Chapter 11
The air in the room changed instantly, and suddenly everything was ice cold.
Knox’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t show surprise or anger or anything at all. But his body language did. Shoulders squaring. Jaw tightening. Every muscle coiling like he was about to explode.
“Archibald.” Knox’s voice came out flat.
Brandon Archibald looked up and smiled like they were old friends. “Didn’t expect to see you here. How’s the suspension treating you?”
My brain kicked into overdrive. Archibald played for New York Sentinels. Right wing. Twenty-six years old. Career plus-minus of +40. Knox had beaten him so badly he’d spent three days in the hospital. A broken orbital bone. A concussion. The incident that started all of this.
And he was here. In the same store. Standing ten feet away.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
Knox’s shoulders tensed like he was about to throw a punch.
“Get the fuck out,” he said.
“Relax, Knox. I’m just here for a fitting.” Archibald’s smile didn’t waver. “Giuseppe does excellent work, as it appears you know.”
“I said get out.”
“It’s a free country. And last I checked, you’re not exactly in a position to be making demands.” Archibald adjusted his cufflinks, the ones he’d been examining. “How’s the hearing prep going? Nervous?”
Knox took a step forward.
I moved without thinking, positioning myself closer. Not between them—I wasn’t that stupid—but close enough to intervene if this went sideways.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve showing your face in this town,” Knox said. His voice was too calm. The kind of calm that came right before violence.
“My face?” Archibald touched his cheek, where a faint scar was still visible. “Yeah, took a while for the swelling to go down. Doctors did good work though, don’t you think?”
“Should’ve hit you harder.”
“There it is.” Archibald’s smile turned sharp. “That famous Knox temper. You know that’s going to come up at the hearing, right? Your complete inability to control yourself?”
“You ran your mouth. I shut it. Pretty simple.”
“I made an observation about your rookie. You put me in the hospital.”
“You called Morrison a—” Knox stopped himself and exhaled. “You know what you said.”
“And you proved my point.” Archibald looked genuinely amused now. “Unstable. Violent. You’re a liability to your team.”
This was escalating. Fast.
I needed to get Knox out of here before he did something that would make the suspension permanent.
But before I could say anything, Archibald’s eyes slid past Knox and landed on me.
His smile changed. “Wait. I know you.”
I froze.
No. No, he didn’t.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“No, I do.” He stepped closer and tilted his head, studying me. “You used to work for that actor, right? It was years ago, but that was totally you. That hotel in Tribeca.”
Shit.
Knox’s attention shifted to me. I could feel his gaze, sharp and assessing.
“We’re leaving,” I said, starting to move toward Knox’s jacket.
Archibald’s smile widened. “Yeah, I remember now. Wild night. Everyone was doing lines in the bathroom like it was a fucking sport. Your, uh, friend, was completely wasted and—”
“I think you’re confused,” I said.
“Am I?” Archibald looked genuinely amused now. “Because I’m pretty sure I saw you there. Trying to keep that actor upright while he stumbled around making an ass of himself. No judgment, man. We all have our vices.”
I couldn’t breathe.
He thought I—
I wasn’t. I had never—
But explaining that meant explaining Ben. Explaining why I was at that party. Explaining what Ben was to me. What Ben had been.
And I couldn’t do that. Not here. Not after I signed the NDA. Not in front of Knox.
Hockey was weird about this stuff. Everyone knew it. You could be the best player in the league and one rumor about being gay could tank your career, your endorsements, everything. And I was just an assistant, barely hanging on, and if Knox thought—
“The fuck you running your mouth about?” Knox’s voice interrupted my spiral.
“I’m just saying, didn’t know you hired that kind of assistant, Knox.” Archibald’s tone was light, casual. “Though I guess standards are different when you’re suspended and desperate.”
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“Nothing. Just making conversation.”
“Then make it somewhere else before I break your other fucking orbital bone.”
Archibald’s smile faltered slightly. But he recovered fast. “See? Violent. Unstable. You really think you’re getting out of this suspension? They’re going to bury you, Knox. And honestly?” He glanced at me again. “Maybe they should.”
“Get. Out.” Knox’s voice dropped to something absolutely deadly. “Now. Before I forget we’re in public. I really don’t give a shit about making things worse.”
Archibald held his gaze for a long moment. Then he smiled, adjusted his jacket, and turned toward the door.
“Good luck at the hearing, Knox.”
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Giuseppe cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should. . . reschedule?”
Knox was still staring at the door. “We’re done here. Let’s go, Quinn.”
I nodded, my legs moving on autopilot as Knox pushed open the door and walked out into the cold afternoon air.
I followed, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The car ride back was silent.
Knox’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. The engine purred, weaving through Boston traffic like it owed him something.
My adrenaline was spiking. Heart racing, thoughts spiraling, panic edging in from all sides. I barely registered the buildings blurring past the window.
Brandon Archibald thought I did drugs.
Andrew Knox probably thought I did drugs.
But I didn’t. I never had. I’d just been there, at that party, at many parties, because Ben wanted me there. Because Ben always wanted me there, even when he was doing things I didn’t want to be around.
But I couldn’t explain that without explaining everything else. Without explaining what Ben was to me. What we were.
And Knox was part of the hockey world. Even if he was suspended, even if he was angry at the system, he was still part of it. And if he knew I was gay, on top of everything else—
“Breathe.”
Knox’s voice cut through the spiral.
I blinked and looked at him.
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t.”
I exhaled shakily. Inhaled. Tried again.
I wanted to explain. To tell him I wasn’t what Archibald thought. To make him understand.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Because any explanation led to the same place. To Ben. To why I was at that party. To things I couldn’t say because I’d signed documents detailing exactly what I could and couldn’t talk about.
“When Archibald said—” I started.
“I don’t give a fuck what he said.” Knox’s voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it. Anger, but not at me. “Archibald runs his mouth about everyone. It’s what he does. Doesn’t mean any of it’s true.”
The knot in my chest loosened. Not much. But enough.
“You don’t. . . you don’t think I. . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Knox glanced at me, just for a second, before his eyes returned to the road. “Do drugs? Party like that?” He shook his head. “No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen people who do that shit.” He took a turn, fast and precise. “And you’re not one of them.”
We pulled into the underground garage of his building. The car slid into its spot, engine ticking as it cooled. Knox killed the ignition but didn’t move.
“Archibald’s a piece of shit,” he said. “Always has been. He makes up stories about people because it makes him feel important.”
I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice.
“If he’s ever around and says something to you again—”
“I can handle it.”
Knox looked at me then. Really looked at me. His blue eyes were intense, searching.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “You can.”
There was something in his voice, like he believed me, even though I hadn’t told him the whole truth.
Back in the penthouse, I went straight to the laptop. Pulled up my email. Found the message from the event coordinator.
There it was. The seating chart for Saturday’s charity dinner.
I scanned the table assignments, already knowing what I’d find.
Table 4. Seat 3: Andrew Knox.
Table 4. Seat 4: Brandon Archibald.
Fuck.