Chapter 14
fourteen
brody
In hockey, there’s a moment right before you take a shot when everything slows down. You see the angle. You know what you need to do. And you either take it or you miss your chance.
Walking back from the rehearsal dinner with Chloe’s hand in mine, more stars overhead than I’ve seen in months, I can see my shot. It’s clear as day. The perfect angle. The open net.
Just take the shot, Kane. Just tell her: I’m in love with you. This stopped being fake weeks ago. The contract ends tomorrow, but we don’t have to. Simple. Direct. Honest.
Except my throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper, and my heart is doing things that would concern a cardiologist, and every word I’ve carefully planned disappears the moment I look at her.
“So,” Chloe says, her voice soft in the cold air. “You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah. I did. Do.” Smooth, Kane. Very articulate. “What about you? You said you needed to talk too.”
“I do. I did. I mean—” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, nervous. “Wow, we’re bad at this.”
“Spectacularly bad.”
She laughs. She’s beautiful in the starlight, her dress dark blue against the snow, her hair catching the light from the lanterns lining the path. She looks confident. Happy. Like the woman who talked about event planning this morning, passionate and sure of herself.
Like someone who deserves better than a guy who’s spent over a month pretending and is only now figuring out it stopped being pretend somewhere along the way.
“Brody—” she starts.
My phone rings.
Of course it does.
I pull my phone out, thumb hovering over the voicemail button, and stop.
The number is local. Unfamiliar. But something in my gut twists.
“I should—” I gesture to the phone. “Sorry. Just let me—”
“It’s okay. Take it.”
I answer. “Hello?”
“Is this Brody Kane?” A man’s voice. Professional. Clipped. The kind of voice that deals with unpleasant situations regularly.
“Yes.”
“This is Michael O’Ryan, security manager at Grand Pines Casino. We have a situation here involving a gentleman claiming to be your father. He’s accumulated some debts and is asking for you. Says you’ll cover him.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. My father. Gambling. Again.
I turn my back to Chloe, and the cold rushes in, pricks the back of my neck.
“Is he—” I stop. Clear my throat. “Is he safe?”
“He’s intoxicated and becoming disruptive. We’d like to resolve this quietly, but we need someone to come get him and settle the immediate situation.”
Translation: Pay what he owes, or we call the cops.
I glance back at Chloe. She’s watching me, concern etched across her face.
“Where do I need to go?”
“Grand Pines Casino, just south of Maple Lake. I can meet you in the lobby when you arrive.”
“I’ll be there in thirty.” I hang up. My hand is shaking as I shove the phone back in my pocket.
“Brody? What’s wrong?”
“It’s my dad.” The words taste like failure. “He’s at a casino. Gambling again. I need to—” I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than I intend. “No, you should—Maya might need you. I promise, I’ll be back.”
“Brody—”
“Please.” I’m already backing away, already shutting down, the walls slamming into place like blast doors. “I’ll be back soon. We’ll talk then. I promise.”
I leave without looking back, so I don’t have to see that abandoned, left-in-the-starlight look I’ve seen before. This isn’t like Barcelona.
The drive to Grand Pines Casino is a blur of dark highway and my own spiraling thoughts. The heater blasts hot air that dries out my eyes. Oldies play on the radio, Elvis crooning “Viva Las Vegas,” and I turn it off because I can’t handle the irony.
My hands are tight on the steering wheel. Knuckles white.
I don’t know why I believed him when he said he’d be better.
Stupid.
The casino appears like a mirage in the darkness. Bright lights and neon signs advertising cheap buffets and loose slots, it glows with false promise. The parking lot is half empty on a Saturday night. Cars scattered across spaces marked with fading paint.
I park. Sit for a moment. Try to breathe.
Conrad’s words from Seattle echo: Pushing someone away because you’re scared doesn’t protect you. It just makes you alone.
But I’m not pushing anyone away. I’m just dealing with my father. Again. Like I always do. Alone. Because that’s how this works.
I get out of the car, the cold air biting, the wind clawing at my face.
The casino entrance smells like cigarette smoke and hope that’s gone rancid—desperate.
Inside, it’s worse. Stale air thick with smoke, faded carpets stained with use, the electronic chime of slot machines, flashing lights everywhere—reds and blues and golds—designed to disorient and excite and keep people gambling past the point of reason.
The security manager is waiting near the entrance. He looks tired, his hair thinning, deep lines across his face. He extends his hand.
