4. Stone
STONE
“This is an opportunity of a lifetime.” I cross my arms, then uncross them. I’m jittery, anxious , and I hate this fucking feeling. Like my life is balanced on this decision, and someone else is holding the reins. “I have to go.”
My father’s gaze is on whatever bullshit paperwork is in his hands. He’s working. He’s always working. But with some big trial coming up, it’s been almost impossible to get his attention. Even when I need it.
Especially when I need it .
“Dad.”
“One moment, Stone.”
I clench my jaw and turn away.
He practically lives at his office downtown.
He’s on the third floor, in the corner office of the clock tower building his law firm took over last year.
His windows overlook a busy street, another building across it—the library—and a fucking park.
How idyllic. He’s got rooftop access in this building and everything.
He once took my step-monster and me to a work party. We dressed up and drank cocktails. Well, they did. I snuck the free glasses of champagne when no one was watching, got so drunk I puked in the privacy hedges surrounding the roof, and was escorted home by Dad’s assistant.
That was before my body-is-a-temple mentality. Before I got serious about hockey.
Before I realized Dad doesn’t give a shit about anything that doesn’t touch his image.
A billboard just went up with his face on it.
He’s smiling in the photo, with some slogan about saving innocent people from the justice system.
In Foster, We Trust . I’d think nothing of it—except that he’s getting too big for his britches—if I hadn’t overheard a conversation where he talked about running for governor next term.
Then he’d truly be insufferable.
“Okay.” Dad sets down the file and faces me. His hands are in his pockets, his face relaxed. “What’s the opportunity of a lifetime?”
The whole spiel about attending this new school—I have to repeat it?
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste is grounding in a way, and I relish it on my tongue. It sharpens my focus in the same way a hockey fight does.
“You’ve heard of Mike Aster?” I question.
He shakes his head and motions for me to get on with it.
“He’s only the greatest college hockey coach of all time. He’s already been put in the hall of fame.” I take a deep breath. “And I was accepted to the school. I met him, and he said he had heard of me —”
“Of course he’s heard of you.” Dad rolls his eyes. “You’ve worked hard. The NHL doesn’t draft every hockey player to come out of West Ridge, you know.”
I know that .
I signed a contract with the New York Guardians last year when I turned eighteen.
Their draft was nerve-racking, but I did it.
I was a sixth-round pick after speaking with their coach a few days prior.
They knew my intentions of doing two years at college.
To improve. To play against higher-caliber players. To get stronger.
One year in, and I know I’ve made the right decision.
This year, technically my sophomore year, will be my last in college.
I take the minimum, easiest classes. Or the interesting ones.
The school knows I’m only there for a short while, but I like to think of it as a symbiotic relationship.
They let me play and take low-brow classes, and I win them championships.
Or so it’s supposed to go.
“I want to transfer,” I spell out. “This coach I have now, he’s okay, but—”
“You want the best.”
“Yes.”
That seems to be something my father understands.
“You think your team will win the Frozen Four?”
I’m convinced he only knows what the Frozen Four—the final four games of the NCAA Tournament—is because I used to talk incessantly about it. Evan and I would pretend we were playing that final championship game, the score tied. Everything boiling down to that one moment . We loved the rush of it.
“I do,” I answer, keeping my voice steady and my body relaxed. If he missed my fidgeting earlier, all the better. There’s no sign of it now. “I need to play with the best to be the best, Dad.”
“Send the information to my secretary. What we need to do to set you up at school financially.” He frowns. “I trust you can sort out the rest?”
“I’ve got it all covered.” I back toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it. Bye, Dad.”
He’s already shifting back to work mode, picking up the folder and scanning it again. His head is bent, his tie loosened, and his suit jacket off.
Downstairs, I climb in my car. My bags are packed. I wasn’t going to take no as an answer. While I expected more of a fuss from him, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth either. I have his blessing. I’m getting away from the step-monster.
It’s a two-hour drive to Shadow Valley. I crank the radio and sing along, lighter than I’ve felt in years .
Since the arrest, Dad has kept me on a tight leash.
He insisted on drug testing me every week for over a year, going so far as to stand in the bathroom with me to make sure I didn’t cheat when the tests kept coming back clean.
Because I don’t do drugs.
The cops in this town stare at me as I pass. As the son of a defense attorney, I’m sort of used to it. I had their attention before I was accused of doing anything wrong. But now, they’re suspicious.
