Chapter 2
Customer Satisfaction
West
The blonde's been touching my arm for twenty minutes, and I still can't remember her name.
Tiffany. Maybe Brittany. Something that ends in a syllable her parents bought at a charity auction.
"So you must get lonely," she says, fingers trailing up my forearm. Her nails are perfect ovals, painted the color of champagne. Expensive. Everything in this club is expensive—the scotch, the women, and the discretion that comes with both.
I take another sip of my drink—Macallan 25, because Blake only orders the best when he's trying to prove something—and scan the VIP section for him.
He was here ten minutes ago. Center stage, holding court with a pack of finance bros, all sharp suits and sharper opinions about markets they've never actually traded in.
Blake was gesturing with his whiskey, probably telling the Monte Carlo story.
The one where he conveniently forgets the part about the police escort and the very angry casino manager who threatened to have us both arrested.
Now he's gone.
"You're not even listening." The blonde's voice cuts through my inventory of Blake's location. She waves her manicured fingers in front of my face. "Earth to West."
"Sorry. Long day."
Long months, actually.
It’s been two months since Coach Morrison's voice came through the line with that careful, apologetic tone that meant the decision's already been made and the conversation was just a courtesy.
Thanks for your interest, West. The Olympic Team Selection Committee felt we needed to go with younger legs this cycle. You understand.
Younger legs.
Like this is about legs.
Like it's not about the fact that I'm thirty-four and the league sees me as yesterday's highlight reel, no matter how many points I put up this season.
I made the Olympic team once. 2014. Sochi.
I can still feel it—the cold burning in my lungs during morning skate, the weight of the jersey when they handed it to me in the locker room, the sound of the crowd when we took the ice for the bronze medal game.
We lost. Fourth place. One game away from the podium.
Close enough to taste it. Far enough that it's haunted me for twelve years.
Then the NHL pulled out of 2018. Out of 2022. Two Olympic cycles where I was in my prime, and the league decided we weren't going. I watched both tournaments from my couch like everyone else, my best years dissolving into television coverage and what-might-have-been.
This year is supposed to be different. The professionals are back. The league playing nice with the IOC for the first time in eight years. I'd stayed healthy. Played well. Made the All-Star team.
I thought I'd earned one more shot.
Instead, I got a phone call in November telling me the committee wanted fresh faces. Younger legs. New stories.
The blonde by my side says something else—something about Pilates or protein shakes or her wellness brand—but I'm not listening anymore.
My phone buzzes. Family group chat.
Mom: Veronica Vance will be at the wedding. Lovely girl. Vassar grad. Her father owns the firm that just merged with Whitmore & Locke.
Aunt Milly: The bridal family is bringing their goddaughter. Penelope something. Very accomplished. Summa cum laude from Wellesley. Speaks three languages. Plays violin, her family owns half of Greenwich. I checked.
Mom: Your great aunt might be on to something. That says a lot about her habits.
Mom: Good time management. Strong follow-through. Probably ovulates on a schedule.
Aunt Milly: You're not getting any younger. Thirty-five in April. We need to think about legacy.
Mom: At this point, we need someone who treats babies like a project plan. Children who arrive on time. Holidays that run efficiently. A legacy that doesn’t need reminders.
Legacy.
That's the word my family uses when they mean marriage and heirs and continuing the bloodline like we're a dynasty instead of a law firm with delusions of grandeur.
And now, they want to optimize fertility with a Gantt chart and Asana.
Aunt Milly's been managing my love life like a hostile corporate takeover ever since Blake's wedding invitation arrived six months ago. She treats matchmaking like a sport, and she's chasing a personal best.
In another era, she would've been a formidable feudal warlord—strategizing alliances, enforcing bloodlines, treating the Hartwell-Prescott connection like a sacred blood feud, and never once questioning whether anyone involved actually wanted this.
Sigh.
My family, the Prescotts have been practicing law in New York since before there were skyscrapers to put the offices in.
My great-grandfather argued before the Supreme Court.
My grandfather turned the family practice into an empire.
My father expanded into international corporate law, and now the firm has offices in twelve countries and a client list that reads like a Fortune 500 directory.
