Chapter Twenty-Six
Rhodes
Well, everything has gone to shit.
I put off responding to him long enough, and my dad has finally followed through on something for the first time in his miserable life.
I woke up to six missed calls from Kelsey, three emails with subject lines like “URGENT!” and “READ NOW,” plus a voicemail from Coach that was less than ideal.
And to top it all off? A league-issued email summoning me to speak with the NHL commissioner immediately so they can begin their investigation into my sports gambling.
Apparently, dear old Dad decided to tell my boss that I was throwing games at the beginning of this season. And that’s a big no-no for the NHL.
My heart dropped into my stomach when I read through the texts and emails.
The accusation alone is enough to set what is left of my career on fire.
The NHLPA allows players to bet on any other sport, but we can’t bet on our own or intentionally throw games to ensure a specific outcome.
There are three things that can happen if a player is found guilty of an off-ice league rule—you’ll get fined ten thousand dollars for a first-time offender, your contract can be canceled with your team, or you’ll get expelled or suspended for a definite, or indefinite, period of time from the NHL.
Basically, my father just threw a grenade into our playoff season and potentially tainted our wins this season thus far.
And after my fights on the ice earlier this season, I’m already on thin ice.
An HR nightmare. And even though I know it’s complete bullshit, and they’ll find nothing, an investigation’s public now and it’ll be in the media, attached to my name for the rest of forever, probably.
I text Coach on my way in response to his messages asking me to come in. In the meantime, I call Kelsey, my hands shaking as I pull my hoodie over my head.
She answers on the first ring. “Nice of you to call back, McKnight,” she gripes, voice clipped and irritated.
No doubt she’s been fielding calls all morning.
Her annoyance is warranted, but I don’t have the bandwidth to fight with her, too.
“When did you plan on telling me your asshole dad was beating on your door again? Anytime soon?”
“Uh…” I hesitate, rubbing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “Never was the original goal. I was hoping he would just kind of go away.”
“Stellar. That worked out super-well for you. And me,” she bites out.
Usually, I love how no-nonsense and to the point she is.
Right now, I need her to be less abrasive and more get-shit-done.
“Tell me something, Rhodes. Do you like making my job exponentially difficult? Is it fun for you to watch me get you out of tight spots and keep your career nice and shiny?”
“Kelsey, could you please just tell me what the game plan is here? I messed up not telling you guys. I get it. But obviously his claims are unfounded, so what are we doing?”
“Well, right now, he is claiming that he has evidence of you throwing games. That you came up with the bets together and split the profits.”
I exhale, pulse kicking up and roaring in my ears. I barely hear her as she continues.
“They’re going to look for any paper or electronic trail that could connect you to a wager made on hockey. Since you guys are in the middle of the season, this investigation has some teeth and they want to get it figured out.”
I freeze mid-step. “What the fuck, Kelsey. I haven’t seen this man in well over a year. I don’t gamble—at all. Let alone on hockey.”
“I get that, Rhodes, I do. But the NHL has to open an investigation now. We know it’s nothing, they’ll find it’s nothing, but until then? The media is going to run with this, and you’re sitting out of the games until they’re done investigating.”
“Gah!” A strangled yell rips out of me, the word echoing through my kitchen as I hang up the phone.
I’m listening to it reverberate around the room when I suddenly remember Monroe in my bed.
Worried I woke her, I go back into my bedroom.
She’s sitting up, pillows snuggled in around her, reading something on her phone.
She looks up when I walk in, concern etched all over her beautiful face.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “I heard yelling.”
What do I even say? Hey, sweetheart. My dad has gone off the rails and I’m being investigated for gambling that I definitely didn’t do, I’m suspended until the investigation is over, and also I’m all over the media so my career is probably going to tank.
Aren’t you glad you decided to be my girlfriend twelve hours ago?
“Did your dad text you at all this morning?” I go with instead.
“Yeah, he said something was going down with the NHL commissioner but didn’t give me any more details. What’s going on?”
“My father has decided to go off the rails, and now I have to deal with it.” That’s a little more subdued than my original explanation.
“Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to come with?”
I shake my head and hand her a house key on a keychain. I had it copied for her a week ago. I was waiting for a better time to give it to her—but anything I have is hers, anyway. She might as well know it. I’m all-in and I have been for a while now.
“Here’s the key to the house. It’s yours. I’ll call you in a few hours when I know more.”
* * * *
I’m vibrating with tension by the time I pull up to Coach’s house.
The meeting goes pretty much how I expect it to—grim faces, a lot of serious tones as he and Kelsey catch me up on where the NHL is at.
They’ll do their investigation, they’ll figure out it’s false, and I’ll be reinstated.
Until then, I’m out. It doesn’t help that I’ve already had one suspension this season for fighting.
The video call with the commissioner is similarly harsh.
It’s possible that, true or not, this makes me an extremely undesirable player to keep on a team. I can only hope that Coach will continue to see the value I bring to the Wolverines and not ship me off to be someone else’s problem.
Is now a good time to bring up the fact that I might be in love with his daughter?
I sit in my truck afterward, the back of my head resting against the seat, eyes closed. My phone has been vibrating nonstop for the past hour. The guys are blowing up our group chat, demanding updates, asking if I’m okay, if there’s anything they can do.