As soon as I’m out of the city limits, my singing gets louder. I’ve got a terrible voice, but it doesn’t stop me from belting along to the classics. Nirvana and Blue Oyster Cult. You can’t tell me ‘Burnin’ For You’ isn’t the best fucking song on earth.
The drive passes quickly that way, and before I know it, I’m pulling into Shadow Valley. I visited Evan here last year, after our seasons ended, and met his hockey teammates. I knew they were guys I wanted to play with, and with their coach? Of course I was going to make it happen.
Besides, if we win the Frozen Four, I have a better chance of the Guardians taking me onto their team immediately, instead of passing me off to their AHL affiliated team. I want the majors. I want the best.
Dream big or go home, right?
I park on the street and sling my bag over my shoulder. I’ll come back for the rest when I figure out which room is mine.
“Anybody home?” I push the door open and step through. The huge house has a frat feel to it, although it’s removed from frat row. The wide porch out front, the brick, the little balcony overhead. It’s charming and probably not a place six guys should be living.
“Hey, man!” The big guy, Sully, comes around the corner. “Evan’s upstairs. I hear you’re joining us this year?”
I grin and slap his hand. “Yeah. You think you’re ready for me?”
He chuckles. “I’ve seen your highlights. I’m just glad we’re on the same team now.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Evan calls. My best friend strides into the room. He seems healthier, like he spent the summer in the sun. He stops in front of me. “Your room is upstairs.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll, uh… I’ll show you.”
Sully chuckles behind me. I wave him off and follow Evan to the stairs. The downstairs is even bigger than it looks from the front, but we skip a tour in favor of seeing where I’m sleeping for the next ten months.
“There are six of us? Six bedrooms?”
Evan doesn’t answer.
“Dude.” I catch up to him and grab his arm, spinning him to face me. “What’s up with you? If you don’t want me here…”
“No, no. It’s not that.” He makes a face. “It’s just that we had an emergency pop up the other day…”
“An emergency like what?”
“Well, you just have a roommate, is all. It couldn’t be helped.”
I grunt and motion for him to go on. Instead of talking, though, he steps up to the first door on the left and cracks it open.
“This is yours.”
I eye him, then enter.
It’s a miniature explosion of stuff . Not a lot of it, but what is there has been spread everywhere. Clothes, textbooks.
But more importantly, girl clothes. Makeup .
“What the fuck is this, E? You knew I was coming. We’ve planned for this since I got accepted.”
Yeah, sure, it wasn’t absolutely fucking decided until I got in my car today. My father played a large part in that. But honestly, I was going to come here whether or not I got his blessing. I would’ve paid for it myself.
Dread turns my gut over. There’s only one person Evan would do this for.
“Please don’t tell me you let her have my room.”
“Half,” he mutters. “Half the room.”
“There’s only one fucking bed! How is that half?” I pace in a circle, kicking her clothes in the process. I stop and point at him. “I want her out.”
“Out? She’s got nowhere to go.”
“Bullshit.” Damn, I’m seething . I haven’t been this angry in…well, probably since the last time I spared a thought for Wren Davis. “Move her into your room.”
He glares at me. “How weird would that be? She’s my sister. I have a girlfriend—”
“You do not.”
“I have a girl that I hook up with on a semi-regular basis,” he corrects. “Suck it up, Foster.”
A door slams downstairs. Without a doubt, I know exactly who it is. The one person with the worst fucking timing on the face of the planet.
I plant my hands on my hips. “Does she know about this little arrangement?”
His expression turns guilty. “Well…”
“Evan?” Her voice—her sweet, melodic, evil-as-shit voice—floats toward us. “What are you doing in my—”
She appears in the doorway and stops. Her face goes pale, and horror fills her eyes.
“What is he doing here?” she hisses at her pseudo-brother.
I take a seat on the bed, very deliberately ignoring the shit she has strewn across it.
I can’t stop staring at her. At how different she seems. There are circles under her eyes, sure, but that comes with every college experience.
Lack of sleep and whatever. But she’s no longer the skinny little kid with insomnia. She’s…well… She’s something else.
And as I wage an internal war about whether I like what I see, her nose wrinkles. Like she is disappointed in what she sees in me .
But you know what?
I’d rather use that to my advantage.
I lean back and smile at her. “I’m moving in, Sticks. Welcome to Hell.”