And then there's me. The only child of the direct bloodline.
The outlier who chose hockey.
Well—who chose hockey first. Then, still dutifully went to law school because it was expected, passed the bar to make my mother happy, and then went right back to the ice the second I had the chance.
Sixteen years in the NHL. Two Stanley Cup rings. Four All-Star games where I proved I could make grown men cry on and off ice.
But from time to time, I wonder if I'm the big disappointment who chose violence over legal briefs. The one who walked away from my legacy.
My family isn’t disappointed, exactly. Just…perpetually recalibrating. I’m the only heir to a dynasty they assumed I’d want to help run. I love them. I just didn’t want their life.
Maybe it's time to tell them about the coaching offers I’ve been getting. Maybe it's time to disappoint them properly.
My thumb hovers over the "Leave Group" button.
"West!" Blake's voice cuts through the noise, loud and cheerful and just drunk enough to be annoying. He's back, appearing out of nowhere, grinning like he just closed a deal. "Come settle a debate for us."
I shove my phone back in my pocket and excuse myself from the blonde. She barely notices. She's already scanning the room for her next target.
The finance bros are what I expected—expensive suits, expensive watches, expensive opinions about cryptocurrency and wine regions they've never actually visited. They probably want the Pittsburgh story. The hit I took in the Winter Classic that ran on SportsCenter for three days straight.
"Tell them about that check," Blake says, clapping me on the shoulder like we're still college roommates instead of men pushing forty with vastly different definitions of loyalty.
I give them the clean version. The illegal hit from behind. The way my shoulder separated when I hit the boards. The adrenaline that carried me through the rest of the period until I was back in the locker room and the team doctor told me I was an idiot for not coming off the ice immediately.
I don't mention the thirty seconds I spent on the ice wondering if my shoulder was still attached to my body. Or the way my vision went fuzzy and I thought, for just a moment, maybe this is it.
Sigh.
Too old for the Olympics.
Still young enough to sell NHL jerseys.
Same body. Different spreadsheet.
The finance bros eat it up. They laugh and pound my back and buy another round, and I smile because this is what's expected. This is what I've always done. Be the steady one. The reliable one. The one who shows up and plays the part without complaint.
My phone buzzes again.
Aunt Milly: The wedding is next Saturday. Don't you dare back out. Penelope is lovely.
Right. Because at thirty-four, my primary value to my family is as a networking opportunity and genetic breeding.
I look up to respond to something one of the finance bros is saying—something about market volatility and hedge funds—but Blake's gone again.
Disappeared between one sentence and the next.
I scan the room. The blonde's moved on to someone younger, someone with better prospects. The finance bros are deep in their crypto argument, gesturing with their drinks like they're closing deals instead of repeating talking points from podcasts.
And I'm alone in a crowd of people who want something from me but don't actually see me.
Three years.
It's been three years since Caroline and the fake pregnancy test and the systematic destruction of my ability to trust anyone who looks at me like I'm a prize to be won instead of a person to be known.
Three years of keeping my head down. Staying disciplined. Saying no to parties and events and women who ask leading questions about my plans for the future.
Three years of believing that if I just stayed focused, if I just kept my nose clean and played my heart out, the Olympics would be waiting at the end of it.
For all the damn good it did me.
The bass from the main floor rattles the glass in my hand. Someone laughs too loud. Life keeps moving forward while I'm stuck in 2014, one game away from a medal I'll never get another chance to win.
I need air.
Or at least a break from the relentless performance of wealth and ambition that defines every surface of this place.
I head toward the back of the club, past the main bar where twenty-somethings are spending their trust funds on bottles they'll photograph and forget, past the dance floor where everyone is beautiful and ephemeral and none of it matters past last call.
There's a private alcove near the restrooms. Blake reserved it earlier—something about needing a quiet space to make calls about last-minute wedding details. Logistics. Seating charts. The kind of details that apparently require privacy and expensive scotch.
The door's ajar.
I hear it before I see it.
A woman's sound. Breathy. Wanting. The kind of sound that bypasses thought and goes straight to instinct.
And Blake's voice, low and rough: "That's it. Right there."
I should walk away.