Chapter 3
Chapter Three
DECLAN
My phone rings during my morning workout. The ringtone, “The Imperial March” from Star Wars, tells me exactly who it is.
Darth Vader.
Dark father.
I don’t want to talk to him, but if I don’t answer, he’ll call until I do.
Or show up.
I definitely don’t want him showing up.
"Hey, Dad."
"Declan. I need you in New York this weekend. We have meetings."
"This weekend? Dad, I have plans."
"It's a three-day weekend. You don't have class on Monday."
Of course, he checked. "What meetings?"
"Some friends from Seattle want to meet you. Informally." His voice takes on that edge. "This is exactly what we've been working toward."
"I haven't even played a game yet."
"Which is why this is perfect timing. This is how the game works, Declan. Relationships matter."
"I know how it works."
More like this is my dad, glad-handing and doing all he can to get me a deal. He wants me to charm whoever’s coming to meet me.
"Do you? Because it seems like you're more interested in playing house with that girl than securing your future. And yes, I know all about her.”
That’s my dad’s superpower. He knows all. Sees all. I don’t know how. It’s just the way it is and always has been.
My jaw clenches. "Her name is Sutton."
"I don't care what her name is. What I care about is you getting your head in the game. You have one shot at this."
"I'll be there Friday night."
"Good. And Declan? Leave the girlfriend at home. This is business."
He hangs up before I can respond.
"You're going to New York?" Sutton asks later that night. We're in my room, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her. This has become our routine—studying together, talking, just existing in the same space.
"Yeah. My dad has some meetings lined up."
"What kind of meetings?"
I hesitate. I should tell her about the scout. About Seattle. About everything. But the words stick in my throat.
"Just hockey stuff. Networking. You know how my dad is."
She turns to look at me. "Do you want me to come with you? I could probably get someone to cover my shifts."
"No." The word comes out too fast. I soften my tone. "I mean, it's going to be boring. Just my dad talking business for three days. You'd hate it."
"I wouldn't hate being with you."
God, she's making this harder. "You just started at the restaurant. You need the money, right? For rent and stuff?"
She nods slowly. "Yeah. Tips have been good so far."
"Then stay. Work. Make your money." I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I'll be back before you know it. We can do something Monday night when I get home."
"Okay." But I can hear the disappointment in her voice.
I hate lying to her. Even by omission, it feels like lying.
Friday afternoon, I drive to New York—four hours of preparing myself for a weekend with my father.
The city appears at sunset. Dad's Midtown penthouse is all modern lines and expensive furniture with an amazing view of Central Park.
It's never felt like home. It’s so cold. Our house is a bachelor pad with secondhand furniture, but it feels like home.
The penthouse is where I grew up. It’s been renovated several times over the years, with my dad buying the floor below, so now it’s two full floors of cold and gray.
Dad opens the door. "You're late."
"Traffic."
"You should have left earlier. Put your bag in the guest room. We need to discuss strategy."
The guest room looks like a hotel—impersonal and sterile. There isn’t a single photo on the walls. My old bedroom disappeared two renovations ago. Now it’s just a sauna.
Dad pours himself a scotch when I return. "Want one?"
"I'm in season."
"It's one drink." He hands me a glass. "Let's talk about your future."
Here we go—no small talk. No catching up or talking about anything personal.
"The Seattle organization is very interested in you. The scout—Lee Morrison—is a good guy. He’s looking forward to watching you play. He’s sent his advance team to talk with you.”
“Advance team?”
“It’s not official. You know how this works. The assistant coach, athletic trainer, and recruiter are all involved. It’s all off the books, of course.”
“Got it.”
“This is important, Declan.”
"I know it's a big deal."
"Do you?" Dad leans forward. "Because I'm not sure you understand what's at stake here. You had a decent junior year, but your stats weren't where they needed to be. Your senior year is your last chance to prove you belong in the NHL."
"My stats were fine."
"Fine isn't good enough. You need to be exceptional. You need to be the player I know you can be, the player your grandfather was."
There it is. The ghost that's haunted me my entire life. My grandfather—the NHL legend. The Hall of Famer. The standard I can never quite meet.
"I'm not Grandpa."
"No, you're not. He had drive. Hunger. He wanted it more than anything." Dad takes a sip of his scotch. "Sometimes I wonder if you want it at all."
