24. Lincoln
LINCOLN
My phone vibrated. Again. Curling my fist around it, I seriously debated using it instead of a puck in our practice session. There was no point in trashing my phone, though, because it wouldn’t stop my father. He’d just find another way to contact me.
“Bellingham. Get a move on,” Coach snapped, and my head shot up, realising that my teammates were no longer surrounding me.
“Sorry, Coach.” I scrubbed my hand across my face before reaching for my helmet. Rising to my feet, I silenced my phone and then threw it into my cubby. “Let’s win this.”
“That’s the spirit.” He clapped me on the back. “I’m expecting you and Campbell to hold the line tonight. You’re our key defence.”
“I know. We won’t let you down.”
Joining the rest of my teammates who were congregating around the locker room door, ready to head out onto the ice for a crucial game against Bristol, I shook my head in response to Jasper’s questioning look.
“Coach reminded me that you and me are the key defence tonight.”
As we exited the locker room, he held up his gloved fist to bump against mine. “Too right. Let’s fucking go.”
“Yes! Hat trick!” Campbell threw his arms around our captain, and the rest of us piled on him, celebrating our fifth goal.
We were just over halfway through the third period and leading by three goals, so unless we fucked up badly, the points were ours.
I was amped up on adrenaline, fully focused on the game, but as I skated back to the benches for a line change, something caught my eye.
A familiar, imposing figure was standing behind the plexiglass to the right of the net, tall and still, his face completely expressionless.
To his left was a couple, their gazes following the action, and next to them…
there was a man. Dark beard, hoodie, baseball cap pulled down low.
Nothing to make him stand out. Nothing that should’ve set any alarm bells ringing.
I catalogued all of this in the space of a few seconds as I took my place on the benches.
My father’s presence here shouldn’t really have come as a surprise.
I’d been ignoring his messages for over a week now, ever since I’d given up the chance to go through Daniel’s phone during that ill-advised night when he’d been in my private space, at my mercy.
But as for the other person… Daniel’s words to my uncle came to mind.
Can you stop sending your creepy undercover detectives to my games?
My instincts were telling me that there was something more to this person, and if it was something to do with Operation Foxglove, what were they doing here?
The uneasy feeling stayed with me through the rest of the game, even after I’d returned to the ice, slamming the Bristol player up against the boards as I wrestled the puck from him.
I passed back to my goalie, evading another player coming at me, throwing everything I had into the final minutes of ice time to ensure we kept our lead.
When the buzzer sounded, I came to a stop, panting, and glanced towards the goal. The stranger was gone, but my father was still there, now seated and studying his phone.
His head rose. Our eyes met, and I knew that whatever was coming after the game, I wasn’t going to like it.
“Lincoln. Congratulations on your win.” My father’s voice was monotone as he rose to his feet. His mouth twisted in distaste as he brushed his leather-clad palms over his camel coat, sweeping away non-existent dust.
“Thank you.” My fingers tightened around the strap of my duffel bag. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in London?”
He glanced around us, taking in the crowds, before subtly tilting his head towards the exit. “Come with me.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a demand, wrapped up in faux politeness. I had no choice but to follow, unless I wanted to make a scene.
We ended up in the back seat of his Bentley, because he had a driver and a security guy ready and waiting when we reached the car. Sliding inside, I placed my bag in the footwell.
“What am I doing here?”
He ignored me, clicking his fingers in some kind of signal. The car began to move, and I leaned back against the headrest, closing my eyes. I just had to survive this, as I’d survived his other interrogations, and then I could get on with my life until the next time he wanted to use me.
The car came to a stop at a red light, and my father’s hand closed around the crystal glass the driver had given him before we set off.
He lifted it to his lips, taking a large swig of amber liquid before lowering the glass and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin that had been tucked into the centre console.
“Why can’t you be more like your brother?” he ground out, and I gasped. I couldn’t help my reaction—I was completely unprepared.
“What?” My voice seemed to echo around the car, and my father grimaced.
“Lincoln. We’re not doing this again. Don’t pretend that your brother doesn’t exist.” His fist thumped against his chest. “He’s here. Inside. He’s the perfect son. The one every father wishes for. He agrees with everything I say. He never goes against me.”
“But he—”
“Don’t speak,” he snarled. The car jerked forwards.
I stared out of the window. My vision was blurry.
My father was talking about my brother as if he were alive.
But he’d died. It had been a stillbirth. I knew that for a fact, not only from my mother, but from the medical records my uncle had managed to get hold of.
I’d managed to piece together the story over the years, and apparently, there had been complications during my birth, but my parents wanted to try again. The next time, just over a year later, my mother contracted severe preeclampsia, and she’d barely survived.
While I’d lived, my brother hadn’t. And ever since, my parents had a fixation with someone who’d never been born.
I rubbed my hand over my face. I’d have done anything to allow my brother to live, but that wasn’t possible. I couldn’t help that I was still alive. I’d done my best to toe the line, to make my parents happy, knowing that I was their consolation prize.
Nothing I did was ever enough.
We reached the edge of the Whelford campus, close to my apartment building.
I glanced over at my father, who had drained the contents of his glass and was now tapping at his phone.
The car crawled along the kerb, coming to a stop in front of the first row of buildings, and only then did he look up from his phone.
His hard gaze met mine. “You’ve been ignoring my messages, and the Hoytons are still running around without a care in the world. I didn’t want to have to do this, but you’ve left me with no choice.” Reaching into the seat pocket in front of him, he pulled out a manila envelope and passed it to me.
My hand shook as I opened the envelope, pulling out the contents.
Details of Mike’s heavy workload, carefully framed so it could appear as if he was neglecting Tilly in pursuit of his career, even though Tilly was with her mum, in registered childcare, or with me on the days he had to work late.
A bank statement belonging to Tilly’s mum, with numbers in the negative.
A printout of a Child Arrangements Order.
My father tapped the top sheet of paper with a gloved finger. “I will be returning home in ten days. You will give Michael something to work with by then or face the consequences. Do you understand?”
A suffocating wave of hopelessness threatened to drag me under. I slumped back, closing my eyes. “I understand.”