But what the hell am I supposed to say?
No, I didn’t tell Coach or Kelsey about my dad.
Yes, I figured he would just go away.
No, he obviously did not.
Yes, I’m out of the games until they complete the investigation.
No, I have obviously never done gambling of any kind. And I sure as fuck would never bet on the Wolverines losing.
And on and on it goes.
Every message feels like a weight pressing on my chest. I scroll through them until the screen blurs and my stomach churns.
I want to throw the phone straight through the windshield.
He said I bet on us losing. And that makes every game we lost at the beginning of the season look suspicious.
Every fight I got into a huge red flag. My stomach churns with the stress of it all.
Monroe’s texts also remain unopened and unreplied to.
Not because I don’t want to—I do—but here she is, vibrant and beautiful, the light finally coming back into her eyes.
She’s moving back up into a life she can be proud of, a fresh start for her, and I’m free falling into the worst place I’ve ever been, both professionally and mentally.
My team is on their way to the Stanley Cup playoffs—and I’m not going to be on the ice to even help them get there. If the investigation takes longer than a few weeks, I could miss them entirely.
The spiral is dark and I feel myself retreating inward.
‘I think you might be my boyfriend.’
Her words from her birthday party echo in my head, and they only make the ache in my chest worse.
Some fucking boyfriend. What if I lose her over this?
What if she decides she doesn’t want to be tied to someone with a career scandal hanging over his head?
I wouldn’t blame her. She barely let herself believe in us to begin with.
Our relationship feels tenuous at best. Will it even survive this?
That thought feels worse than losing my NHL career and I’m sick with the idea of losing her. The nausea threatens to boil over and I rub my temples with my fingers.
I’m still in the driveway when Kelsey walks out and taps a manicured finger against my window. I roll it down.
“I’ve got a guy for that thing you asked me to look into. Friend of a friend. Works fast and quiet,” she says.
“Did he agree to do it?” I ask.
She nods. “Yep. He’s going to call you shortly with some information.”
“Thanks, Kels.”
“I want a big bonus this year, McKnight.”
I chuckle but agree. “Whatever you want,” I promise. She walks away, sliding into her black Audi and driving away. She does deserve a big, giant bonus. I make a mental note to double whatever I gave her last year if I get out of this mess and still have a job.
My phone rings again in my hand. An unknown number lights up the screen. A familiar sense of anxiety creeps up my chest. Even though I know it’s Kelsey’s guy on the other end, and not my dad, I’ve become accustomed to ignoring every number not already saved in my phone.
“Hello,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.
“McKnight,” the man says on the other end of the phone. “I’ve got the requested information. When you’re ready for it, let me know.”
I pull my notes app up and confirm that I am and he can continue. “2301 Celeste Drive, Las Vegas, Nevada.”
I suck in a breath. I’m looking at Dad’s current address.
I had Kelsey put me in contact with this guy to try to figure out where Wayne was living now.
He never stays in one place for very long.
Once he dries up the people around him, he hauls ass out of town.
I put the address into my Google Maps and see that it’s in a trailer park in Vegas.
“Thanks, man,” I reply. “Appreciate you being so quick.”
“You’ve got my number. Let me know if there’s anything else.”
I thank him again and hang up. For some reason, seeing his physical address makes him feel more real to me. Less like the fictional boogeyman I’ve been pretending he is for the last few months.
This man has been making my life miserable since the day I was born.
Broke my mom. Ruined her finances and her mental health.
Literally ran her into the ground until she was barely a shell of herself.
He takes and takes and takes some more. He’s a bully and he always has been.
I’m done letting him get away with ruining my life.
The NHL will investigate this and they’ll find nothing, because there is nothing. If he’s faked something to try to prove a point, he won’t be able to hide it. I believe that. The truth always surfaces eventually.
But in the meantime, he’s made my life a complete mess, screwed over my career and humiliated me in front of my peers, my coach and the woman I love.
It’s that last one that gets me. What am I going to do? Start a life with Monroe, then continue to look over my shoulder, waiting for him to burn that to the ground, too?
No, fuck that.
I glance down again at the address on my screen.
Then I book a flight to Las Vegas, Nevada.
* * * *
While the plane is taxiing, I type out a couple of texts because I’m too chicken shit to call anyone.
On my way to Vegas to murder my father, nobody panic. Be home soon!
It’ll be received well, I’m sure. I copy the text to Coach, Beck, and Sloane.
I leave my mom and Paul out of it, as per usual.
Sloane will fill them in, or not. I usually leave it up to her on how much to disclose about my life.
That’s our agreed-upon system. We’ve never talked about it officially, but she has a different relationship with her parents than I do. It’s better this way.
To Monroe, I start typing. Then delete it. I try again. Delete again.
Finally, I settle on a quick, Will be gone for a day or two. Taking care of a few things.
I hate it. It doesn’t sound like me, but I can’t find the words for what I really want to say.
I want to be able to tell her that I did it.
I figured out my shit, I took care of the problem, and she can count on me.
Not just for this kind of stuff, but for all stuff. I want to prove my worth to her.
I turn my phone on airplane mode so I don’t see any of the angry texts come through.
The bubble of isolation is blissfully quiet. No more notifications. I close my eyes.
I’ll deal with everyone later.