Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Trap Game - A game that appears easy but proves unexpectedly difficult.
Phoenix
"—absolutely unacceptable, Cole. The practice was a complete shit-show." The voice was cultured, precise, with the same British accent as Cole's but harder somehow. Edward Armstrong-Wells. I'd know that voice anywhere after our brief but memorable encounter.
I eased myself up, but my ribs didn't protest. The guest bedroom door was slightly ajar, allowing sound to travel clearly from the living room. I should have closed it properly when I stumbled to the kitchen for some water at whatever time.
"It was one bad practice." Cole's voice was tight, controlled. "It happens."
"Not to you, it doesn't. Not to an Armstrong-Wells."
I crept closer to the door, careful to avoid making the floorboards creak. Through the narrow opening, I could see them—Cole standing stiffly by the kitchen counter, his father pacing the living room.
"I was tired," Cole said flatly. "It won't happen again."
Wells stopped pacing, his expensive shoes silent on the hardwood floor. "Tired? Or distracted?”
Cole's face hardened, and I wondered why he didn’t mention the whole blackmail thing. "Are you having me followed now?"
"I want to know why you played so poorly yesterday?"
"I had one bad day."
Wells's laugh was cold, cutting. "One bad day can unravel everything, Cole. You of all people should understand that."
I saw Cole flinch almost imperceptibly, his shoulders tensing beneath his t-shirt.
"We agreed you'd keep your focus singular," Wells continued, his voice dropping to something dangerously soft. "Hockey. Public appearances. Carefully managed relationships when you're established. That was our arrangement after what happened at Whitmore Academy."
"I haven't forgotten," Cole said, each word clipped.
"Haven't you?" Wells moved closer, invading Cole's space in a way that made me want to burst through the door despite my injuries. "One moment of lost control. One boy in hospital with third-degree burns. Your future nearly destroyed before it began."
Cole's face had gone pale. "It was an accident." I swallowed. This had been what Cole had told me last night.
"Of course it was. Boys playing with fire, a prank gone terribly wrong." His smile was reptilian. "That's what the official report says, anyway. That's what everyone believes."
"Stop." The word seemed torn from Cole's throat.
"But we both know the truth, don't we? What really happened when you lost control?
" Wells was relentless, circling his son like a shark scenting blood.
"How your little temper tantrum happened, how the flames weren't just metaphorical.
" His voice dropped even lower. "How your.
..condition...manifested for the first time. "
I held my breath, pressing closer to the crack in the door. Condition? What was he talking about?
Cole's hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white. "I was thirteen. I didn't understand what was happening."
"And now you do. Which is why these lapses in judgment are so concerning." Wells gestured around the apartment. "You're distracted. Unfocused. Bringing strangers into your life, putting everything at risk."
"I'm handling it," Cole said. I shook my head, utterly bewildered. Why wasn’t Cole defending himself?
Wells laughed, the sound utterly devoid of humor. "Like you handled things at university? With that boy Ashton?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Cole went completely still, his face a mask of carefully controlled rage.
"Don't," he said, the word barely audible. Ashton? Who was Ashton?
"He killed himself, Cole. Because of what you told him, what you showed him." Edward's voice was merciless. "Another moment of weakness, another life destroyed."
"That's not what happened." Cole's voice cracked. "You know that's not what happened."
Killed himself? This was just getting worse.
"It's what everyone believes. It's what the police concluded." Wells straightened his already impeccable tie. "The point is, your control slips, people get hurt. That's why we have our arrangement. That's why I keep you...contained."
I felt sick listening to this. The casual cruelty, the calculated way Wells twisted the knife. No wonder Cole seemed so haunted.
"I haven't broken any rules," Cole said, his voice steadier now. "I'm still playing. Still winning. Still making you money."
"For now. But these...distractions...concern me.”
I froze. Did he mean me?
"I told you."
Wells studied his son for a long moment, his expression calculating. "For your sake, I hope that's true. The last thing you need is another Ashton. Another person who knows what you really are."
I frowned, trying to make sense of the conversation. What did he mean, what Cole really was? None of this made sense. I’d assumed the guy in the limo worked for Cole’s dad, but what if he didn’t? Fucking hell, was there someone else out to get him?
"I've learned my lesson," Cole said, his voice flat. "I won't risk everything we've built."
Wells seemed satisfied with this answer, straightening his suit jacket with a practiced motion. "Good. The next games are too important for distractions. You're capable of making history—the first British player to lead an American team to a championship."
“We have to get into—”
“Exactly,” Wells cut him off.
I held my breath, trying to process what I was hearing. The conversation felt loaded with double meanings, references to events I couldn't fully understand. What "condition" were they talking about? What had actually happened to that boy at Whitmore Academy? And who was Ashton?
"I'm aware of what's at stake," Cole replied, his voice carefully neutral.
Wells checked his watch, probably worth more than most people made in a year. "I have a breakfast meeting with the sponsors. They're very excited about your prospects. I've assured them you'll be at your best for the remainder of the season."
"I will be."
"See that you are." Wells moved toward the door, then paused. "And Cole? Remember what happened the last time you let someone get too close. The binding can only suppress so much. When emotions run high..." He let the sentence hang unfinished, heavy with implication.
Binding? What binding? I pressed closer to the crack, straining to hear.
"I haven't forgotten," Cole said, his voice barely audible.
"Good. Because neither have I." Wells's smile was cold. "Neither has the Jenkins boy, though I doubt he remembers much through the pain medication. We were lucky his parents valued their position in society enough to accept our...arrangement."
