Chapter Four
Rhodes
It’s five-thirty a.m. when I arrive at the rink in my black Land Rover.
I love this car. It was my first big purchase with my NHL paycheck and I remember so clearly the rush of pride when I drove it off the lot, the feeling that I’d made it. That all the years of grinding, fighting, bleeding for this sport had been worth it.
Then my dad saw it.
Now that memory is tainted—like everything else he touches.
“I bet you feel real fucking special in that fancy new car, living your shiny fucking life,” his voicemail had spat into my ear.
Back then, I still listened to all of them.
“Don’t forget where you fucking came from, you ungrateful son of a bitch.
And don’t forget to send some of that big-shot money back home—to the man who made you. ”
The clock is ticking when I pull myself out of my head, and I know I’m already late.
Our rookie Jax Callahan’s red Mercedes is parked a few spaces over, new paint gleaming under the rink’s security lights.
Aside from that, the lot is mostly empty.
Just a few other cars, ghosts in the early-morning dark.
I like it this way. I prefer the practice rink empty. That’s exactly why I come this early—before the noise, before the expectations, before I have to pretend I have my shit together.
There’s a black Jeep parked in the back lot, and I wonder if it’s Monroe’s. It’s early, and she’s apparently working here now. She must be somewhere in the building.
The Wolverines had seen a few of her competitions.
Coach liked to promote unity between the rink athletes, so the Nationals team came to our games sometimes, too.
I don’t know much about the exact sport of figure skating, but I know she had it.
The arena would go perfectly silent when she and her partner stepped out on the ice.
It helps that she’s a complete knockout.
Many Wolverines, myself included, had tried and failed to take Monroe out.
I make a mental note to ask Coach what’s up with his elite athlete daughter scrubbing toilets at the rink.
Slapping my hands on the steering wheel, I pull my game face on. I had called Jax here to try to address some of our team issues outside of practice. I figured I could meet one-on-one with some of the guys who were weaker links on the team before working on the team as a whole.
Jax has been a problem since the season started.
His talent wasn’t a problem, but combining young, cocky, and raw skill was.
If I didn’t see so much of myself in him, I might not hate him so much, but I had been a little shithead too.
I’ve tried to be patient with him over the last year, but he’s reckless, and he has zero respect for leadership.
Especially mine.
Not that I’ve been a stellar leader this season—something Jax will no doubt remind me of in a few minutes. The team took a hit this year with the shake-up of our lineup. Between that, my own imposter syndrome, and my dad crawling back into my life, my head hasn’t been in the game at all.
I take a slow breath, shove my car door open, and slam it shut behind me. The wind bites at my face. Minnesota winters trained me for the cold, but Connecticut in January still stings.
Inside, the rink is dim, only half the lights are on. The quiet hum of the building settles over me as I walk the familiar halls.
In the locker room, I yank on my skates, running over my plan for Jax in my head. Simple drills to start, then some targeted slap shot practice. He gets sloppy by the third period—right when we need those points the most.
I stomp toward the ice, balancing on my blades. Jax is already out there, looping the rink.
“Fucking took you long enough,” he shouts from across the arena. “You said five-thirty, bro.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m here now,” I shout back. It comes out snappier than I intended.
“Wow, so inspirational, captain,” he snipes, clapping slowly.
I ignore him and glide onto the ice. I need this to go well. We don’t have time for this shit. Every game counts right now. “Let’s start with some drills,” I say, “and talk about what’s not working. I want us to get to the playoffs this year.”
He snorts and skids to a stop in front of me, ice flying into the air. “What the fuck do you think you can teach me that I don’t already do a hundred times better than you?”
Okay, so we’re doing this.
I inhale slowly, biting back the urge to knock that cocky smirk off his face.
“Jax, you’re a good player, but you play solo.
That shit doesn’t work in the NHL.” I had rehearsed all these lines this morning on my way in.
I wasn’t trying to start a fight, despite my current track record.
I wanted us to win. I wanted us to play as a team.
I actually wanted Jax to feel the kind of bonding experience a good team can have.
“Oh, and you’re so great at teamwork?” He shoves my shoulder, hard.
I clench my fists at my side. Do not knock him out.
Do not knock him out. “You’ve clocked the most fights in the entire fucking league this season, and you want to lecture me about working as a team?
