Chapter 22
I’m still in the driver’s seat long after the garage has emptied, my headlights reflecting on the concrete like blades. My hands are locked on the wheel, but I’m not driving anywhere. I can’t. Not with his voice still ringing in my ears.
Brother.
The word feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else’s story.
I don’t have any brothers. I don’t have a family.
Foster homes, couch surfing, and a string of social workers who rotated in and out, that’s my history.
And now Derek shows up with proof in his pocket and a poisonous smile, calling himself my blood.
The ultimatum circles in my head like a relentless chant––pay two million dollars or everything I’ve tried to bury gets dragged into the light.
My mother’s death. The charity work I’ve always kept quiet, because if people saw the kids at the hospital as just “PR,” it would ruin them. And worst of all, he has eyes on Rochelle.
He said her name without saying it. That pretty journalist girlfriend of yours, I’ve got my eyes on her. The implication was enough to twist my stomach. Derek’s been watching her. Following her. The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
I want to punch the dashboard, scream at something. Instead, I sit frozen, because underneath the rage I feel is fear. Not just of losing my career, or my reputation. But I’m scared of dragging Rochelle down with me.
She didn’t sign up for this nightmare. She deserves better than to be a collateral in some brother’s sick game.
My chest tightens as I think of her face if she ever found out.
The way her eyes would widen, that sharp mind of hers connecting the dots, her trust in me dissolving.
I’ve spent years building walls to keep the world out, and she’s the first person who’s slipped through the cracks. I can’t let Derek use her as bait.
I run a hand over my face, breath ragged, as the steering wheel slick beneath my palms. Every option feels like a trap. Pay him and I’m bled dry. Refuse and he destroys my life. Fight back… and I don’t even know where to start.
But I can’t tell Rochelle about this. Not yet. Not until I figure out how to protect her.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white. My brother wants to break me.
He won’t.
The apartment is dark except for the light from my phone screen. I should be asleep, resting for morning practice, but my body won’t let me. Every time I shut my eyes, I hear Derek’s voice again, smooth, cold, dripping with audacity.
The phone vibrates and my stomach knots before I even look.
A photo fills the screen. Me at the children’s hospital last week, crouched beside a kid in a wheelchair, both of us smiling. The timestamp matches perfectly.
Another vibration.
Unknown: It would be a shame if the world thought you only did this for headlines.
My chest tightens. That place is sacred. Those kids deserve better than to be dragged into his blackmail game.
The phone dings again. This time, the message is worse.
Unknown: Your girlfriend is pretty. It would be a shame if her career suffered.
Rochelle.
A sharp pulse of fury shoots through me. It’s hot and blinding. He’s been stalking her.
The thought of Derek’s eyes on her, tracking her every move the way he’s doing with me, makes my skin crawl. I want to smash the phone, hunt him down, and make him regret even saying her name.
But I don’t move. Because the fear is crippling, gluing me to the spot. If he has pictures of her, what else does he have? How close has he gotten without us knowing?
I pace my apartment, my heart pounding, my fists clenched. Pay him, and maybe he stops. Confess everything publicly, and maybe he loses leverage. I want to fight him, but I don’t know how to do that.
He’s been two steps ahead of me for years, pulling strings from the shadows.
The clock ticks past midnight. Then one. Then two. Sleep doesn’t come. My mind runs in circles, always slamming into the same walls. There’s no path forward that doesn’t cost me something.
By the time dawn’s first light slips through the blinds, my eyes burn, and my body is exhausted. Derek has me cornered, and the sick part is, he knows it.
I stare at the phone, waiting for the next text message, the next knife to twist.
No matter which way I turn, I lose. No option leaves me whole.
I skate onto the ice, stick in my hand, but it feels like I’m moving through a sticky floor instead of ice.
The sound of pucks clanging against boards, skates screeching on ice, and my teammates shouting drills washes over me, but none of it sticks. I miss a slap shot that should have been easy, letting it breeze past me into the net. A groan escapes my throat out of frustration.
