Viktor stares at me like I've grown a second head.
Zach’s expression doesn’t change. “No, he’s not.”
“We saw it last year a few times.”
“A few times isn't enough.” Zach’s tone is flat. “He’s too soft.”
The way Henneman's forearm crushed my windpipe yesterday says otherwise. Still hurts to swallow.
Viktor’s ice-blue eyes bore into me. “Care to tell us about your little adventure this past Friday?”
Fuck.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Funny thing about pet cameras. They pick up everything.”
Of course, the obsessive asshole has his cat under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Probably has multiple angles, night vision, the works.
Zach turns to me. “What happened?”
Suddenly, the room feels too small. Henneman freezes halfway through unwrapping tape, every muscle coiled like he’s about to bolt.
Run all you want. I’ll find you.
Viktor’s eyes narrow to slits. “You're lucky we didn't fly back early to put you through the fucking wall for putting my little princess in danger. She could have been hurt because of your bullshit.”
So, Coach Harper saw the footage. Saw the gun. Saw me drug his player. Explains why he looked ready to rip my spine out yesterday.
“Didn’t we talk about keeping secrets?” Zach's voice drops lower.
I square my shoulders, meeting their stares head-on. “My father tried to sell me to the Callahans like fucking cattle. So, I took myself off the market. Married Henneman instead.”
Viktor blinks once, twice, then throws his hands up. “Greattt. Someone else gets married before me.”
Trust Viktor to make this about himself.
“Didn't have a choice.”
“And he was the best option?” Zach stands and grabs his stick. “You can’t even handle what happened in Miami.”
“Gender was irrelevant. I needed someone I could own completely. Someone without the connections to fight back. Henneman checked every box.”
I glance back. Henneman’s putting on his elbow pads, fumbling with the straps. Fucking disaster. Can't even dress himself properly. But he keeps checking the players beside him, maintaining careful distance from them.
Same thing Jackson did after Buckland attacked him. Fuck, did someone—
No.
Not my problem to solve.
The coaches’ office door opens, and Harper strides out, Rinne behind him. “Asses on the ice in five minutes!”
He pauses, gaze lingering on Henneman, then me. I give him my bestfuck youstare right back. I won't apologize for doing what I had to.
Five minutes later, I step onto the ice. The scrape of my blades against it, the cold air filling my lungs, for asecond—just a second—makes something in my chest loosen.
This is my last year here. The NHL comes next. Fame, fortune, dynasty. Everything my father planned.
But do I want it?
