Chapter Twenty-Four
Rhodes
I see Monroe stiffen on the ice as the last of the kids exits the rink, clinic day one complete. My head whips around to see what caused the reaction, and I spot them immediately.
Monroe stays frozen in place, shoulders tense, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. I skate a little closer, dropping my voice low enough that only she can hear.
“You good?”
She doesn’t answer right away, eyes locked on the group near the bleachers. The Nationals girls are huddled together, talking in hushed tones, but it’s Aaron standing beside them that makes my blood run hot.
The overwhelming urge to protect what my body has decided is mine is threatening to take over my sensibility. Aaron’s posture is too casual, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable, gaze locked on Monroe. I’m not sure how long they’ve all been standing there, how much they watched.
Monroe inhales sharply through her nose, straightening her spine like she’s steeling herself for battle. “I’m fine,” she mutters.
“Yeah, that’s convincing,” I deadpan, my eyes flicking between her and Aaron. I don’t buy that fine for a second.
Elsie calls to the last few volunteers from across the rink, giving me the perfect excuse to steer Monroe toward the exit. “Come on, let’s—”
“Monroe.” Aaron’s voice cuts through the rink like a blade, stopping us both in our tracks.
Her head turns slowly, deliberate. “Aaron.” Her tone is flat. Emotionless.
The Nationals girls watch closely, thinly veiled amusement and curiosity written all over their faces. I want to take Monroe and hide her away from their judgment. Natalie stands in the center, arms crossed, lips quirked in something just shy of a smirk.
It’s wrong of me to hit a woman. It’s wrong of me to hit a woman. It’s wrong of me to hit a woman.
“You look good out there,” Aaron says, tilting his head. His eyes flick to me briefly, confusion crossing his features, before settling back on Monroe. “We had to come and see you back on the ice for ourselves.”
Monroe’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her long sleeves. “Well, now you’ve seen it,” she says. “Hope you liked the show.”
Aaron’s mouth opens, but Monroe’s already pushing off the ice, heading toward the exit without another glance. I send him a slow, hard look before following her off the arena.
She stomps off to the bleachers, grabbing her bag and blade guards, ignoring the group that follows her every move.
When she’s out of earshot, Aaron decides he has a fucking death wish.
“Did she sleep with the whole Wolverines team or just you?” Snickers from the group make my pulse pound.
“You know,” I say slowly, turning to face them. “I knew she had some shitty friends, but damn. How long did you skate together? Six years? Seven? Who lets one of their closest friends go through something like that alone?”
Silence. Aaron has common sense enough to look vaguely sheepish, but the rest of them don’t.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
I walk away knowing Monroe wouldn’t want me to fight all her battles for her, but not being able to stop myself from having the last word. If they think they’ll be able to just come in here and intimidate Monroe while she figures her life out again, they’ll have to go through me first.
I shake off the feeling and fix my face when I see Monroe talking to Elsie. She did absolutely amazing today with all the kids. She’s still completely magnetic on the ice. The Nationals team can fuck right off.
Monroe finishes talking with Elsie and I saunter up behind her, sliding my hand around her waist. Her eyes go wide as she leans back to look at me. We haven’t done much PDA outside our night at The Black Boar, because I haven’t exactly been sure what I’m allowed to do.
If it were up to me, I’d never have my hands off of her.
“My dad could walk in here at any second. Or your teammates,” she chides, sliding out of reach. My hands flex at my side at the loss of the feel of her.
“The only person who has a problem with that is you, Monroe,” I remind her. She smiles slightly and shakes her head. “My guys know we’re seeing each other, so it’s not them you have to worry about.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says quietly, contemplative.
When she stops pulling away and leans into me, I take a moment to plant a kiss to the top of her head, fully knowing I’m pushing my luck now.
As expected, she looks up at me, hazel eyes chiding, and bends down to grab her bag, motioning me to follow her as she walks toward the door.
As you wish, sweetheart.
* * * *
After I drop Monroe off at her apartment, I grab my phone and see a voicemail and several texts from my dad. Lovely.
You got two choices, kid. Send the fucking money, or I make a call.
