Chapter Twelve
Rhodes
I hit ignore on another call from my dad.
He wants more money—because he always does when he’s on a bender.
He doesn’t care about me when he is sober, but as soon as he needs more drugs, more alcohol, the calls don’t stop.
I used to just give him the money when he called, but it was never enough, and the verbal abuse continued just like it has my entire fucking life.
I realize I should just block the number, but if he can’t get ahold of me, he might go to my mom, and if I can do one thing for her, it’s make sure she never has to deal with his ass ever again.
I need to be able to handle it myself, because if I don’t?
It would mean all the nasty things my father has said about me my entire life are true.
That I can’t handle myself, that I don’t know how to man up and deal with shit when it gets tough.
Beck’s been texting me over the last few days. I have been laying low since we got home from Tennessee. I’ve been low for a while in my personal life. I know he cares. All the guys do. But who wants to be the guy who brings the entire vibe of a hang-out down?
And while I’m not doing the best personally, the team has really turned a corner.
We’re working better as a team, and Jax has calmed down.
He’s passing the puck, which has made a hell of a difference in our offense.
He’s stopped stirring shit up in the locker room.
I don’t know exactly what Coach said to him after he ran his mouth about Monroe, but whatever it was seemed to do the trick.
And we’re not out of the playoffs. If you’d have asked me two months ago if I thought we’d even make it this far, that answer would have been a hard no.
But damn, the game against the Predators was exactly what we needed.
I didn’t even punch anyone in the face. Kelsey had gotten so excited about the game that she immediately got me booked for more interviews, more press.
All the stuff I hate but that is, unfortunately, a necessary evil for my profession. ‘A true comeback king,’ Kelsey said.
And Monroe had watched the game. Nobody made her. She turned it on herself.
I muse over what that means.
The logical part of my brain tells me that of course she watched. It’s her dad’s team. She’s probably watched hundreds of his games by now. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
She didn’t have to text me about it, though. And that’s true enough to put a grin on my face.
Her last text shines on my screen.
Monroe (10:20pm): Congrats on the win, Rhodes.
A grin sneaks through my moody demeanor, curling across my mouth, and I drag my hand across my face to get rid of it.
It doesn’t work.
She’s under my skin and I like her there.
I close my eyes and, instantly, it’s her.
Hazel eyes, freckles scattered across her nose.
Her full bottom lip. My brain paints a picture of her tongue, darting out to wet her mouth.
Of my hands tangled in her wine-stain hair, tugging gently so I could kiss the soft skin just below her jaw.
Would she like it? I find myself desperately wanting to know what she likes exactly.
And wondering if she’d ever let me do anything about it.
These fantasies about Monroe have been getting more and more frequent and I’m doing a piss-poor job at not indulging in them.
My phone buzzes aggressively in my hand and I jump, torn out of my inappropriate Monroe daydream.
Beck (5:50pm): Hey man. You good?
Me (5:51pm): Yeah, I’m good.
Beck (5:51pm): HE LIVES.
I smile at Beck’s response and go over to my Wolverines group chat, The OG Wolverines. Callum named it after all the trades over the summer, and none of us cared enough to change it back. It fits, I guess. It’s just the guys from the year before, the ones that have come to feel like my family.
I open it up. Big mistake. The unread messages tally up well into the fifties. I brace myself and scroll.
Rhodes (5:55pm): Why do you guys text so much. I have like 55 unread messages.
Finn (5:56pm): You wouldn’t have so many unread texts if you’d read them?
Beck (5:57pm): Dinner @ Rhodes’ house?
Rhodes (5:58pm): No.
Callum (6:00pm): That wasn’t a real no. That was a weak little “no” that actually meant “please, I’m lonely.”
Tyler (6:01pm): Cal’s already in his car. I’ll bring beer.
JD (6:02pm): I swear to God if you bring that cheap-ass beer again.
Finn (6:03pm): JD’s a snob. Get the cheap beer.
JD (6:05pm): Get something that doesn’t taste like ass.
Rhodes (6:06pm): I’m not letting any of you in.
Beck (6:07pm): I have a key!
Idiots. I smile, though.
* * * *
The guys arrive at my house in twenty minutes and let themselves in.
“Rhodesy!” Callum shouts, voice bouncing off the walls.
