Chapter 57
LOGAN
The last game of the regular season is a bit of a wash. We’ve made the playoffs, and we can’t improve our position with a win tonight.
So our morning meetings are not as much about tonight’s opponent as the two teams that are jockeying for position to play against us in the first series of the playoffs. After that, the coaching staff pulls individual players in to dig deeper into specific feedback.
So it’s not completely out of left field for Wilson to summon me to his office, but I realize as I stride in that I’ve only been in here twice before. He has always handed me off to the assistant coaches.
Today’s level of frosty reception, though, is a new level of cold indifference. He’s standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, artificially still.
“Close the door,” he says without turning around.
I do, but I don’t sit. Whatever this is, I’m not settling in for it.
When he finally turns to face me, there’s something in his expression that puts me on high alert.
“Congratulations? Is that what you say to a newlywed if the wedding is a mistake?”
My blood goes cold.
I don’t say anything. Just wait.
“New Year’s Eve.” He shakes his head. “The irony. I told you to make good choices that night, didn’t I?
And you stumbled across my mess of a daughter of all people.
” He crosses to his desk, an explosion of violent energy.
He grabs a folder and flings it angrily in my direction, papers going flying.
“Logan James Granger married Francesca Susan Wilson at the Little Chapel of Hearts at one thirty in the morning.”
The bastard had me investigated. Actually paid someone to search marriage records.
I force myself to stay calm. To not react. “How long have you known?”
“Long enough.”
“It’s private.”
“You’re a fool.” He grabs a remote control off his desk. “Did you know the wedding chapel records all the ceremonies?”
No.
He points the remote at the TV where we usually watch tape from practice and games, and it flickers to life.
My suit is pretty rumpled, my dress shirt slightly tucked. Frankie looks gorgeous, of course, even though we’re both drunk. Her satin dress shimmers and her cheeks are so pink.
Fuck.
Because…she’s also swaying slightly, giggling, her eyes glassy. When the Elvis impersonator asks if she takes me to be her husband, her first answer is so slurred he needs to prompt her to say it again. And some of the other lines she expresses genuine confusion about the wording.
I look drunk too, but I’m steadier. More in control. Coherent enough to catch her when she stumbles in her heels.
My stomach turns to ice.
Wilson hits pause. “Obviously, mistakes were made, as I said.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. I’m seeing it the way he must be seeing it—his barely-conscious daughter marrying a professional athlete who should have known better.
“It wasn’t—” I start, but my voice comes out rough.
He sits on the edge of his desk. “That video is going to be a problem for you if this ever becomes public. Especially in this climate. The optics of an NHL player marrying a clearly intoxicated woman half his size? That’s not a story that ends well for anyone.”
The room feels like it’s tilting.
“But,” he continues, “I’m prepared to be reasonable about this. We keep it quiet through the playoffs—can’t have this kind of distraction derailing the season. After we’re eliminated, you file for an annulment on the grounds that she was too intoxicated to consent. It’s clean and it’s quiet.”
The words hit me like a freight train.
He’s not angry that I took advantage of his daughter.
He’s not furious with me.
That is the only appropriate response after seeing a video like that, and he’s—
“You’ll need a good lawyer, of course. I can recommend someone who specializes in discreet matters like this.
We’ll frame it as you doing the right thing, recognizing that the marriage wasn’t valid given her state.
” He almost sounds reasonable. But there’s an edge to his words, and I can hear where he’s going with this.
I fucking hate it. “She’s young and foolish, Granger.
Don’t let her pull you down. She will always make mistakes, and one day, that will hurt her reputation in irreparable ways. But this doesn’t need to be that time.”
He’s not threatening me.
He’s threatening my wife.
Something dark and furious starts building in my chest. “Get fucked.”
His eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”
“Did you think this was a big man power move? Show me a video and make me feel shame? It almost worked. For a second there, I felt bad. The hilarious thing is I know that wasn’t your intention.
You’re so fucking twisted that you know this is embarrassing, and can be used against me, but you don’t even understand how it should be used against me. ”
“I don’t want to use anything against you,” he thunders. “I only want you to respect me.”
“That will never happen.”
He flushes bright red. “Your ego—”
“This isn’t about ego. This is about you being so fucking self-absorbed that even when presented with evidence that your daughter might have been taken advantage of, you don’t have a single thought to protect her.
All you could think about was how to regain control of someone you see as a loose cannon. ”
“If you actually gave a shit about Frankie, you would have called her the second you saw that video. Asked if she was okay. Asked if she felt safe. Asked if she needed help.” My voice drops to something dangerous.
“But you didn’t do any of that, did you?
The first time you called your daughter through all of this was when I disappeared.
Because you wanted to haul your prize thoroughbred back to the stable. ”
“You don’t know anything about my relationship with Francesca.”
“That’s where you’re very wrong. Because I did marry your daughter, and it was as…
” I gesture to the screen. “As drunken as it looked. But every single day since then, I’ve had the absolute pleasure of getting to know her.
To be impressed by her. To gain her trust and hold her heart, and learn about her.
“I know she’s spent the last decade building a life as far away from you as possible.” I lean forward, hands on his desk. “I know that when she talks about her childhood, the only memories that make her smile are the ones that don’t include you.”
“How dare you—”
I keep going, because how dare I? How dare him. “I know that when she was sixteen years old and in love for the first time, you blamed her when it ended. Told her she ruined that boy’s career. Made her believe that caring about someone meant destroying them.”
His face has gone pale now.
“She carried that guilt for years. Shaped every relationship choice she made around the fear that she wasn’t worth loving.
That she was toxic. Destructive.” My voice drops.
“And you let her believe that. Her own father. Because it was easier to blame her than to admit you’d failed that player all on your own.
Mikhail Ivanovich’s career ended because he couldn’t handle the pressure.
Because he had substance abuse issues you didn’t notice or didn’t care about.
He was failed by you and you projected that on a child.
It was easier to blame your teenage daughter than to accept responsibility, wasn’t it? ”
Wilson’s hands are shaking now. With rage or something else, I don’t know.
I want the guy to throw a punch, I really do, but if he does, I will absolutely finish him, and off the ice, that’s a crime.
I head for the door, then pause. “Just so we’re clear—if you show anyone that video, I will make your life so fucking miserable you’ll wish that you could join Ivanovich in Siberia.
If you so much as hint that she was too drunk to know what she was doing when she married me, I will make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of father you are. ”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m promising you I will protect her from anyone who tries to hurt her. Including you. Especially you.”
“I could have you traded for this.”
I laugh. “You don’t think I haven’t been working on an exit strategy for months?”
His eyes widen.
“I’m choosing my wife. The way you should have chosen your daughter years ago.”