The accusation stings more than it should. "Of course I want it."
Didn’t I?
"Then why did you insist on college? You could have been drafted at eighteen. You could already have three years of professional experience."
This argument again. "I wanted an education. Something to fall back on."
"Fall back on?" Dad's voice rises. "You don't get to fall back in this business. I would have secured you a contract that made sure you would retire comfortably after ten years.”
"I wanted options. The average NHL career is five years, Dad.
Five years. And that's if you're lucky. If you don't get injured.
If you don't burn out." I lean forward. "I've watched players my whole life.
I've seen what happens when hockey is over, and they have nothing else.
No degree, no skills, just a broken body and memories. "
"Your grandfather played for fifteen years."
"And he could barely walk by the time he was fifty.
His knees were shot. His back was destroyed.
He couldn't pick up his grandkids without pain.
And he died way too young." I shake my head.
"I don't want that life, Dad. I want to coach someday.
Work with kids. Teach them to love the game without all the pressure.
I can't do that if I'm washed up at twenty-five with nothing but a high school diploma. "
"You sound like a quitter."
"I sound like someone who's realistic about what this sport does to your body, to your life." I stand up. "I love hockey. But I also want a life outside of it. I want to be the dad who coaches Little League, who's home for dinner, who doesn't miss birthdays because of road games."
Dad's expression hardens. "Then you're in the wrong business."
“I’m playing college hockey,” I say.
He makes a sound of disgust. “Why have you been wasting the last eighteen years? Why have you wasted my time?”
“I wasn’t sure what I wanted.” I shrug. “I’m still figuring it out. I don’t want to make a decision without thinking it through. I’m thinking about it. I’m trying to figure out what to do.”
"Have you thought about it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're more interested in playing house with some scholarship kid than focusing on your career."
"Don't talk about her like that."
"I'll talk about her however I want. She's a distraction, Declan, just like last time. And we both know what happened when you let yourself get distracted during your freshman year."
My hands clench around the glass. "That was different."
"Was it? Your grades slipped. You missed practices.
You lost your edge. And then when you finally came to your senses and ended it, look what happened.
You had your best season. Made captain. Got back on track.
" He sets his glass down with a decisive click.
"Now you're doing it again. And right when scouts are watching. "
"I'm not going to break up with her."
"I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to prioritize. Seattle is three thousand miles away from Boston. If you get the offer—when you get the offer—what's your plan? Drag her across the country?”
It’s only a little disturbing that he knows so much about Sutton. I don’t think my roommates are spying on me. So who? Who the hell knows about Sutton and me?
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I say.
“I’ll tell you what you’re not doing. You’re not going to throw away your life over a piece of ass. You can do better. That girl is with you for one reason only.”
“You don’t know her.”
“I do know her. And I know her kind. You’re a meal ticket.”
“I’m not talking to you about her,” I snap. “You don’t know her. She could give a shit about my money.”
“My money,” he growls.
There was no point in arguing. I wasn’t going to let him get me fired up. He loved the drama. He loved asserting his dominance. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“When you have to choose, you're going to pick hockey. You always do."
I shrug.
"I know that hockey is your future,” he says. “It's what you've been training for your entire life.”
I stand up, my scotch untouched on the table. "I'm going to bed."
"Declan, this is important."
"I'll be ready for the meeting tomorrow. But I'm done with this conversation."
I walk to the guest room and close the door before he can say anything else. My phone is already in my hand, pulling up Sutton's contact.
I put the phone down without texting her. She’s at work, and I’m not sure what I would say.
Instead, I text Ashton.
Me: Who’s been talking to my dad?
The three bubbles pop up.
I wait.
Ashton: No idea. Is someone?
Me: Tell the guys to shut up and mind their own business.
Ashton: Settle down, big guy. No one is talking to your dad.
I believe him. But someone is.
The next morning, I put on slacks and a button-up. Dad insists we meet the team for brunch at an expensive SoHo restaurant.
Each of them shakes my hand with a bone-crushing grip.
"Declan Hayes. Your grandfather was a hell of a player."
"So I've heard,” I say.
The next hour is filled with the men telling me all about their program.
After brunch, Dad walks me to his Mercedes. He's glowing.
"That went well. They were impressed. Keep your head in the game this season, and you've got a real shot." He claps my shoulder. "You're so close, son. Don't blow it now."