“Kai!” Coach Williams’ voice pulls me back, but I can’t focus on the correction. I can’t focus on anything this morning. Every movement feels off. It’s either I’m too slow or too clumsy. My hands are slick with sweat that doesn’t belong there, my mind on Derek’s texts instead of the puck.
Another puck whizzes past, and my teammates exchange looks I can almost read. Concern? Confusion? Frustration? Whatever it is, I don’t care. I just skate, trying to force my muscles to remember the routine, but it’s no use.
Jake slides up beside me, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong? You look like hell,” he says quietly, voice low enough that no one else hears him.
I shake my head, forcing a shrug. “Just playoff pressure,” I mutter, keeping my tone casual, but it tastes like a lie even as I say it.
Jake doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the slight furrow of his brow, the way his jaw tightens. But he doesn’t press for more. At least not right now. He knows me too well to poke until I’m ready, but he’s close enough to catch every tremor, every slip, every clumsy act of mine.
I can feel the heat rising under my helmet, from my anger at myself, at Derek, at everything I can’t control. I’m supposed to channel energy, to dominate, to be the anchor for this team and I can’t even hold the puck. I can’t hold myself together.
Practice continues, a blur of movement and noise, but I’m not part of it. I’m isolated in my own head, replaying Derek’s smirk, his words, the photos of Rochelle he claims to have. Every shot I let slip is a reminder that I’m slowly falling apart.
When the drill ends, Jake comes up to me again, giving me a look that doesn’t need words.
I nod, trying to appear fine, but my chest feels heavy. The locker room starts to fill up with players whose heads were actually in the game.
I skate off alone, hearing Jake call after me, “Kai… we’ll figure it out.”
I know he means it, but right now, there’s no fixing this. Not without losing something, or someone I can’t afford to lose.
The café is crowded for a weekday afternoon and is really noisy. The sounds of ceramic cups hitting surfaces and chattering from several conversations fill the room.
I spot Rochelle at a corner table, a notebook in front of her, pen tapping against the page. She looks up the second I walk in, and even with exhaustion dragging me down, I feel the heat of her gaze like a shot of adrenaline.
She smiles, but it fades when I get closer. “You look like you’re not sleeping,” she says softly, knitting her brow in concern.
I force a shrug, sliding into the seat across from her. “Practice was tough. You know how it is.”
The lie slips out too easily, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. Her eyes narrow, sharp and perceptive, like she’s studying me for the truth I’m not offering.
She leans forward, her hand brushing mine on the table. “Kai. What’s wrong?”
The question rattles me more than I want to admit.
I want to tell her. About Derek, the texts, the threats circling us both like sharks.
I want to put it all out there, let her decide what it means for us.
But then I see her in my mind the way Derek sees her, through a camera lens, as an object for blacklist and the words die in my throat.
Instead, I reach across the table and kiss her. Desperate, and almost clumsy, my lips pressing against hers with a need that feels more like a shield than affection. She stiffens at first, caught off guard, but then she kisses me back, her fingers curling into the sleeve of my hoodie.
When we break apart, her eyes search mine. “That wasn’t an answer,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say, voice rough. I manage a small smile, trying to deflect, to lighten the atmosphere. “But it’s better than talking about playoff stats, right?”
She huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She knows. Of course she knows. Rochelle’s whole career is about peeling back masks and finding the story underneath. And here I am, building another wall around her.
We talk after that, but it’s surface-level conversation. She asks about practice, I give half-answers. I ask about her article, she shrugs and says she’s still drafting. It feels like we’re both circling the truth, orbiting it without daring to touch it.
An hour later, I push back my chair, the weight in my chest heavier than when I arrived. “I should get going. I have an early day’s schedule tomorrow.”
She nods, but her eyes linger on me, full of questions I can’t let her ask. “Kai…” she says, like she’s on the verge of prying.
I lean down, kiss her forehead, and murmur, “Later.”
As I walk out of the café, the guilt stabs at me. My silence is supposed to protect her, to keep Derek’s shadow away from her life. But every step feels like I’m breaking something fragile between us, something I might not be able to piece back together once the truth finally comes out.
And the worst part is, I know that moment’s coming. Sooner than either of us is ready for.