“In the kitchen,” I call back. I won’t admit it to them, but, while I don’t really feel like entertaining, I am starving.
Finn plops onto one of the stools at my island, sliding boxes of pizza down on the countertop, grinning at me, red hair askew over his forehead.
“You doing okay, man?” JD asks, leaning against my counter, his French-Canadian accent catching on his words.
I exhale, running a hand over my jaw. “Yeah. Team’s doing better, we actually have a fucking shot at the playoffs.”
“Not really talking about the team, Rhodes.” Beck tilts his head, watching me too closely. “We were there for the game. We mean the other stuff.”
Ah.
I focus on lining up beer-bottle caps on the counter, suddenly hyperaware of the tension between them and me. “My dad’s still calling. But it’s fine.”
There is a brief pause, then the room explodes in a flurry of voices talking over one another.
“Have you told Coach yet?” Tyler asks from the kitchen table. Callum nods next to him. I shake my head no.
“Rhodes. Tell someone. He’s going to screw up the career you just miraculously pulled out of the toilet,” Finn says, all traces of joking and best friend playfulness gone from his voice. I know it’s bad if even Finn isn’t joking about it.
My jaw tics. He’s right. He knows it. I know it. Every person in this room knows it.
“Yeah,” I concede, flexing my hands just to have something to do with them in the thick tension of my kitchen. “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to Coach.”
Five pairs of eyes stare at me, trying to decide if I’m bullshitting them. One by one, they finally nod—an unwavering wall of loyalty I hardly feel like I deserve.
Finn breaks the tension first. “All right, Rhodesy. But we’ve got your back. Stop trying to handle all the hard shit all by yourself.”
Something in my chest cracks a little bit. I think I take for granted how lucky I am to have a room full of guys who genuinely care if I’m doing okay, and who can come pull my head out of my ass when I need it.
I picture Monroe alone on the ice. Alone at the rink. Alone in her apartment. Alone all of the goddamned time. I’d be in a hell of a lot shittier place if I didn’t have these guys, and she has no one. She’s pulling herself out of her rock bottom all by herself.
“All right, now that the hard shit is out of the way,” Beck grins devilishly, slapping his hands on the counter, “let’s discuss the other elephant in the ice rink.”
I groan. “Beck, leave it.”
“Nope.” He pops the p obnoxiously. “Let’s talk about your little crush on the coach’s daughter.”
The kitchen erupts with a roar.
“I don’t have a crush on Monroe,” I grit through my teeth. “Who even says that? What are we, eighth graders?”
“My man, you broke Jax’s nose over her.” Callum grins.
I grimace. I did do that. “He was being an asshole.”
“Okay? Jax is an asshole to everyone.” JD throws his two cents in.
I glare at him. “Coach would have been pissed if he heard him talking about her like that.” I cross my arms in front of my chest and scowl at the group. It only eggs them on.
“Yeah, Coach wasn’t the only one, clearly.” Tyler snorts into his beer.
I press my mouth into a thin, stubborn line. “Sloane already grilled me about this. I do not need it from all of you too.”
Beck chuckles at my mention of Sloane.
My eyes snap to him. “Not for you, Larsson.” The room quiets, eyes volleying between the two of us.
He puts his hands up, mock surrender. “Relax, I know better.” He winks and I grimace. I can never tell if he’s serious when it comes to my sister. “Don’t change the subject.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “We, uh…” I bite the inside of my cheek. What are Monroe and me? Friends? Acquaintances? “We skate together sometimes.”
Beck narrows his eyes, calling my bluff.
“Is that a sex euphemism?” Finn asks.
I choke on my beer.
“Oh my God,” I sputter. “No, Finn. What the fuck. We are not sleeping together. She’s—” I hesitate.
I wrestle with how much of her shit is mine to share.
I settle on not very much. “Going through a lot. She has to teach the figure-skating clinic in March, and I’m helping her find her… ice legs, again.”
“And how, exactly, did you become the skating buddy of an Olympic almost-darling, eight-time figure-skating Worlds and Nationals gold medalist?” Beck asks.
I scowl. “First of all, it’s weird that you know all that off the top of your head. And I, uh…I walked in on a meeting with her and Elsie. She got kind of strong-armed into the clinic. Then we both ended up at the rink one night.” I scratch the back of my neck.
They take in my story. It’s true. That part, anyway.
