loud, too manic. Then to Knox, still brandishing the certificate: “The National Honor Society. Really big deal.”
Stop talking about hockey. Talk about literally anything else.
Knox looked from me to Angelica, and there was definitely amusement in his expression now.
He knew. He absolutely knew I was dying inside, and he was enjoying it.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks. I’m applying to MIT.” She said it matter-of-factly, like it was no big deal, but I could hear the pride underneath.
Knox’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Smart kid.”
“Yeah, well.” She glanced back at me. “Someone in this family has to be.”
I wanted to die. This was worse than forgetting the ceremony. This was worse than anything. Because now Knox knew that I’d been watching him—really watching him—and he was going to think I was some pathetic fan who’d taken this job just to be close to him, which wasn’t true, and—
Knox almost smiled. Almost.
“The Wardens suck without you, by the way,” Angelica continued, because apparently she’d decided to make this the worst night of my life. “Like, really bad. Everyone says so.”
“Angie,” I hissed.
“What? It’s true. They lost to Ottawa last week. Ottawa.”
Knox’s expression shifted—something darker, more complicated. But he just nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I saw.”
An awkward silence settled.
“We should go,” I said quickly, before Angelica could mention anything else I’d said about Andrew Knox in the privacy of our apartment.
“I can drive you two home,” Knox offered, nodding toward his car.
Absolutely not. No way was I getting back in that car.
“We can take the bus—”
“We’re taking the car, Matthew.” Angelica was already heading for the passenger side. “Don’t be weird.”
Knox unlocked the Porsche with a chirp.
Angelica immediately went for the passenger side, yanking the door open and climbing in like this was the most normal situation in the world.
I hesitated.
Then I opened the driver’s side door, folded the seat forward, and climbed awkwardly into the back, knees knocking against leather.
By the time I’d wrestled myself upright, Knox was already sliding into the driver’s seat.
The door shut. The car felt very small.
This was a nightmare. An actual living nightmare. And now he was going to drive us home and the whole time he’d be thinking about how his assistant apparently watches every single game and has his stats memorized like some kind of obsessive—
I stared out the window and prayed for death.
Angelica gave directions from the passenger seat, navigating Knox through side streets.
“Left at the light. Then straight for like six blocks.”
Knox followed her instructions without comment.
“So,” Angelica said, twisting in her seat to look at him. “Are you actually guilty?”
“Angelica Quinn.”
She cast me the briefest of glances. “What? Everyone’s wondering. The suspension hearing is coming soon, right? What do you think is going to happen?”
Knox exhaled. For a second I thought he was going to shut her down the way he’d shut me down.