Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Leo
The main thing that’s stopping me from turning my car around was watching Mina run around the house in search of cameras. She found one, and if her expression told me one thing, it’s that she looked like she was going to be sick.
She’s still carrying out her mission by the time I park and walk through the doors into the locker room at the stadium. The team is probably having a meeting before getting on the ice for practice.
I texted Mitchell on the drive over to pass on to Coach that I had car trouble. He’ll find out that Mina and I are on the same page once we’re actually on the same page.
Hopefully I’ve garnered enough goodwill lately to buy me grace for being almost an hour late.
After dropping my bag into my locker, I pull my shirt off to start getting changed. The door opens, and footsteps come closer. Just as I turn around, my head whips to the side, and pain erupts through my jaw, spreading the taste of iron through my mouth.
“You fucking asshole!” someone yells, and grabs onto me before I can orient myself.
My fist flies out of pure reflex, but the person is suddenly too far to reach. I stumble only to be shoved back.
“You’ve got some balls on you showing up here after what you did,” my assailant yells. If the familiarity of their voice is any indication, it’s my fucking teammate.
The door slams open again. It takes precious brain cells for the fog to dissipate from my head and my vision to clear. Mitchell takes his place as mediator between me and Simon, who’s looking at me like he’s going to send me out of here in a body bag.
I sweep my gaze around the room, expecting Norton to come running around the corner. Tweedledee and Tweedledumb are never far apart.
“As warm as this welcome was, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” I spit blood out to the side.
Bastard almost broke my tooth. My fist twitches, itching to return the favor. The last thing I fucking need is to get into more trouble and give the team another reason to hate me.
“Don’t play stupid,” Simon hisses. “I knew you were a snake the moment you stepped in here.”
“There’s no evidence that Leo did it,” Mitchell defends.
“Did what?” I demand. I glare at both men who conveniently ignore me.
“Fuck off, there isn’t,” Simon snarls, looking at me with raw accusation. “Jack messaged the chat saying his name when it happened.”
Jack?
“I don’t know what the fuck you think I did, but I didn’t do shit.”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, a cold, familiar dread twists down my spine. I practically said the exact same thing to my parents when they approached me, saying Jack was worried about my drug use.
“You expect me to believe that after all the times you’ve targeted him? Last night, I saw you argue with him. Do you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that he gets jumped in his own home and the only thing he messages before going to the hospital is your name?”
That’s it? Jack has convinced people to turn on me just from that. Three letters. My fucking name.
And the argument before the game wasn’t even a fucking argument. The cunt tried to hug me, and I shoved him off.
Like he thought I would.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
That meddling psycho is doing it again, turning people against me for his own sick gain.
Whether it’s shock, stupidity, or self-preservation from knowing nothing I say will change their mind, I keep my mouth shut. They’ll always choose Jack. Always.
I glance at Mitchell to make sure he’s just as pissed off, but he might as well have gutted me with the sideways look of uncertainty he sends me. He really thinks I’d be stupid enough to do that?
Unbelievable. He’s taking their side too. Again.
“What?” Simon laughs bitterly at my silence. “The guilt eating at you, that’s why you’re late? You’re fucking lucky he’s got no broken bones.” He raises his arm. “You’re a piece of—”
I lunge forward, just shy of making contact with Mitchell’s outstretched arm. “Get your fucking finger out of my face, or—”
The door slams open, and Coach comes barreling in, wearing a vicious frown. “What is going on here?” Mitchell pulls back when Coach takes his place. He points to the door, staring him down. “Simon, cool off.”
Simon scoffs and holds his hands up in surrender, moving back, but not before growling, “You better hope Jack can start playing again—”
“Simon,” Coach snaps.
He gives me one last scathing glare before retreating.
Screw it. I start wasting my breath. “Coach, I didn’t go anywhere near—”
He cuts me off. “You too. Get out. I don’t want to see you until you get your head on straight.”
I grit my teeth. I thought I grew out of this. “Coach—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion. You’re benched. Don’t show up to practice until this is resolved.”
I slam my mouth shut, breathing hard through my nose. How the fuck does Jack manage to make me mute? He somehow convinces everyone not to let me explain myself. My parents sure as shit didn’t let me either.
Without another word, I shove my arms back into my shirt and yank it over my head. Fuck this, and fuck this motherfucking team.
It was a good opportunity that meant a stronger career, but it isn’t worth all this bullshit. They can trade me. I don’t care anymore. Mina and I can move. I’d have to kidnap her to make it a reality, but I’m not opposed to it.