“Mr. Kane. Thank you for coming.”
“Where is he?”
“Blackjack tables. Section C. We’ve asked him to stop playing, but he’s insisting he’s about to win it all back.”
Of course he is.
We weave through the casino floor. Past elderly people feeding quarters into slot machines like it’s their job. Past a bachelorette party laughing too loudly at a craps table. Past a man who looks like he’s been sitting at the same poker machine for three days straight.
And there, at a blackjack table with two other players who look deeply uncomfortable, is my father.
He looks terrible. Worse than at the hospital in Seattle.
Rumpled suit jacket. Tie loosened and crooked.
One arm still strapped with a sling. Hair uncombed.
Face flushed—drunk, definitely drunk. His eyes have that manic brightness that means he’s convinced himself that the next hand will fix everything.
“Dad.”
He looks up. His face transforms—relief, joy, desperation all at once. “Brody! I knew you’d come. Listen, I just need a small loan. Tiny. Five thousand. I’m so close to breaking even. One more hand—”
“How much does he owe?” I ask the manager, ignoring my father.
“Twelve thousand. Credit line he opened tonight using your name as reference.”
My jaw clenches so hard I might crack a tooth. Of course he did.
“But we need it settled before we can release him.”
My father is standing now, unsteady on his feet. “Brody, son, please. It’s just bad luck. It happens. You understand—”
“No.” The word comes out cold. Hard. “I don’t understand.”
“Your mother would have—”
“Don’t.” I step closer. Lower my voice. “Don’t you dare bring her into this. Mom would have wanted you to get help. Real help. Not enablement.”
He flinches like I hit him. “I’m trying. You don’t know—”
“I know you’re drunk. I know you’re gambling. I know you used my name to open credit you can’t pay back.” I’m shaking. From anger or hurt or exhaustion, I don’t know anymore. “I know you called me here to clean up your mess. Again.”
“I’m your father—”
“Then act like it.” The words explode out. Louder than I intended. A few people at nearby tables turn to look. “Act like a father instead of a disaster I have to manage. Act like someone who cares about something other than the next bet.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to suffocate in. The slot machines keep chiming. Someone at another table whoops with excitement. The world keeps spinning, moving faster and faster, but mine has stopped, leaving me dizzy. Sick.
“Mr. Kane,” Michael says quietly. “Can we settle this?”
I pull out my wallet. Hand over my credit card. Watch Michael walk away to process the payment that will drain another significant chunk of my savings. Money I was planning to use for—what? What was I planning? A future? With Chloe? After the contract ends?
Doesn’t matter now.
My father sits back down at the table, defeated. That gleam in his eye, that manic glint he gets at the table, is gone now. And he’s somehow smaller. Older. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, son.”
“You always are.”
“I’ll pay you back—”
“No, you won’t. We both know you won’t.” I’m so tired. Bone-deep tired. “I’m done, Dad.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
“I’m done. Cleaning up your messes. Bailing you out. Pretending this is normal.” I crouch down so we’re eye level. “You want help? Real help? Call me when you’re ready for treatment. Otherwise, I can’t do this anymore.”
“Brody, please—”
“This is it. This is the last time.” I stand. My legs feel unsteady. “Get yourself home. Don’t call me unless you’re really ready to change.”
“You think you’re better than me?” His voice rises, anger replacing the pleading.
Heads turn again, a few looks of recognition flickering across their faces.
“Mr. Perfect? Hockey star? You’re just like me.
Running from everything that matters. Hiding behind that fake smile and perfect image. You’re just a liar, like your old man.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“Maybe,” I say, swallowing the ache in my throat. “But at least I’m trying to change. Are you?”
I stand and walk away, leaving him there, calling after me. I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
It’s after midnight by the time I get back to the resort. The lobby is dark except for emergency lighting and the glow from the dying fireplace. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors, too loud in the silence.
My key card beeps against the lock as I enter the honeymoon suite as quietly as possible.
The lights are low. Just the fireplace, burned down to embers that cast barely any light. The room smells like the lavender candles someone keeps lighting and the faint scent of Chloe’s shampoo—something floral and clean.
I stop.
Chloe is lying on the sofa, her eyes shut, her hair pouring around her shoulders. Asleep.
The glow of the dying fire catches her face, and for a moment, I just look.
She is beautiful.
The door finally clicks behind me, and I let out a hiss as she stirs.
“Brody? You’re back.”