Chapter Seventeen #2
“You always have the opportunity to pass,” he says. “There were multiple times you could have sent the puck to Dawson or Head. They may be the youngest, but they’re good.”
I’m not disagreeing with him. “They are, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have more to prove. My ass has been on the line since signing on the dotted line with this team.”
“So you’re trying to prove to Mikhail that you belong on the ice,” he says with a head bob. “That makes sense. But you still need to work with the others. You’ve barely had any interactions outside of the stadium with them from what I can tell.”
“I’ve seen Clarkson,” I counter. Once in passing, when we were out, but it should count.
“If this is you about to tell me how I need to treat my team like family, you’re barking up the wrong tree with that analogy.
I don’t like my family. Don’t talk to them either.
Personally, I don’t know if I buy having to get along with the people you work with.
They say it’s good to have a work-life balance. ”
He studies me, unfazed by my cynicism. It isn’t like he doesn’t know how I am.
I’m sure he’s heard the same rumors as everybody else.
“I don’t expect you to have sleepovers with any of them, but I would like you to get along.
It’s hard to form those connections with people if you show up only for practice or the game and then bail directly after. ”
For someone who says he doesn’t expect me to host sleepovers, it sure as hell seems like that’s what he wants. “Do you want me to invite people for a team bonding experience at Dave & Buster’s over air hockey and basketball? Want us to do trust falls too?”
My sarcasm doesn’t bother him. “I know from personal experience that you keep to yourself most of the time. That’s not a bad thing. Frankly, it’s probably the best thing you could do given how much your face has wound up in the tabloids this year.”
I knew it was only a matter of time before he brought that up.
“But you used to spend time with your former team,” he continues pointedly. “You had friends. Clarkson confirmed as much.”
“Clarkson is a gossip,” I accuse. “And I wouldn’t exactly say I was best friends with anybody. I didn’t paint their nails or tuck them in after reading them a bedtime story. I tolerated them, especially if alcohol was involved.”
I haven’t touched a drop since promising Emaly that I wouldn’t wind up in any more headlines.
I’m familiar enough with myself to know that one too many drinks leads to an equal number of poor decisions.
And, if I’m being honest, I don’t want to cross the lines with liquor that my parents did.
I’m not afraid to drink, but I am afraid of the potential of it going awry.
Mostly, the potential of it leading me to a certain blonde’s apartment and banging on her door until she lets me in. Holding her at Our Open Table made me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of. It wasn’t purely physical. It was more. And I think that scares me more than alcohol does.
“The point is, I want everybody to get along,” Hoffman informs me, breaking me from my thoughts.
“You’re getting a late start to the season because of everything that transpired.
But since you aren’t being benched, you’ll have to work ten times harder to catch up.
The guys are already forming bonds. Going out.
Making friendships. It would help if you were more open to doing the same.
Teach the newer players something. Clarkson mentioned doing weekly dinners—”
“Look,” I cut him off, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do.
But forcing friendships isn’t going to work.
I’ll make them a fucking friendship bracelet with my phone number on it like Kelce did for Swift and see if something blossoms. But that’s the extent of what I’m offering.
If they want to learn how to be better players, they can watch me.
I don’t need more people in my life trying to get to know me. ”
Because there’s way too much for them to figure out.
Hoffman’s sigh is heavy, like he expected the answer. He doesn’t tell me to play nice or order me to do shit. Probably because he knows that’ll only make me want to do the opposite.
Because I like him, I offer Hoffman the only thing I can.
“Maybe we can do the charity gala together. Clarkson’s presence would make sense, since he’s the captain of the team.
Mikhail is bound to be there as the owner of the team.
Maybe Richie or one of the others can tag along as well.
My PR team is scheduling a meet-and-greet session before the gala starts begins so we can talk to people. Let them get to know us or some shit.”
If we show up on a united front, the community can see us as a team before they see us in action during the season.
“I’ll have to get it approved, but…”
“That’s a great idea,” he praises, seemingly impressed. “If you need me to contact anyone, I can. I’m sure Yokav wouldn’t object either.”
