Chapter 21
Twenty-One
NIX
Sweat drips from the tip of my nose, splashing onto the rubber flooring of the visitors’ gym at Rogers Arena. My lungs burn. My quads tremble. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.
And I feel fucking fantastic.
Better than fantastic. I feel invincible.
I rack the weights with a satisfying clang and grab a towel, wiping the salt from my eyes as I check my reflection in the mirror. The guy staring back at me looks different. Lighter. Less tormented by all the things he can’t change or that he’ll never understand.
Hockey was never the reason I struggled to control my temper. It was just…life. Feeling alone in it, and like I’d always be that way.
But now…
For the first time, the silence in my head isn’t the brooding kind.
It’s peaceful. The world is still heavy, but I’m not.
I’m not alone anymore. Beatrice is back in my life in a way she hasn’t been since we were kids.
She’s the smart, savvy little sis I once knew, the one who took me as I am, loved me despite my flaws, and didn’t force me to pretend her shitty boyfriend was an acceptable partner. And now, I have Charlotte, too.
Charlotte…
Just thinking about her—and the sexy selfie she sent me last night to congratulate me on the win—makes me goofy smile.
I’m goofy now, but fuck it. My girl is hot, and yesterday’s game against the Canucks has me feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof.
Two goals. Two assists. Three blocked shots. And I didn’t take a single penalty. Not one. When their agitator—a douchebag known for his cheap shots and crass insults—tried to bait me in the second period, I didn’t bite.
I didn’t drop the gloves. I didn’t see red. I just laughed, skated around him, and set Jean-Louis up for the game-winning goal.
Coach Merwood clapped me on the shoulder after the game, his dwarf-lord eyes twinkling with pride. “You’re on the path now. Solid ground, solid stance, solid man. Don’t look back. Keep moving forward.”
I promised him that I would, knowing exactly who to thank for how solid I am these days. Being with Charlotte has rewired something inside of me. Before I met her, I was pretty damned skeptical about the “transformative power of love.”
Yes, people are capable of transformation, but only if they want it for themselves and are willing to put in the work. No one, no matter how much they love you, can do that for you. I was dead certain of that. I still am in many ways.
But I’m also certain that falling for Charlotte has made me a better man, and I’m so grateful for it.
So grateful, it fucking sucks to be away from her, even for a few days.
I grab my water bottle, draining it in long pulls as I think soothing thoughts.
We fly out this afternoon for another game in Manitoba tomorrow, but I’ll be back in New Orleans on Wednesday morning.
Back to my bed. Back to my girl, who has already informed me she’ll be sleeping over at my place to show me how much she’s missed me.
I’m daydreaming about all the ways I’ll show her how much I missed her when the gym door swings open.
I glance up, seeing Liam, the assistant equipment manager.
I flash him a smile he doesn’t return, my first hint that my rosy morning is about to go off the rails. Liam is a warm, laid-back guy, the kind who’s always ready with a joke. But he isn’t joking today. Hell, he won’t even look at me.
He glances at the floor, then at the wall, then at a spot over my left shoulder before murmuring, “Coach needs to see you, Baylor.”
My gut tightens. He never calls me “Baylor.” No one on the team does. And Coach calling a meeting before eight a.m. on a non-game day?
Fuck…
Whatever this is, it’s bad.
“Can I ask why?” I say, snagging my towel from the bench and giving my face another swipe.
“It’s not my place,” he mumbles, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “He’s in the visitors’ coach office. I’ll show you the way, but yeah…not my place.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and final.
Not my place.
The only thing I can think of that isn’t Liam’s “place” would be disciplinary action or…a trade. And considering I’ve been a model citizen and a star player the past few weeks, I seriously doubt I’m being disciplined.
Which means…
Fuck. It probably means I’m packing my shit and heading to a new city, a new team, a new life.
Effective immediately. For whatever reason, management must have decided I’m good leverage for something they want or need more than a key defender.
The Voodoo is weak on younger offensive stars.
Our first line from last year is still carrying the offense.
Could be that management has decided I’m a good bargaining chip for beefing up the second line. All the work I’ve done to level up could have bumped up my value, making them decide to cash in while they can.
