Full Tilt (The Blade Kings #4)

Prologue

TOMMY

There’s nothing more dangerous than misplaced faith in other human beings.

Take this doorman, for example. With a phone to one ear, he speaks with a guy I’ve recently learned might be my dad, wearing an expression like I just rolled in dog shit before I entered this fancy building.

I can actually see my face in the white floor tiles.

I already know how this is going to go down—I’ll be turned away in the next thirty seconds and told never to come back.

It’s not just my face that doesn’t fit around these parts of New York; my clothes don’t either.

Not a designer label in sight. I mean, my white sneakers are Nike, if you can look past three years’ worth of grime, which makes them more of a gray color.

Truthfully, I don’t know why the fuck I thought this was a good idea. I used a whole month’s wages from the burger joint to fund my flight here, and I can already tell I’ll be kicking my heels for twenty-four hours while I wait for my return flight home.

Alex Schneider doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s had seventeen years to reach out to his estranged son—if I am, in fact, his blood.

Helen, my mom, might’ve spun me a ton of lies about my father being in the special forces and killed in action after they had a one-night thing.

But that story would only carry her so far, and she knew it.

I’ve been asking questions for a while about the NHL player who looks like me and shares the same skating style.

All I want is answers from someone. Anyone at this point. Is the former Blades defenseman my dad, or am I just grasping at straws, hoping he wasn’t blown up in a military operation?

You know what? Fuck this. I’ll see myself out. The pretentious brow floating around in the doorman’s hairline tells me everything I need to know.

“Excuse me. Mr. Williams?”

I spin a full one-eighty on my heel and lock eyes with the doorman as he replaces the handset and points toward the elevator on the far side of the pristine lobby.

“Mr. Schneider has approved your visit. You can head up to the fourth floor and take a right. His apartment—number 41—is at the end of the hallway.”

It’s a full three minutes later when I hit the smart doorbell and take a step back from the glossy black double doors, swallowing down my nerves and ignoring the latest phone call from Mom.

I’ve got an inbox full of apologies and pleas—begging me to come back home and not jump to conclusions based on the fact that we look alike.

But just like the messages in my voicemail, I don’t want to hear what she has to say.

I know she’s been lying to me for seventeen years; I can feel it in my gut. Why should today be any different?

Perhaps I shouldn’t be shocked when the first face I see is some random blonde as she flies out the apartment and pushes past me, half-dressed and red-faced, carrying the rest of her clothes in one hand and a purse in the other.

You’d need to be living under a rock not to know the reputation Alex Schneider carries both on and off the ice—he’s the one warming the penalty box during games and women’s beds straight afterward.

At least, he was, until he nearly killed Scorpions defenseman, Zach Evans, last season in a brutal hit that left him a free agent.

“You just gonna stand in the doorway and stare or actually cross the threshold?”

An aggravated voice that I know belongs to my potential dad has me stepping inside and closing the door behind me.

“Leave your sneakers on.”

I pause my right hand, hovering it above my lace as I look up.

Alex comes into view, adjusting himself on the large gray corner couch set in the center of his sleek living space. When I see him in the flesh, I might as well be looking into a mirror.

At first, I think he’s going to switch off the flat-screen TV set on the wall opposite him. Instead, he snatches the PlayStation controller from the coffee table and resumes the game of GTA he previously had on pause.

“Take a seat.” He points to the far end of the couch, swiping a bottle of Bud from the side table next to him. He takes two large pulls before setting it back down.

I perch on the corner of the couch while his GTA character loots a store and holds up the owner.

A nervous twitch pulls at my throat as I watch Alex play without giving me a second glance.

Does this guy even know who I am? Surely, he can see the resemblance as clearly as I can.

“The store owner has a ton of cash in his safe. It’s kept behind a shelving unit in the back room.” I don’t recognize my own voice when I finally speak.

The side-eye he offers is the first time he’s looked at me since I arrived. “I know. I’ve played this map more times than years you’ve been on this earth. I was bored and needed something to do.”

I try not to let the fact that he’s still gaming despite my presence affect my confidence and push on with what I came to say.

“Did the doorman tell you who I was?” I ask, probing for more information.

Putting a bullet straight between the store owner’s eyes, Alex flicks his stony gaze to mine. “That’s literally the point of his job, Tommy. I don’t allow nameless people up to this apartment. I get enough with the desperate puck bunnies trying to sneak in at all hours.”

“Did you just kick that blonde girl out of your apartment?” I know that my question sounds like an accusation, and the second it leaves my mouth, I realize the monumental mistake I just made.

Hitting pause on the game, Alex tosses the controller onto the glass coffee table with a clatter.

