Chapter 11 #2
"It’s your mom’s recipe," she reminded me, breathless. "It’s sacrilege."
I groaned and pulled back. Her lips were swollen, her eyes blown wide. She looked thoroughly ravished, and we hadn't even made it to the bedroom.
"You’re a distraction," I accused, stepping back to let her hop down.
"I’m the chef," she corrected, smoothing her shirt. "You’re the sous-chef who keeps groping the staff."
I grinned. "It’s a perk of the job."
I walked to the oven and pulled out the lasagna. It was a little dark on the edges, but salvageable. The smell hit me—garlic, tomato, basil. It smelled like my childhood. Before the drugs. Before the silence.
"It smells good," I said quietly.
Angela walked up beside me. She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind, resting her cheek on my back.
"I hope it tastes okay," she said. "I’m not Italian enough to claim genetic mastery."
"It’s perfect."
I turned around in her arms. We stood there in the kitchen, the city lights twinkling outside the massive windows. It was domestic. It was safe.
"So," she said, looking up at me. "Phase Two seems to be going well."
"Phase Two is excellent," I agreed. "Though my productivity is down about thirty percent."
"Poor baby."
"I have a scout meeting tomorrow," I said, the reality intruding. "Chicago Blackhawks. They’re coming to watch practice."
Angela stiffened slightly. "Oh. Big deal?"
"Huge deal. Chicago is my top pick. Original Six team. Good market."
"And your hand?"
"Is fine," I lied. "I’ll tape it lighter. I need to show them I have soft hands. Passing drills."
"Be careful," she whispered.
"I’m always careful."
"No, you’re not," she said, pulling away to get plates. "You’re reckless with your body because you think it’s a tool. But it’s not a tool, Elijah. It’s... you."
She set the plates down with a clatter.
"If you get hurt worse... if you can't play..."
"I play," I said firmly. "That’s what I do. It’s who I am."
"Is it?" She looked at me. "Is that all you are? A hockey player?"
The question hung in the air.
For ten years, the answer had been yes. Hockey was the identity. The armor.
But looking at her—at this girl in my kitchen, serving burnt lasagna—I wasn't sure anymore.
"I don't know," I admitted.
She looked sad for a second, then masked it with a smile. "Well, let’s eat. Before the garlic bread turns to stone."
We ate at the island. We talked about her dance recital (next week). We talked about Jax’s terrible taste in music. We laughed.
For an hour, we were just Elijah and Angela.
Then, my phone rang.
It sat on the counter between us, vibrating aggressively. The screen lit up.
Father.
The mood in the room evaporated instantly. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Angela froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looked at the screen, then at me.
"Are you going to answer it?"
I stared at the name. Cyrus Vance.
I knew why he was calling. He had heard about the "girlfriend." He had heard about the distraction. Or maybe he had heard about the hand.
"No," I said. I reached out and silenced the call.
But the vibration continued in my head.
"He won't stop," Angela said softly. "You told me. He’s relentless."
"Let him ring."
"Elijah..."
"I said leave it!" I snapped.
She flinched.
I closed my eyes. "I’m sorry. I didn't mean to snap."
"It’s okay," she said, standing up and taking her plate to the sink. "I get it. He’s stress."
"He’s poison," I corrected.
I stood up and followed her. I wrapped my arms around her from behind again, needing the contact to ground me.
"I’m sorry," I whispered into her ear. "Tonight was supposed to be good."
"It is good," she said, leaning back against me. "But the real world is knocking, Elijah. We can't stay in the tower forever."
"We can try."
I turned her around. I kissed her, desperate to erase the sound of the phone, desperate to erase the memory of my father’s voice.
I picked her up and sat her on the counter.
"Forget him," I commanded, moving between her legs. "Forget the scouts. Forget the game."
"Make me," she challenged, her eyes dark.
I did.
I took her right there on the kitchen island, surrounded by the remnants of dinner. It was rougher this time. More urgent. I needed to claim her. I needed to prove that this—us—was the only thing that mattered.
But later, as she slept in my bed, curled into a ball of warmth, I went out to the living room.
I picked up my phone.
Three Missed Calls: Father.
One Voicemail.
I played it.
"Elijah. I heard a rumor. Something about a girl living in the penthouse. A Moretti girl. You know the history there. You know the liability. Fix it. Or I will come down there and fix it for you. Do not test me. The draft is in two months. Focus."
The voice was cold, calm, and terrifying.
I deleted the message.
I looked out at the city.
He was coming. The collision was inevitable.
I looked back down the hallway toward the bedroom where Angela slept.
Fix it.
I knew what "fix it" meant in my father’s language. It meant removal. It meant destruction.
I gripped the phone until the case cracked.
"Try it, old man," I whispered to the darkness. "Just try it."
But my hand—my broken, throbbing hand—trembled. Because I knew, deep down, that fighting Cyrus Vance was a game I had never won.
And this time, the stakes weren't just money. The stake was her.