Chapter 9 #2
I park beside my dad’s newest acquisition—some imported sports car that probably cost more than my entire rookie contract—and check my reflection in the window before heading in. My hair’s too neat, my sweater too stiff. I look like the brand version of myself, the one that belongs in his world.
Not the one Magnus Flint has been slowly tearing apart.
The door opens before I can knock.
“About time,” Molly says, grinning as she pulls me into a quick hug. “Mom’s been asking for you every five minutes. Dad’s pretending not to care, but you know he’s timing your arrivals.”
“Some things never change,” I mutter, kicking off my boots. The foyer gleams—polished oak floors, chandeliers, a massive portrait of my grandfather staring down at us like he’s still judging everyone from the grave.
Molly laughs. “You could come straight from practice smelling like sweat and despair and he’d still check his watch.”
“I did come from practice,” I point out.
“Exactly.” She grins, her surgical scrubs swapped for jeans and a white blouse.
Even off duty, she carries herself like someone who holds people’s hearts in her hands every day. Because she does. Doctor Molly Hale, the prodigy who saved three lives before turning thirty. The family pride. The one who never needed to prove she earned her place.
I’m the other one—the son who skates for the team his father owns.
“Dinner’s in ten,” she says, linking her arm through mine as we head toward the dining room. “Mom made lamb. Dad opened the good wine. You’re in for a full interrogation. Lucky you.”
“Can’t wait.”
The smell of rosemary and butter hits me halfway down the hall, mingled with the faint citrus of my mother’s perfume.
The dining room is as polished as ever—mahogany table set with crystal and linen, fire crackling in the stone hearth.
My mother sits at the far end, graceful as always, scrolling her tablet with manicured fingers.
My father stands by the window, phone in one hand, a tumbler of scotch in the other.
He looks up as we enter.
“There’s my boy,” he says, smiling the way CEOs do for cameras—warm but practiced. “How’s the season treating you, Son?”
“Good,” I lie smoothly, taking my seat beside Molly. “We’re third in the division.”
“Third?” he repeats, brows lifting. “That’s not bad. Not great, either.”
Molly groans softly. “Dad, let him eat before the performance review.”
My mother looks up, her expression softer. “Ignore your father, darling. You look thin. Are you eating properly?”
I’m six feet tall and mostly muscle, of course I’m eating.
“Mom,” I protest, but she’s already reaching over to fix my collar like I’m still twelve.
Dinner arrives in silver dishes—lamb, roasted potatoes, sautéed green beans. It’s perfect, like everything in this house. The conversation starts light: weather, travel schedules, my sister’s latest surgical miracle. Then it shifts. It always does.
“So,” my father says, cutting into his lamb with precision. “I saw the press piece on you and that defense partner of yours. Thorn, isn’t it?”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Yeah. Kyle Thorn.”
He gives me that assessing look that could double as a lie detector. “Are you two seeing each other?”
Across the table, Molly hides a smirk behind her wineglass. “Subtle as ever.”
“It’s a reasonable question,” he says, unbothered. “There’s chatter online. Photos, dinner, something about you two being… cozy.”
I set my fork down carefully. “It was just a couple of dinners, that’s all. We’re friends. Teammates.”
Molly raises an eyebrow. “You do look good together, though. All that blond-blue symmetry. Your PR team must be drooling.”
My father chuckles. “She’s not wrong. You should think strategically, Alaric. Public perception matters, especially in our market. A relationship like that could humanize you—show people you’re not just the stoic Hale heir. It’d be good for the brand.”
I stare at him. “The brand. You mean the team.”
He shrugs, swirling his scotch. “You, the team—it’s all connected. Optics matter. The Hale name carries weight. If people see you in a stable, respectable relationship, that’s good press. Especially with someone like Thorn—solid player, clean record. Makes you both look dependable.”
“Jesus, Dad.” Molly shakes her head. “You can’t treat his love life like a marketing campaign.”
“I’m not,” he says mildly. “I’m treating it like reality. Everything’s PR now. You know that better than anyone, Doctor.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s different. My hospital doesn’t own me.”
He laughs softly. “Doesn’t it, though?”
“Stop,” my mother says gently. “Both of you.” Then, to me: “Your father just wants you to be happy. However that looks.”