Cole didn't respond, but I could see the tension radiating through his body, like he was physically stopping himself from lashing out.
"I'll see you at the game tomorrow," Wells said, his hand on the doorknob. "Do try to be extraordinary. It's what's expected."
The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow felt more final than a slam. Cole stood motionless for several long moments, staring at the space his father had occupied. Then, with a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, he slammed his fist into the kitchen counter.
I jumped at the impact, accidentally bumping the door. It creaked, swinging open a few more inches. Cole's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes widening when he saw me standing there.
"How much did you hear?" he asked, voice rough.
I considered lying, but what was the point? "Most of it," I admitted, stepping fully into the doorway. "Your father's...intense."
Cole laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's one word for it."
I moved carefully into the living room. "Who was Ashton?"
Cole's face shuttered, all emotion disappearing behind a carefully blank mask. "No one you need to worry about."
"The one who got burned, then," I pressed. "What really happened?"
Cole's expression hardened, his green eyes flashing with something dangerous. "You need to let this go, Phoenix."
"Your father said something about a 'condition.' About 'binding.'" I took another careful step forward. "What was he talking about?"
"Nothing that concerns you." Cole moved to the kitchen, his movements stiff and controlled. He filled a glass with water, his back to me. "You should rest. Your ribs—"
"My ribs are fine," I interrupted. "Don't change the subject."
He turned, his face carefully blank. "What do you want me to say?"
"The truth would be nice." I lowered myself onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. "Your father's blackmailing you over something that happened when you were thirteen, and then at college. Something about a fire. This is what you told me last night."
Cole's knuckles whitened around the glass. "It was a long time ago."
"Was it an accident? Like he said?"
His laugh was bitter. "Define 'accident.'"
I watched him carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to be fighting for control. "You didn't mean to hurt anyone," I guessed.
Cole set the glass down with deliberate care. "No. I didn't." He met my eyes, something vulnerable flickering behind his carefully constructed walls. "But I did. And I've been paying for it ever since."
"That's why your father controls everything? Your money, your career—it's all leverage because of what happened?"
He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head. "If the truth came out—the real truth—everything would be over. My career, my life here, all of it."
"What is the real truth?" I asked softly.
Cole stared at me for a long moment, conflict evident in his eyes. Finally, he shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry."
I wanted to push, to demand answers, but something in his expression stopped me. Whatever secret he was carrying, it terrified him.
"And Ashton?" I asked instead. "Your father mentioned him too."
Pain flashed across Cole's face, raw and unguarded. "Ashton was my roommate at university. We were...close."
The way he said "close" told me everything I needed to know. "Your father said he killed himself."
Cole flinched as if I'd struck him. "He did. After my father found out about us, about what I'd told him. Father ruined Ashton's life—his family's life—just because he was friends with me." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
Except they were more than friends. Phoenix knew that.
Cole shook his head again, more firmly this time. "It doesn't matter now. Ashton is dead, and my father made sure everyone believed it was because of academic pressure. Another cover-up, another secret buried."
I absorbed this, trying to make sense of the fractured pieces Cole was giving me. His father's visit had revealed more questions than answers.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "About Ashton. About all of it. About me."
Cole's shoulders sagged slightly, the defensive tension draining away. "It was a long time ago."
"Doesn't mean it stops hurting." I shifted on the stool, trying to find a position that didn't make my ribs ache. "Trust me, I know something about carrying old wounds."
He looked at me then, really looked at me, his green eyes searching my face. "I suppose you do."
An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. I wanted to ask more questions, to understand what kind of hold Edward Armstrong-Wells had over his son, but Cole's expression warned me not to push.
"I should get dressed," I said finally, sliding carefully off the stool. "Figure out my next steps."
"You don't have to leave," Cole said quickly, then looked surprised at his own words.
"Your father clearly has people watching you," I pointed out, even though I knew for the sake of Ricky and his family that I needed to stay. "If he finds out I'm here..."
"He won't." Cole ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in dark spikes. "I'll be more careful."
I raised an eyebrow, wincing as the movement pulled at my still-bruised face. "Why risk it? You heard him—you've got a real chance with the team."
Cole's expression hardened. "I'm tired of letting him control every aspect of my life."
The words hung between us, charged with a defiance I hadn't expected. This wasn't the careful, controlled Cole I'd first met. This was someone fighting back, even in this small way. "Besides," he added, his voice softening, "you're still healing. Those bruises need at least another week."
I should have argued. Should have told him I'd been taking care of myself for years and didn't need his protection. But the truth was, I did need it—at least for now. And there was something else, something I couldn't admit even to myself: I didn't want to leave.
"One week," I agreed finally. "But I'll need to figure something out after that."
Cole nodded, relief flickering across his face. "We'll figure it out together."
I wasn't sure what that meant, or why it made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with my injuries. I just knew that for the first time in a very long time, I wasn't facing my problems alone.
And that terrified me more than any beating ever could.
Because now I had something to lose.
As I turned to head back to the guest room, my hand unconsciously brushed against the envelope of cash hidden in my borrowed sweatpants. The envelope. The money I'd accepted in exchange for betraying Cole.
The weight of it burned against my leg, a physical reminder of my betrayal. I hadn't texted the number yet, hadn't actually betrayed Cole, but I knew I was going to. I knew I was going to have to.
Like every other person in Cole’s life.