Chapter 35
My brain went blank. Static. White noise.
Benjamin Harroway stood in the dim hallway like he’d been photoshopped into the wrong picture.
Designer coat, dark jeans, leather shoes that had never seen a scuff.
His black hair was perfect. It was always perfect.
Even his posture was expensive, relaxed in a way that suggested he’d never had to worry about anything in his entire life
“What are you doing here?” The words came out flat.
“It’s good to see you too.” He was still smiling, that easy charm that used to make me feel special.
“How did you—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. How did you find me? How did you know where I live? How are you here?
“I was in town,” he said, like that explained anything. “Filming some scenes. Had some time between shoots.” He gestured at my apartment door. “Can we go inside?”
I should have said no. Should have told him to leave. Should have asked again how the hell he found my apartment.
Instead, I unlocked the door.
The apartment looked even worse with him in it.
There were dishes in the sink, Angelica’s textbooks on the coffee table, my jacket draped over the back of the couch. The place was clean, but it was small and worn and old in a way that became glaringly obvious when Benjamin Harroway, movie star, walked through the door.
He looked around with the kind of polite interest someone might give a museum exhibit they weren’t particularly interested in.
“Cozy,” he said.
It wasn’t cozy. It was tiny and the radiator clanked and the ceiling had a water stain from the unit above us.
“What do you want?” I stayed near the door.
“Can’t I just check in on an old friend?”
“We’re not friends.”
Something flickered in his expression. “Matt. Come on. Don’t be like that.”
“According to the papers I signed, should you even be here? Should we even be talking?”
“Relax.” He moved to the couch and sat down like he’d been invited. “It’s fine. We both know how important discretion is.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I told you. I was in town.” He crossed one leg over the other, perfectly at ease. “I’m filming some scenes in Boston for my next movie. I thought I’d look you up. You’re not exactly hard to find.”
“So you found me,” I said. “Great. Now what?”
“I wanted to see how you’re doing.” His tone was friendly. Concerned, even. “It’s been what, three years? You disappeared.”
Because that was in the terms of the agreement.
“I tried reaching out—”
I shook my head. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did. Through intermediaries. I know some people in—”
“Ben.” My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. “What do you want?”
He studied me for a moment. Then his expression shifted, became more serious. More genuine, or at least a better approximation of it.
“I heard you’ve been having trouble finding work,” he said.
How the hell had he heard that?
“That’s too bad,” he continued. “You were good at what you did. Really good. I’ve always felt terrible about how things ended.”
He didn’t look terrible. He looked the same as always. Perfect. Untouchable.
“How did you—” I stopped. Swallowed. “How do you know I’ve been having trouble finding work?”
“People talk.” He waved a hand vaguely. “The industry’s small, you know that. When someone’s name keeps coming up, people notice.”
There was something off, something I couldn’t quite pin down.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said slowly, “that sometimes reputations follow people. Sometimes there are. . . questions. About reliability. About judgment.” He paused. “About discretion. As your former employer, I had to tell them the story we agreed to. I didn’t want to, but what could I do?”
The implication hung in the air between us as I tried to make sense of what he was saying.
Holy shit.
Ben had been the one keeping me from getting work these past three years? Not directly, he’d never be that obvious, but through whispers, through those “connections” he’d mentioned.
It had been him, this whole time?
“But I could help,” he said, not seeming at all to recognize the shift in my mood.
“If you wanted. I know people. Good people.” He glanced at the college brochures on the coffee table.
“I actually have something specific in mind. There’s a project coming up—a documentary film.
It needs someone to coordinate logistics, schedules, all the things you were always so good at.
” He paused. “Contract work. Six weeks, maybe two months.”
How could I get him out of my apartment?
How could I make it so that I never had to speak to this asshole again?
“Twenty-five thousand for the duration,” he said.
“You’d be working directly with me. Well, with my production company, but I’m executive producing, so we’d be seeing each other.
A lot, probably.” He said it like that was a selling point.
Like of course I’d want that. “I know it’s been three years since we’ve talked—the NDA and everything—but I’ve missed having you around, Matthew.
You were good at what you did. Really good. ”
The money did make me pause for a moment. Twenty-five thousand dollars wasn’t something to laugh at. That was more than I’d make working for Kirk. That was rent paid through the end of the year with money left over.
“And honestly,” Ben continued, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate, “I’ve missed you. Not just the work stuff. You. Us. I thought maybe this could be a chance to. . . I don’t know. Spend time together again. See where things go.”
There it was.
This wasn’t about the job. This was about him thinking I’d been waiting three years for him to snap his fingers and pull me back into his orbit.
“I have a job,” I said. “Already.”
“Oh?” He looked genuinely surprised, like the idea that I’d moved on hadn’t occurred to him. “Doing what?”
“Working in hockey.”
His dark eyebrows rose slightly. “Hockey. Really.”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting.” He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t seem to care. “Well. That’s. . . good. I’m glad you found something.” A pause. “But this is a real opportunity, Matthew. Better money. Better connections. And we’d get to work together again. Be around each other.”
He was lying. He didn’t care about my hockey job at all. And he genuinely thought I’d drop everything to be near him again.
