Chapter 7 #2
I'd never told anyone the full story. Not my teammates, not my coaches, not even the therapist the team had hired when I'd started having panic attacks during my first season. But something about Phoenix's direct gaze made me want to be honest.
"When I was thirteen, I..." I swallowed hard. "There was an accident. At boarding school. Another boy got hurt, badly burned. My father covered it up, made it go away. But if it ever came out, my career would be over."
Phoenix's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. "You burned someone?"
I nodded, unable to form the words. The memory of that day still haunted me—the smell of charred flesh, the screams, the knowledge that I'd lost control in a way that could never be explained.
"And your father holds that over you?" Phoenix asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
"Every day. Every decision I make, he's there, reminding me that he owns me." I set my bowl down, appetite gone. "So yeah, different cage, same bars. At least yours has a door you can open."
"Your mom?"
I shrugged. "She doesn't care."
Phoenix was quiet for a long moment, stirring his soup thoughtfully. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "That's...really fucked up."
I laughed despite myself. "Yeah, it is."
"Why hockey? If he controls everything, why let you play?"
"Because it makes him money." I shrugged. “Because he wants future investment on this side of the Atlantic and knows I can get it for him. There’s a lot of money in sport.” The US sports market was the largest globally, which was why Father had insisted I play here and not Canada. I didn’t know why I was being so honest. It was embarrassing.
When we’d eaten the toasties I'd made when the soup wasn't enough, I gestured to the huge game and entertainment center. “Wanna play?” I needed to think about something else. Phoenix nodded, his eyes lighting up slightly despite his battered face.
"Sure. What do you have?"
I gestured to the cabinet beneath the massive television. "Pretty much everything. PlayStation, Xbox, Nintendo. Take your pick."
As Phoenix browsed through my game collection, I watched him move—still careful, but with a new ease that hadn't been there before. Our conversation had shifted something between us. Not trust, exactly, but understanding.
"FIFA?" he suggested, holding up the case.
I groaned. "Seriously? Out of all those games, you pick the one I'm absolute rubbish at?"
His mouth quirked into something almost resembling a smile. "But it’s soccer. Thought you Brits were supposed to be good at it?”
“Football,” I corrected him with mock-outrage, but set up the game while Phoenix settled himself on the couch. The familiar loading screen appeared, bright and colorful against the otherwise monochromatic apartment.
"Fair warning," I said, handing him a controller. "I might be terrible at this, but I'm still competitive as hell."
"Shocking," Phoenix deadpanned. "Professional athlete is competitive. Never would have guessed."
I snorted. For someone who'd been half-dead four days ago, his sarcasm was recovering remarkably well.
We played in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the click of controller buttons and occasional swearing when one of us missed an easy goal. Phoenix was surprisingly good—his reflexes quick despite his injuries, his strategy solid. I found myself actually having to try.
"Where'd you learn to play?" I asked after he scored his third goal against me.
"Foster brother," Phoenix said, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Gavin. He was obsessed with this game. Played it constantly."
I noticed the past tense but didn't push. "Well, he taught you well. You're kicking my arse."
"That's the plan." Phoenix executed a perfect slide tackle, stealing the ball from my player. "Though your defense needs serious work."
"Story of my career," I muttered, attempting to regain possession.
Phoenix glanced at me briefly. "Really? I thought you were supposed to be some kind of hockey prodigy."
"Center, not defenseman. Different skillset." I finally managed to intercept his pass. "Though Coach would argue I need to improve my defensive awareness."
"Is that why he kicked you out of practice today?"
I fumbled the controller, nearly dropping it. "How did you—"
"Doorman told me you wouldn’t be home from practice for another couple of hours." Phoenix shrugged, then winced at the movement. "I was expecting a longer wait."
"I was distracted," I admitted, not meeting his eyes.
Phoenix paused the game, setting down his controller. "Because of me?"
The directness of the question caught me off guard.
I'd expected deflection, maybe even satisfaction that he'd disrupted my day.
I studied Phoenix's face, the bruises now a mottled purple-yellow against his too-pale skin.
His question deserved honesty. "Yeah," I admitted.
"Because of you. Or...because of me. I don't know. "
He nodded slowly, as if he'd expected this answer. "I'm sorry. I never meant to mess with your career." He sighed. “Just financially,” he mumbled.
"You didn't," I said quickly. "I did. I chose to bring you here."
Phoenix looked down at his controller, turning it over in his hands. "Why, though? I tried to blackmail you. I don't deserve your help."
The question hung between us, weighted with all the things I wasn't ready to examine. Why had I searched for him? Why did I care if he lived or died on the streets? Why did the thought of him leaving again make my chest feel like it was caving in?
"Everyone deserves help," I said finally, the answer sounding trite.
Phoenix's mouth twisted. "Right. Your savior complex."
"It's not—" I started, but he cut me off.
"It's okay. I get it." He set the controller down on the coffee table. "I'm tired. Mind if we finish this tomorrow?"
The abrupt end to our conversation left me wrong-footed, but I nodded. "I may stay up a while. I’m leaving around noon tomorrow."
"Sure?" he asked as if he expected me to change my mind, but the exhaustion in his voice betrayed him. He could barely keep his eyes open.
"You're injured. You need sleep." I stood, gathering the empty soup bowls. "It's not negotiable."
Phoenix looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he pushed himself up from the couch with a grimace. "Fine. I’ll make other arrangements soon."
“No need. the place will be mostly empty. We've got a lot of road games coming up.” The thought of him running again made my chest tighten. I watched him head to the bedroom. At the doorway, he paused and looked back at me.
"Cole?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." The words were soft, almost reluctant. "For everything."
Before I could respond, he disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
I sank back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. The events of the day—the disastrous practice, the argument with Phoenix, his unexpected return—had left me drained. I should have been relieved he was safe, grateful he'd come back instead of dying in some alley. But all I felt was confusion.
I didn't trust him. I wanted him to stay. I knew he should leave.
What the hell was I doing?
I barely knew Phoenix. What I did know wasn't exactly reassuring—he'd tried to con me, set up a camera in my bedroom, and walked out without a word this morning. By any reasonable standard, I should have called security the moment he showed up in my lobby.
Instead, I'd brought him back to my apartment, fed him, and was now ignoring the fact that I wished he wasn’t sleeping in the spare room.
I wished he was sleeping in mine.