I tell the NHL that their golden boy is fucking up their games.
And don’t think for a second they won’t listen.
All it’ll take is a few concerned sources saying you’re betting behind the scenes, throwing the games.
They pull you so fucking fast for fucking up their bottom line.
Just wait until the media gets their hands on it.
Imagine that, huh? Your name—your whole fucking career—dragged through the mud just because you were too proud to help your own father.
DO NOT ANSWER (8:15am): Don’t ignore me, Rhodes. I know you are seeing these.
DO NOT ANSWER (8:27am): You owe me. You think you don’t just because you made it big?
DO NOT ANSWER (8:42am): You think people won’t believe me?
DO NOT ANSWER (9:45am): $50K by the end of the month or I go public.
Fifty thousand dollars.
It’s more money than he’s ever asked me for before.
More than the first time, when I was just a kid trying to figure out how to handle my deadbeat father crawling back into my life.
More than the second time, when I was twenty-one, fresh into my career and still na?ve enough to believe this shit had an expiration date.
More than the third time, when I’d just signed with the Wolverines and he smelled the money like a damn bloodhound.
Fifty. Grand.
Shit.
My head pounds, my jaw locked so tight that it feels like my teeth might crack under the pressure. I rake a hand through my hair, staring down at my phone, at the unread messages, the missed calls, the voicemail notification.
This time it isn’t just begging for money, it’s give me what I want, or I’ll destroy you. I downplayed my anxiety to Monroe last night and now, sitting here in my dark house, I let it all wash over me.
I could call my mom. Tell her what’s happening. Ask for help. But I already know how that’ll go.
She’ll cry. She always does. The first time he called, when I was nineteen, I went straight to her and Paul. I showed them the messages, played them the voicemails.
She was devastated.
She and Paul tried to help, went to the courts, pushed for a restraining order, but it never stuck.
The justice system doesn’t give a shit about threats when they haven’t been acted on, and I wasn’t a minor anymore.
As long as he was just a voice on the phone and not a fist in my face, there wasn’t much they could do.
I didn’t have to see him through court-ordered visitations anymore, so in their minds, I should just block the number and move on.
And the entire process broke my mother.
Not just because of him—but because of me, too.
I am a walking, talking reminder of Wayne McKnight.
I have his last name, the face he had before he ruined it with drugs and alcohol—the face she was in love with once.
And I know she loves me. She loves me so much, but she isn’t the kind of mom who will walk through fire for her children.
She likes when it’s easy, likes a Sunday dinner and a Christmas morning. She’s not the mom you call when your life is going to shit.
And I don’t blame her for that, not really. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. I swore back then if I ever had kids one day, I’d be the kind of parent that would do anything for my kids. They wouldn’t wonder if I’d burn the world down for them. They’d know.
When my dad came back when I was twenty-one, I left her out of it. I went to my coach instead, hoping the NHL could do something. Hoped they’d care enough to step in. They did, kind of. They sent some threatening emails through their lawyers. It worked for a time.
When he came back again? Coach Abrams cared.
I still remember the way his expression shifted when I showed him the messages, the barely concealed fury in his eyes. I’d never been cared for quite like that. He sat down with everything and helped me make a plan.
He helped me change my number.
Had security on standby whenever we were traveling.
Made sure my dad was escorted out of every arena if he showed up uninvited. And he did try for a while. When he realized he wasn’t going to be able to get into the games, he’d sit outside and wait for me. Eventually, though, he had enough of that, too.
I swore, after that, that I wouldn’t let it happen again. That I wouldn’t be weak enough to let my father sink his claws back into me. The next time it happened, I would be man enough to make him go away myself.
I stare at the screen, at the unread texts, at the voicemail I still haven’t played.
Maybe if I just send him the money, he’ll go away.
It’s a pathetic thought. I hate myself for even considering it, but I can’t stop the way my stomach churns at the idea of him making good on his threats. Of my career being trampled on right when my team needs me the most.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face.
Sometimes I wonder if Monroe realizes how good she has it with Coach Abrams as her dad.
I’d kill for a dad like that.