Kind of hard to be a team player from the fucking press box. ”
I almost swing. Almost let my fist fly, because I know I could end him in one hit.
Instead, I breathe through it. Because I’m trying to be mature. And because he’s right.
“I’m working on that,” I grind out. “I know I haven’t been the best captain this season. I’ve got some stuff going o—”
“No shit, captain. We all have fucking stuff going on.” He’s yelling now, voice echoing off the high ceilings, hands and arms emphasizing his point.
A clattering sounds from behind us, and we both flip our heads toward the noise. Monroe is standing with a mop and bucket near the stands, watching. Hazel eyes locked on the two of us.
Jax notices her staring too, and he nods in her direction. “Like the show, babe?” he calls over to her. “I’ll let you patch me up if we get into a real fight.” His sneer sharpens.
All right, that’s enough.
I shove him back, returning his attention to me. “Leave her alone, Jax. She’s working.” He rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, but he lets it drop. I glance at Monroe. She’s still staring, expression unreadable.
“You’ve gotta start showing everyone some respect in practice and during games, “ I say, skating back toward him. “I’m trying to bring the team back together.”
He scoffs.
“You don’t deserve to be captain, McKnight,” he retorts sharply. “Don’t call me to another one of these fucking things. I won’t show up.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs.
Some captain you are, Rhodes.
He storms off the ice, slamming the door behind him.
I skate a few laps, hoping he’s out of the locker room before I have to go back in. I’m not really in the mood for round two. What bothers me the most is that so many of his comments were true.
The insults fly around my brain, cementing themselves into my psyche.
I am not a good leader.
I am not a good captain.
I am not a good team player.
But, dammit, I was trying to be. Coach Abrams obviously saw something in me last season or he wouldn’t have given me the title. He’d been so excited to offer me the captaincy, to tell me how much I deserved it. Had earned it.
I was screwing it up so badly that I wasn’t sure my career was going to recover. Kelsey was going to have a hell of a time spinning me getting thrown back to the minor league and getting my captaincy revoked. My dad would have a field day if my career went south.
I could hear his drunken voicemail now.
“What happened, huh? You finally proved what I’ve been saying all along?
That you were never cut out for this shit?
That you’re just another washed-up, overpaid punk who thought he was better than the rest of us?
I bet you feel real fucking stupid now. All that money, all that talent—wasted. Just like that.”
I run my hands over my face and skate back to the rink gate.
I almost trip over Monroe. She’s down on the ground, scrubbing something off the rink boards, and I don’t even see her at first.
I crouch down next to her, hands on my knees.
“Whatcha doing, Abrams?” She doesn’t respond. Her headphones are in and she’s ignoring me.
I pull one out of her ear. It’s obnoxious, but I don’t care. She’s going to bite back, and I think I need that right now.
“What the hell, Rhodes?” she glares at me, eyes narrowed.
Her hair is a mess, pulled into a bun that’s starting to come undone, stray curls framing her face.
Her leggings are flecked with cleaner, and her sweatshirt, a faded gray U.S.
Figure Skating Nationals hoodie, has a streak of dirt across the front.
“Give that back.” She makes a grab for the earbud, but I hold it just out of her reach, popping it into my own ear so I could hear what she was listening to.
American Idiot by Green Day blasts through the speaker and I grin. Nice, I mouth. She snarls.
“Why are you doing grunt work at the rink?” I can’t figure out how she went from Olympic hopeful to blackout party girl to…
ice rink janitor? She should be on the ice, not scrubbing the rink boards.
I’ve been trying to ignore the question for two days, and for some unfathomable reason, it’s bothering the shit out of me.
“It’s none of your fucking business,” she snaps, her hand reaching out to snag the earbud I’d stolen.
“You can still skate, though, right?” I push. She freezes. Gotcha, Abrams. “Maybe not at the Olympics. But from what I heard, your ankle healed? Mostly? So why aren’t you skating?” My rapid-fire questions only succeed in infuriating her.
She turns slowly to face me, rage etched in every line of her face. She’s taller than the other figure skaters, five-eight to my six-three. I like that. A better man would know when to cut his losses and let it go. She clearly didn’t want to talk about this.
But I’m not a better man, and she should be skating.