Ten days ago, this would have twisted me in knots. I would have raged. At least internally. And the chances that I would have punched a wall on my way out? Less than zero. Far less.
But today?
My stomach is still in knots, but as I grab my duffle bag and follow Liam out into the hall, I’m not balling my hands into fists. The anxiety pulsing through my bloodstream is real—Where are they sending me? How far from NOLA and my life there, and Charlotte?—but I’m…okay.
I’m still steady, just like Coach said.
As Liam leads me deeper into the maze of offices beneath the stadium, I wonder if Coach knew about this yesterday? When he told me to “keep moving forward.”
Maybe, but I doubt it. There was no sign in his muddy green eyes that he was anything but happy. I’m pretty sure Merwood likes me as a person, and I know he likes what I bring to the team. He might agree that trading me is the best thing long term, but I don’t think he’d be happy about it.
We reach the designated office—a cramped, sterile room just off the visitors’ locker room, reserved for visiting coaches—and Liam pushes the door open.
I swear, the temperature in the room drops thirty degrees the second I cross the threshold. Coach Merwood sits at the small desk, his dwarf-lord beard sticking out in a dozen different directions like a startled cat. But there’s nothing startled about the look he’s giving me.
He just looks…disappointed.
Deeply, darkly disappointed.
What the hell is happening? I look around the room for other clues, finding one instantly on the desk in front of him, where a laptop is open, facing out.
The general manager and Keely, our PR rep, are on the screen.
Keely looks like she’s about to vomit. The GM is a statue carved out of sour disapproval.
They aren’t looking at me like a valuable trade asset.
They’re looking at me like I stepped in shit and am even now tracking it all over their best rug.
“Sit down, Baylor,” Merwood says. His voice is flat. Dead.
I drop my bag by the door but stay where I am. “I prefer to stand if that’s all right. I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I’m already positive there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I—”
“Sit or don’t sit,” the GM cuts in. “Doesn’t matter to me. Just show him, Merwood. Now.”
I frown as I step closer to the desk. “Show me what?”
Merwood nods at Liam, still hovering beside me. He holds out his phone, where he already has a website pulled up.
It’s a major news outlet, and “my” headline is halfway down the page, just under a handful of stories explaining why the U.S. economy is fucked. The banner screams in bold, black letters—Rock Star claims NHL Enforcer Holding Fiancée Captive.
Below it, the first few teaser lines of the article twist the knife: What happens when the woman you love suddenly goes missing under suspicious circumstances?
If you’re Kai Morrison of the popular band, Violet Widow, a man well aware that violence against women often begins in childhood, you go hunting for answers.
“Sibling abuse isn’t something people like to talk about,” Kai told reporters outside the Mobile Police Station this weekend, “but it’s real.
And dangerous. And it doesn’t always stop when kids grow up. ”
The floor beneath me shifts, making my head spin. Meanwhile, my heart pounds against my ribs so hard, I’d be worried about a heart attack if I had any family history.
But I don’t, not of heart disease or “sibling abuse.”
“This is a lie,” I say, my voice too thin, too soft over the blood rushing in my ears. “It’s all a lie. He’s the abuser. Kai’s the one who was hurting Beatrice. Call her. Ask her. She’ll tell you. She’s in New Orleans and totally fine. She’s staying with my—”
“Stop,” the GM, Fisk, breaks in. “We aren’t here to play detective. We’re here to present you with the evidence. All the evidence. Play the audio file.”
Liam switches to his email app with a sigh, keeping his gaze on the floor as he mutters, “Morrison released this to the press an hour ago. Or someone did. It hit right after the press conference in Atlanta. His rep sent us a copy of the file, too.”
He presses play on an audio file, and a tinny, crackling voice echoes through the small room, “You’re a piece of fucking shit, Kai. You always have been.”
I freeze, my eyes flying wide.
What the actual…
That’s my voice. My grit, my intensity, my cadence. Even the way I drop the “g” in my “ings” when I’m angry.
But I never said that! Any of it. I haven’t spoken to Kai in years, and even at my most volatile, I’d never be dumb enough to leave a threatening voicemail. I’m impulsive and hotheaded at times, but I’m not stupid.