I heard footsteps outside in the hallway. My heart jumped—Angelica was supposed to be at her school thing until later—but the footsteps continued past my door.
Ben noticed my reaction. “You live with someone?”
“My sister.”
“Your sister.” He said it like he was trying to remember. Like maybe he’d heard about her once, years ago, and the detail hadn’t stuck. “What’s her name again?”
“Angelica.”
“Angelica.” He smiled. “How is she?”
He didn’t actually want to know. This was small talk. Filling space. The way he’d made small talk with caterers and drivers and anyone else who wasn’t important enough to really pay attention to.
I’d been one of those people. I’d just been too stupid to realize it.
“She’s fine,” I said.
“She’s, what, in elementary school?”
“She’s about to graduate high school.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out without thinking. Andrew’s name was on the screen. Even just seeing his name made me relax a little.
Andrew: what are you doing
The question was simple. Casual. But it felt like a lifeline.
I typed back quickly: Nothing
“Something important?” Benjamin asked.
I looked up. He was watching me with that polite interest again.
“Yes,” I said.
“Hockey must be demanding if they’re texting you on a Saturday.” He tilted his head slightly. “Unless that person wasn’t texting you about work?”
I didn’t answer.
Benjamin’s smile widened. “Well. Good for you, Matt. Really. You deserve someone who appreciates you.”
The way he said it made my skin crawl.
“Actually,” he said, standing. “I should probably get going. Early call time tomorrow.” He pulled out his phone. “The offer stands. If you change your mind, you have my number—” He paused. “Oh wait, you don’t. Let me fix that.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Come on. For old times’ sake.” He held out his phone. “Besides, if this hockey thing doesn’t work out, there might be something else in the future. You never know when you might need a reference. Or when someone might call asking about your work history.”
There it was. Not quite a threat. But close enough.
The implication was clear: stay on his good side, or he could make things difficult. Again.
I recited my number. Watched him type it in. Hated myself for giving it to him.
But what choice did I have? Saying no meant risking everything I’d rebuilt.
“Perfect.” He pocketed his phone, then reached out and touched my shoulder. Light, friendly, the kind of gesture he’d given to hundreds of people over the years. “Think about it, Matthew. Twenty-five thousand dollars. No strings attached. Just a chance for me to make things right.”
There were absolutely strings attached.
Then he was gone.
I stood in the middle of my apartment, staring at the closed door.
The panic hit thirty seconds later.
Not gradually. Not like the slow build I usually felt. This was immediate and total. My chest seized. My vision narrowed. The walls felt like they were closing in.
I made it two steps toward the couch before my legs gave out.
The floor was cold. Hard. I ended up on my knees, then sitting, back against the couch, trying to breathe and failing.
Benjamin Harroway had been in my apartment. He’d found me. He’d implied—no, he’d basically admitted—that he’d been sabotaging my career. He had my number. He knew where I lived.
I pressed my palms against the floor. Tried to ground myself. Tried to breathe.
Andrew Knox’s career games played: 412.
The stat came automatically. A reflex.
Goals: 187. Assists: 243.
My breathing was still ragged, but the numbers helped. They always helped.
Plus-minus rating: +89.
Penalty minutes: 340.
Games suspended: 23.
I kept going. Let the numbers fill my head until there was no room for Benjamin’s voice, his smile, the way he’d sat on my couch like he belonged there.
I could take Ben’s offer. Do the work. Take the money, put it toward Angelica’s education, and never tell anyone where it came from.
Except it wasn’t really about a documentary project. It was about keeping me quiet. About reminding me that he still had power. That he could help me or destroy me, depending on his mood.
It took maybe ten minutes before I could breathe normally again.
By the time Angelica got home an hour later, I’d cleaned the kitchen and was sitting on the couch with my laptop, pretending to work.
“Hey,” she said, dumping her backpack by the door. She studied me for a moment. “You okay? You look stressed.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
She didn’t look convinced but didn’t push. “Okay. Well, I’m going to do homework. Calc test coming up.”
“Good luck.”
She disappeared into her room.
I sat there with my laptop open, staring at nothing.
My phone buzzed.
Andrew: Diane won’t shut up about you. Says you’re too good for me.
I stared at the message. Typed back: She was very kind.
Andrew: She’s right.
Andrew: What are you doing
I looked around the apartment. At the spot where Ben had sat. At the door he’d walked through like it was nothing.
I should tell him. I needed to tell him Ben showed up.
But how?
If I told Andrew about Ben, I’d have to tell him everything. About the drugs that weren’t mine. About signing the NDA to protect someone who’d never protected me back. About how I’d been so desperate to be chosen that I’d sacrificed myself for someone who’d never actually cared about me.
About how I’d just sat there and let Ben offer me twenty-five thousand dollars and part of me—a shameful, desperate part of me—had actually considered taking it.
Would Andrew understand that? Or would he see me differently, as weak, broken, someone who couldn’t be trusted to protect himself, let alone stand beside someone like him?
We’d just reached something good. Something real. I’d met his mother.
What if telling him this ruined it? What if he looked at me and saw someone pathetic instead of someone worth keeping?
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Me: Just hanging out. Quiet night.
I hit send before I could change my mind.