Arms folded across his chest, he sits back on the couch and narrows his eyes in my direction, leaving me in no doubt over his thoughts.

He hates me.

“Tell me something, Tommy.”

My stomach roils at the cutting edge in his voice.

“Did your mom send you here? Did she run out of money, or is she freaking out that the child support payments will stop in a couple of months when you turn eighteen?”

I might as well be the fictional store owner with a gaping hole in my head.

“What?” I croak out, my suspicions finally confirmed. “No … I caught a flight here from Minneapolis. I wanted to meet you since you’re—”

“Since I’m what?” He laughs darkly, downing the rest of his Bud and rolling the empty bottle between his palms on a smirk.

“Since I’m your dad? And you thought you could just show up at my place and all would play out like some fucking fairy tale?

I don’t do family. I told your mom that enough times. ”

I’d reply if I wasn’t stunned into silence by his brutality.

“Last I heard from Helen Williams, she told me she’d spun some bullshit about how your dad died in service out in Afghanistan.

Apparently, you’ve been asking questions about who your real dad is for years.

” He pushes his head back into the couch and laughs toward the ceiling.

“The way she wanted to get married and live happily ever after when she found out she was pregnant. Naive little girl. As if I wanted to settle down at twenty. My hockey career was just getting started. I never wanted kids, and nothing has changed.”

Bile rises up my throat as reality sinks deep within my bones.

I’m getting the answers I came for, just not the ending I convinced myself wasn’t required.

I was determined I didn’t need a father figure in my life.

I’d come this far without him, and I could live the rest of my life in his absence. All I thought I wanted was answers.

Faith has a funny way of fooling you, persuading you it isn’t there while it waits in the wings for the crushing truth to take ahold of your hopes. Pushing you to spend your last dime and board a three-hour flight, believing you’ll be met with your father’s open arms.

Alex is staring at me as I lift my head and look at him, blinking twice to rid the wetness as it coats my vision.

“Your mom told you that story because I made it really fucking clear I wanted nothing to do with the baby. After she proved you were mine with a paternity test, she agreed to sign an NDA in exchange for above-mandatory child support payments.” His laugh is dark.

“I bet she’s freaking out right now, worrying I’ll come after her for breaking our agreement. ”

He drops his eyes to my sneakers, disgust screwing up his face. “I’ve no fucking idea where that money went, but it sure as shit wasn’t on your wardrobe. Maybe it was on your budding hockey career.”

Rolling his lips together, he attempts to suppress his obvious amusement. “I hope you aren’t expecting to get drafted. I’ve seen you play, and I find it hard to believe that you share my DNA, even if your mom proved it to me.”

He kicks his feet onto the table in front of him as his dark laughter reemerges.

“That said, word is the Detroit Sting have eyes on you.” He scoffs.

“They haven’t lifted the Cup since I can remember.

If I wasn’t so embarrassed by those sneakers you’re wearing, I’d be fully cringing at the projection of your hockey career. ”

Words stick in my esophagus. I’m desperate to tell him what a fucking prick I think he is and that I’m not surprised the Blades didn’t renew his contract. Although nothing materializes, and I remain silent, feeling smaller and smaller with every passing second.

Eventually, my “dad” rises from the couch and makes for the kitchen on the far side of the open plan space, pulling a single beer from the fridge and snapping off the cap.

“I would offer you one, but you’re still a baby.” He downs the beer and tosses the glass bottle into an open trash can, and it smashes into pieces.

Everything this guy does is barbaric.

Despite everything I’ve learned in the past ten minutes, I can’t deny what we share beyond our DNA.

The way he lives his life with such reckless abandon, the way he handles objects, his words, and people with such brutality.

I can feel that deep in my gut—an anger that simmers just below the surface, threatening to spill over each time someone pisses me off.

Or walks all over my feelings like it’s a crime to have them in the first place.

Maybe it is. Maybe that’s how you get ahead in life—not giving anyone an inch to prove that you’re not a fool who harbors faith in the first place.

The cold tiles seep through the soles of my sneakers as icy truths meander through my mind. If your own parents can lie to you and reject you so seamlessly, why should any other fucker treat you better?

The back pocket of my jeans vibrates again.

Another lie from Mom.

I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and look around at the kind of lavish apartment I know I’ll be living in just as soon as I turn pro. Which I will.

My dad might not want anything to do with me, but he can sure watch me become the most remembered Schneider in the NHL.

Every time a hockey fan utters the Schneider name, I’ll make sure the only player they’re referring to is me.

All this guy cares about is himself and his ego, and this is the perfect way to hurt both.