Eleven
The bus groans to a stop, its hydraulics releasing a long, tired sigh.
My head throbs in time with the engine’s tick.
Outside, snow comes down in fat, lazy flakes, coating Whistler in a blanket of white that looks peaceful from a distance but feels like a wet slap to the face when you’re hauling a gear bag through it.
My phone buzzes: Optional skate canceled. Rest up.
Rest. I pace my penthouse living room, the city lights below blurring into streaks.
The bruise on my cheekbone has settled into a deep, perpetual ache, a physical reminder of Seattle.
Of my own stupidity. The hours crawl by, marked only by the shifting shadows in the room and the wall of gray erasing the mountain peaks.
I let it go to voicemail, a petty act of defiance that lasts exactly thirty seconds before it rings again. This time, I answer.
“My office,” he says. No greeting. “Now.”
The line goes dead.
An hour later, I’m stepping out of the elevator into the hushed quiet of his top-floor suite.
My boots feel too loud against the marble.
The sun is long gone, and the Village is a glittering carpet of lights below the expansive floor-to-ceiling glass.
Snow needles against the panes. Westfield is standing by the window, a silhouette against the storm, a tumbler of something dark in his hand. I know the label; I don’t ask.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he says without turning. “The way the town handles a blizzard. Vancouver’s barely touched and the city shut down an hour ago. Up here, it’s business as usual.” He gestures to the window, where the lights of a plow clear the street below.
He turns, and the lamp catches the flat, analytical look in his steel-gray eyes. He stands taller, appraising me.
“Reminds me of your father,” he says, taking a slow sip of his drink. “All that raw talent. He had to learn how to channel it, too.”
I don’t move for a second. He walks over to his desk, gesturing. Not a request. I sit. The chair opposite his was designed by someone who hates knees and sits lower than his, by a lot. I consider standing.
“How’s Valentina?” he asks, setting his drink down.
Rehearsed. Inventory, dressed as concern.
Uncle Marty, Val used to call him—he shipped her porcelain dolls from every road city, white boxes, her name in his assistant’s handwriting.
He’s known her since before she could walk.
Knew our father before either of us existed—first as the boy dating his sister, then as the winger on his line, then as the friend who paid for the knee.
Every version of him arrived before we could refuse him.
“She’s good,” I say, my voice tight. “Busy.”
“Mm.” He gives a small nod, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Good to keep tabs on family.” Westfield files it away, a piece on a chessboard only he can see, and pivots. “We have an optics problem, Gabriel. Last night didn’t help, but it started before that. The video.”
He says the two words and lets them hang in the air.
For one terrifying second, my pulse flatlines. My mind flashes to the Reddit thread. The Calgary leak. Does he know? Has someone dug it up?
Then my brain catches up. Not the audio. The bar. The viral clip from my first week in town.
“It was a spilled beer,” I force out, the lie thin even to my own ears.
“It was a story,” he corrects, his voice strangely calm. “And not the one we want told. We’re going to correct the narrative. Cleanly. Tonight.”
He moves to an ornate velvet box on the credenza, placing it on the desk between us. He flips the lid, revealing a heavy crystal decanter etched with interlocking wolves.
“A belated gift for Ms. Hayes. It helps show our joy in this arrangement,” he says, his tone flat. “You’ll deliver it.”
My spine stiffens. “Send Holt. That’s a captain’s job.”
“The captain didn’t create this particular PR headache.
” His eyes bore into mine. “You made the mess. You will walk into her bar, and you will personally clean it up.” He closes the lid with a soft, final click.
“A star player showing respect for a local partner. It demonstrates humility. It tells a story of friendship.”
“I’m not your goddamn puppet,” I snarl, the words tearing out before I can stop them.
Westfield leans forward, the low light carving sharp angles into his face.
“Your place on the first line is earned every single shift, not gifted.” His voice drops.
“You’ve had one bad road trip. That’s a slump.
Two, and people start asking whether Montana knew something we didn’t.
” He lifts his cuff, checks nothing, lets it fall.
“I’ve spent a lot of money making sure the answer’s no. I’d hate for that to get expensive.”
The threat lands a cold shot to the gut. He’d have found another errand. Any errand. The point is that I go.
“I want you to walk in there and hand her this box,” he continues, his voice even again. “You will smile. You will thank her for the partnership. It’s a simple transaction.”
“And if she tells me to go to hell?” The words are torn from a place I don’t want to examine.
Amusement flickers across his face.
“Then you thank her for her time and you walk out. Being gracious costs you nothing.” His gaze sharpens. “Somebody always has a phone out. Give them something positive to point it at for a change.”
I clench my fists in my pockets, the knuckles of my right hand screaming in protest from their meeting with Suzuki’s helmet.
“Fine.”
“Excellent.” He picks up his phone. “The car’s waiting downstairs. It’ll be a one-way trip; I’m sending my driver home after he drops you. I’m not paying him overtime to wait while you have a drink.”
The casual dismissal, the assumption I’d stay for a drink—it’s a calculated jab. He stands, signaling that the meeting is over.
“Your father,” he says as he walks me to the door, his hand a heavy weight on my shoulder, “knew when to fight and when to be professional. He’d want you to make the right choice here.”
Wordlessly, I take the box. It’s heavier than it looks.
The debt owed to him has been building since infancy.
Dad’s knee came first, and that one was old money—settled before I was born.
Ancient history. Mine came second, and it wasn’t a favor.
A year into billeting with him, my shoulder went in my first junior camp.
Westfield had me in a private clinic before the public waitlist even called back.
Dad never found out who paid; I never told him.
Nobody ever called it a loan. Nobody had to.
Downstairs, the wind throws pellets of snow against the glass doors. The black town car is idling at the curb, its headlights cutting through the swirling darkness. The driver—a block of a man who never speaks—holds the door for me.
“Just the drop-off,” he confirms as I slide in, his voice a low rumble. “ETA less than ten.”
Ignoring him, I stare out the window. The box sits cold on my lap.
The ride is quiet; the only sounds are the rhythmic sweep of the wipers and the crunch of tires on salted roads. We turn onto the Village Stroll, and there it is. The Penalty Box. A warm, glowing island in the middle of a blizzard.
The car pulls to a stop at the curb.
“We’re here,” the driver says. “Have a good—”
I push the door open; the cold instantly slaps the breath out of my lungs.
The wind rips at my coat, trying to tear the heavy velvet box from my grip as I step out into the drifts.
I slam the door shut, watching as the town car pulls away.
Its taillights disappear into the swirling snow, leaving me alone on the quiet street.
Her territory. My mess. And me, the puppet on the string, about to put on a show.
I pull the handle and walk inside.