The vein in my head pulses as I shoulder my bag and head toward the door, not sparing Coach or Mitchell a glance. The former makes me pause when he speaks, and I angle my head in his direction, keeping my back to him.
“I’ve known you for a long time, and because of that, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t harm my son. Lord help you if it turns out I’m wrong.”
The most I can offer is a grunt. He’ll take his son’s side no matter what anyway. Every person in this building will.
There’s nothing cathartic or liberating about storming out of there to my car, shoving my shit into the trunk, then slamming the driver’s side door behind me.
“Fuck!” I hit the steering wheel.
Even my best friend believes I fucking did it when there’s no goddamn evidence pointing my way. I’m back there in high school again.
If I was going to show up at Jack’s place, he’d be lowered into the ground by the end of the week. Like hell would he have the opportunity to text a group chat my name.
I grind my teeth until my jaw aches. Once I get home, I’ll be faced with another person who won’t be welcoming me with open arms, and I’m not in the right frame of mind to go through both of our lists of offenses.
My phone rings in my pocket, and the rage takes on new heights when I see the name at the top of the screen. I answer before I can think it through.
“I hear you’re having a hard time.” Jack’s voice makes my hair stand on end.
“What the fuck have you done?” I snarl.
Flashes of my teenage years assault me. Having my parents disown me. Getting girls to break up with me over false accusations. The countless detentions caused by something he’d done.
“The question of the hour is: what have you done?” He sounds too fucking calm for my liking. Just like all the times I confronted him about various shit he did when we were younger.
He never hesitated or sputtered or went hard on the defensive. He kept himself even and composed to make me feel like I was the one going insane.
Now, he’s not hiding what he did. This is no longer a game I’m familiar with.
“Cut the shit. You and I both know I didn’t do anything to you.”
“You don’t have an alibi, do you?”
I still. The implication of his question dawns on me.
“It’s something the police would want to know, and once the league hears about our history . . . I have a black eye and some bruising along my ribs. It had to have come from somewhere.” He sighs and continues when I don’t say anything. “It didn’t have to be this way.”
Jesus Christ.
Ice and fire run rampant through my veins. The crazy fucker beat himself up to sell his narrative and wrap every single person around his finger. I can’t even find it in me to be shocked. This—of course he’d do this.
The freak realized the threat of getting traded isn’t enough to get what he wants, so he’s resorted to putting me in fucking prison, or getting me kicked out of the goddamn NHL.
I squeeze my fists until they bleach white and grit out, “What do you want?”
“What I’ve always wanted. For us to be friends like we used to be.”
“You must’ve hit your head real fuckin’ hard if you think there’s any chance in Hell that you and I could go back to being best buds after the shit you’ve done.”
“I was young and stupid,” he says in earnest. I’m not buying it. “I’ve learned from my mistakes, and I’m a new person now.”
“Bullshit. If you were, you wouldn’t be pulling this stunt.”
“You’re right.” The coldness in his tone makes my stomach seize. “I’m smarter now, with more resources.”
This is insane. “How do you envision us becoming friends again? What? You think I’d just invite you over for a barbecue? Go to your place for a beer after a game?”
“Yes.”
I laugh humorlessly. “You’re out of your fucking mind. There’s no—”
“What’s more important to you? Your career and one little friendship, or to lose everyone?”
My blood runs cold at his choice of words. Everyone.
He’s done it before, turned everyone against me. My heart stammers at the thought of going through that again.
I was still a kid back then, so all I ended up with was a broken heart. This time? I could be out of a job. And depending how he plays his cards, I could end up behind bars.
This is all coming just as I’ve finally taken a step with Mina.
“The police will be here within ten minutes to take my statement,” he finishes.
The line goes dead.
My limbs tremble with fury. I unleash a curse, and there’s no stopping me from hitting the steering wheel over and over until it feels like my hand might break.
What do I have going for me if I’m kicked out of the NHL? I’m still building my investment portfolio, and I’d like to have a bunch more saved so I can buy Mina whatever her heart desires.
Prison isn’t a fucking option either. That requires no explanation.
What if he gets to Mina and somehow turns her against me too?
I can’t kill him when everyone is already looking at me as the number one suspect.
Where does that leave me?
Leo: Call your dogs off. I’ll do it.
Typing the words out makes me taste acid. Pressing Send has me certain I’ll be sick.
Jack Norton: Done. It’ll be like old times.
That’s what I’m worried about.