Especially if we made it seem like it was his idea. He loves getting credit for shit he has nothing to do with.
My phone goes off, and I take advantage before my head coach starts trying to psychoanalyze or guilt me again into doing something I don’t want to. Like hosting a team dinner or something equally as dumb.
When I see Ashton’s name on the screen, I groan but answer anyway. “What do you want?”
“We have a situation.” His tone is off. It’s not bossy or perturbed like I’m used to it being.
“What kind of situation?” I ask, earning a curious look from Hoffman.
My agent pauses, which isn’t a very common occurrence with him. He’s like me. Blunt and to the point. Not willing to waste time.
“Ashton,” I bark impatiently.
Then he says it. “It’s Winter.”
My fingers clench around the edge of the chair arm. “What about her?”
There’s a deep sigh, defeated and something else, before he murmurs, “There’s something I should tell you. I should have told you when you asked before.”
I stand up and look at Hoffman. “I’ve got to go.”
He doesn’t try to stop me, which would have been pointless anyway. As I head out to my car, I tell Ashton, “Talk. Now.”
*
The anger radiating through my body could have been avoided if Ashton had told me the truth when I asked him for it weeks ago.
I don’t feel bad hanging up on him after he’s done explaining how his brother ruined Winter’s life, or how he’s kept tabs on her since the fatal accident and hearing.
I have no interest in listening to some half-assed excuses as to why he thought it was okay to still involve himself in her life like he has a say.
He doesn’t.
His brother doesn’t.
None of his family do.
Guilty conscience or not, he should have never stepped foot into her space. Anybody who goes through the loss she did…Christ. I can’t even imagine. My family is still alive—still out there wasting valuable oxygen while hers is six feet under. It isn’t fair.
I’d known something heavy happened in her life, but I never would have assumed she lost both her parents. Especially not the cruel way she did.
“How old was she?” I growl at Ashton over the phone.
A pause. Then, “Thirteen,” he answers in a raspy voice.
When I was thirteen, I’d been getting drunk with my biological father.
Every goddamn time my parents got custody of me again, I was sucked back into their world.
I was surrounded by alcohol and drugs and vices that made me just as weak as them.
I wish I had stayed at any other foster home—even the ones that would lock me away at night and limit my food during the day.
Even the ones that clearly only did it for a paycheck, not because they wanted to make a difference.
At least if I stayed in my room and kept to myself, I was safe from myself.
Safe from them. Why do the good people, those who deserve to be parents, go first?
Ashton knows better than to call me back to lecture me about hanging up on him. At least he’s smart enough not to break through the thinnest fucking ice he’s standing on right now.
There are four text messages waiting for me when I pick up my phone to search for the name I want to talk to.
Hoffman: Is everything okay?
Clarkson: Coach said you walked out like your ass was on fire. You good?
Ashton: I didn’t want her to find out that way
Ashton: I’ve done everything I can to make up for it
What way did he want her to find out that his little brother had hit and killed her family?
For Christ’s sake, did he think a musical number would suffice to reveal that information?
Maybe a five-course meal and a five-digit check bonus for all the hard work she’s done to better my reputation?
In his infinite wisdom, did he think hiring her for the job out of everybody at the company would somehow make up for what happened?
Money can’t fix heartache.
I would know.
The hand still on my steering wheel vice grips the leather as I think about the loss I’ve felt over the years. It doesn’t matter how many zeroes are attached to my net worth. It doesn’t change the past or how it molded me.
I find Emaly’s name and hit the call button, impatiently listening to it ring until she picks up.
Her groggy voice answers on the third ring, so she must have been sleeping. “Is this an emergency? I’m so exhausted, and there’s a chance I won’t remember anything said in this conversation. I just had an eight-hour surgery on top of a twenty-four-hour stint at the hospital.”
“Give me her number,” I answer, grinding my teeth the more I think about everything Ashton told me. “I need to talk to her.”
There’s such a long pause that I have to peel the phone away from my face to make sure the call didn’t drop.
“Did you fall asleep?” I ask, frowning.
But then Emaly says, “Who?”