That’s when they forced me to start dating Veronica Callahan.
And that shit needs to end soon.
Except the Callahans have been dragging their feet on finalizing terms, making demands, and renegotiating clauses. My father's getting impatient, which means the pressure is on me to keep Veronica happy.
Not that I haven’t enjoyed the time together. She’s a great fuck and just as ruthless as I am. And she’s captain of the Titans crew team. We really are the perfect power couple.
But I didn’t choose her.
Maybe that’s why I enjoyed Raiyne’s mouth so much.
I shake the thought away, refusing to think about what happened in Miami.
My footsteps echo through the marble-lined hallway as I exit the kitchen toward the east wing of the house, leaving one battlefield for another—my father’s office. The door is closed, but I don't knock. Walsh men don’t knock in their own houses.
He’s sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, looking like he’s carved from the same expensive wood. At fifty-three, my father remains imposing, his broad shoulders barely contained by his custom-tailored shirt, silver threading through his dark hair.
The office itself could serve as a war room with monitors displaying stock prices, international news feeds, and real-time updates from Walsh International Holdings' operations across six continents.
“Connor.” He doesn't look up from the documents spread across his desk. “Figured you'd end up here eventually.”
“Where's my passport?”
“In my safe, where it will remain.” He finally looks up, his eyes completely devoid of warmth, and juts his chin toward the chair. “Sit.”
“I'll stand.”
“Wasn't asking.” His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, when I don’t move. “Very well. Let's discuss your future.”
“My future involves being on a plane to Austria in three hours and forty-three minutes.”
He leans back in the leather office chair, steepling his fingers. “Your future involves the Washington Capitals training camp. September fifteenth.”
My heart suddenly beats faster, throat tightening. “I have one year left. One year to finish my degree, to—”
“To what? Continue wasting time with your friends?” He rises, walking around the desk until he’s standing in front of me. “You've won your championships. Proven your leadership. There's nothing left for you there.”
Two weeks ago, Zach walked away from Ottawa. When we met up after he got back, he looked relieved, not disappointed or regretful. And since that night, I've started to question if hockey is really my dream or just the only path my father ever allowed me.
But my choices have never been mine. Don’t know why I expected anything different.
I let out a slow breath, then smile just enough to unnerve him. “There’s no guarantee how long my career will last. You can’t predict injuries. And your ultimate plan is for me to take over Walsh International Holdings eventually, right?”
His lips press into a tight line, posture rigid. “Your point?”
“The board would just love a college dropout running their empire. Really screams excellence.”
His upper lip ticks up into a momentary sneer. But then he smiles, and every hair on my neck stands up. “You make a valid point. Stay at Crestwood. Finish your degree. But there is still one more matter at hand.”
“Which is?”
“You'll be marrying Veronica this Labor Day weekend. The marriage will seal the alliance and give us a controlling interest when it comes to North American sports media.”
All the air rushes from my lungs.
Marriage.
Not engagement, not a future possibility, but marriage. And in three and a half weeks.