“No, he wants me to be useful,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang there, heavy and sharp.
My father’s jaw tightens a fraction. “Careful, Al.”
Molly kicks my shin under the table. “Play nice.”
I take a breath, force a smile. “I’m fine, Dad. Kyle and I are just… getting to know each other. It’s not serious.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Then make it serious.”
“What?”
He sets his glass down. “The timing’s perfect. The league’s warming up to visible LGBTQ players, the fans love a romance angle, and you could stand to loosen your image. You’re too rigid. Thorn balances that. He’s approachable. You two together—people eat that up. Sponsors love it.”
“Dad—”
“I’m not saying marry the man,” he cuts in. “I’m saying don’t waste an opportunity.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it stings. Opportunity. That’s all it ever is to him. Not people. Not feelings. Just moves on a chessboard.
Molly sighs, swirling her wine. “You ever think maybe he should date someone because he likes them? Not because it’ll boost the season’s ticket sales?”
My father smirks. “You don’t get to the top by ignoring good press.”
“Maybe not,” she says, “but you also don’t stay sane if every relationship’s a PR stunt.”
I can’t help a small laugh. “She’s right, Dad. Kyle’s great, but it’s… casual. We’re not putting out a press release.”
“You should consider it,” he says, like he’s talking about a business merger. “Bring him to our charity event next week. It’ll be good for the team.”
Molly groans. “Oh my God, just hire a wedding planner.”
That earns her a glare from him and a snort from me. For a moment, the tension breaks. It’s like that with us—sharp edges cushioned by habit. Still, under it all, the pressure hums. I can feel my father watching me, calculating. Always calculating.
When the plates are cleared, Mom insists we move to the sitting room for dessert. She brings out espresso and her signature lemon cake. It’s her way of keeping peace—sweetness after the sting.
Molly sinks into the sofa beside me. “You know he only pushes because he thinks you need direction,” she murmurs. “You’re the golden boy he can still shape.”
I huff. “You make it sound like I’m clay.”
She smirks. “You kind of are. Just really expensive clay.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
She bumps my shoulder lightly. “Relax. I’m kidding. Mostly.”
I glance at her. “You ever get tired of being the good one?”
“Every day,” she says without hesitation. “But it’s better than being the one everyone doubts.”
That lands harder than she probably means it to. She winces, reaching for my arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” I wave it off, forcing a smile. “It’s fine.”
But it’s not.
The truth is, she’s right. No matter what I do on the ice, there’s always that whisper—Daddy’s money bought his jersey. Never mind the years I spent proving I could stand on my own. The hours of training before dawn, the injuries, the fights. None of it matters. The rumor sticks. It always does.
Maybe that’s why Magnus’s taunts hit so deep. He says the same things the tabloids do—but from him, it feels personal. Like he wants to see if I’ll break.
“You look lost again,” Molly says softly.
“Just thinking.”
“About Kyle?” she teases.
I hesitate, then nod because it’s easier than explaining the truth. “Something like that.”
“Well,” she says, leaning back, “if he makes you smile, screw the headlines.”
I laugh quietly. “You’ve been spending too much time in the ER. You sound jaded.”
“I sound realistic.” She grins. “If you like him, go for it. But if you don’t—don’t fake it just to please Dad. You’ll end up resenting both of them.”
I nod, but inside, guilt twists. Because she’s right again—and I’m already faking it. Not for Dad. Not even for Kyle. For myself. Because pretending I could fall for someone safe feels easier than admitting the truth: I’m already falling for someone dangerous.
Someone who shouldn’t even cross my mind at this table.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glance at the screen.
Magnus: When do I get to meet Butter?
My pulse spikes. I shove the phone face down on the table before anyone notices.
Molly raises an eyebrow. “Secret admirer?”
“Work thing,” I lie smoothly.
She smirks. “Uh-huh.”
Across the room, my father starts talking about trade deadlines and sponsorships, his voice a constant hum of authority. My mother nods along, proud and distant all at once. I sip my espresso and pretend to listen, but my thoughts are far away—back in that hotel, in that moment I swore I’d forget.
The worst part? I can’t decide what burns hotter. The shame or the longing.