“No sex?” Beck asks.
I roll my eyes. “No sex.”
“Sex at some point?” Finn jumps in.
I groan. “Jesus, Finn.” He shrugs.
“Just…” JD blows out a slow breath, runs a hand through his hair, then fixes me with a look that isn’t teasing anymore. “Be careful.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“It’s pretty well-known that she kind of went off the rails after the whole broken ankle thing,” he continues, voice measured. “You’ve got enough going on without trying to balance that too.”
My hands fist in my lap. I know he means well—JD is a protector at heart, and he’s just looking out for me. But there’s a fine line between concern and judgment, and right now, he’s toeing it.
My voice comes out low, warning. “She has enough people talking shit about her. You’re not going to be one of them.”
He tilts his head, smirks, and takes a slow sip of his beer. “All right, lover boy. Loud and clear.”
A beat. Then Finn mutters under his breath, just loud enough for the room to hear, “No sex…yet.”
I grip my bottle so hard, it might shatter. I don’t get to go there with her, so there is no use even discussing it.
“If I’m having a hard time,” I start, and Callum snickers.
“I’ll bet you are,” Tyler mutters into his almost-empty beer. I shoot him a warning look that he ignores completely.
I continue, my voice flat, “If you think I’m having a hard time, she just…she has it worse, okay?”
Beck nods, setting his bottle on the table. For all his teasing, he knows when I’m serious. The other guys follow suit.
“Got it, Rhodes,” JD concedes, and I know he means it.
Callum swigs the last of his beer and says, “Still think you two are gonna end up banging, though. All that moody tension between you is going to have to go somewhere.”
I chuck my empty bottle at him and tell everyone to get the hell out of my house.
Their laughter follows them all the way out to my driveaway.
* * * *
I got the text from Coach a few hours before our practice on Friday.
Coach Abrams (1:02pm): My office. 4:00.
For the last three hours, I’ve been pacing, trying to figure out what I screwed up this time.
The rink is quiet when I walk through, heading straight for his office.
Monroe won’t be here this late, since she usually works mornings.
Her Jeep wasn’t in the parking lot, anyway.
I already checked. I haven’t seen her one-on-one in two weeks, aside from a glance here and there between my practices and her school and work schedule.
I was finding that I really didn’t like the space.
I planned on asking her to do another late-night skate soon since asking her out directly seems like the exact kind of thing that would make her bolt. I’m taking what I can get.
I knock lightly on the door and wait.
“Come in, Rhodes.” His voice is gruff, direct. “Sit.”
I shut the door behind me and drop into the chair across from his desk. He hasn’t looked up from his paperwork yet.
“So,” he starts. His stare is making me nervous, and his expression isn’t giving anything away. I wait for him to continue. “You got Monroe on the ice.”
I choke on air. Okay, so we’re doing this.
“Uh—” I fumble. “Yes, sir.”
I settle on being honest, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? If Monroe wants to be pissed I said something, she’s going to have to be pissed at her dad. He nods like that was the right answer, but his expression doesn’t shift.
“She hasn’t touched the ice in almost a year,” he says, flipping a paper over. “Figured putting her back in the rink might help.” His eyes lift, sharp. “I did not, however, anticipate my captain taking an interest.”
I force myself to sit still, even as my shoulders tighten.
I clear my throat. “No interest, sir. Elsie paired us together for the skating clinic. Figured I could help her get ready.” Most of that was true, but the no interest feels like sandpaper in my mouth.
Lie. Lie. Lie. There was absolutely interest. So much interest it’s driving me to distraction.
I stop my thoughts before they get out of control. His gaze is unreadable, but I don’t dare break eye contact.
Then he exhales, shaking his head like he already knows what I’m thinking.
“Do not set her back, Rhodes,” he warns. “You have no idea what the last year has been like.” He cuts me with a look that lands like a weight in my chest. “You wanna help her skate again? Fine. But stay in your lane.”
What if I don’t want to stay in my lane? What if I want to be in her lane?
“Yes, sir.” But even as I say it, something cold settles in my stomach.
Monroe’s under my skin, wrapped around my ribs like barbed wire—unyielding, impossible to ignore. She’s prickly and snarky and gorgeous—and every time I’m around her, I want to be the one to help her put her pieces back together.
But there’s no way in hell I’m letting the coach know that.