Conor, in an effort to defend himself, starts throwing out insults.
“Yours is crooked, Angel,” he says to one of our second-string wingers, “Just like your shots. And Max Knight’s is a weird color.”
“You’re a real cock connoisseur, Murphy,” Max says in his posh British accent. “A fan of cocks, perhaps?”
“Stop eyeballing everyone’s cocks, Murphy,” Angel adds. “I might have to go to HR.”
Conor makes a face, then mimes masturbation. “You guys are all cocks.”
Laughter erupts. Everyone’s in on the fun, fucking with him, except me, because I find Conor Murphy completely fucking annoying. And because I’m not participating in this literal dick-measuring exercise, so naturally, he turns his attention to me.
“I think Nik hasn’t used his in a long time,” he says with a grin. “Maybe he needs to get laid. He’s strung so tight, someone could play a tune on him.Am I right?”
I stop. I turn. I stalk right up into his face, and suddenly the room quiets just a fraction.
“There is a reason I can get in that club and you can’t. There is a reason I can turn around a shitty game, and you can’t. It is called discipline. Discipline about what I do, what I say, how I conduct myself, what I eat, who I fuck, and how I fuck.”
Conor blinks at me, open-mouthed, looking like a kid who just realized he poked a hornet’s nest.
“Discipline, Murphy,” I continue, voice low and steady. “Something you clearly have zero experience with. Keep testing me, and remember—you don’t want to lose any more teeth.”
Conor freezes mid-smirk, the joke dying on his lips.
“You’re gonna say something?” I ask, my voice sharp and controlled. “Or are you realizing now that some things are better left alone?”
He swallows hard, then forces a grin. “Relax, Nik. Someone’s gotta keep you entertained, right?”
I turn slowly, deliberately, back toward my locker. Every eye in the room is on us. “Entertain yourself elsewhere,” I say over my shoulder. “I don’t need your help.”
A few guys snicker, nudging each other, clearly enjoying the show. Conor takes a step closer, still trying to save face. “C’mon, Nik. Don’t be like that. It’s just a joke?—”
“Not funny,” I interrupt, voice cold. “And keep in mind, Murphy, my definition of ‘joke’ and yours don’t align. Last time, you found out what happens when you push too far. You don’t want a repeat performance.”
Conor, to his credit, keeps his mouth shut.
19
LEANNA
My father’shouse is full tonight. Men and women from Miami, San Antonio, New York, Russia—everywhere the family does business—are in town for the Commission meeting.
The men crowd into the living room, each with a beer or a glass of whiskey, watching the Reapers open a three-game series on the West Coast.
Most of the wives are out back on the patio, wine in hand, keeping half an eye on the kids as their laughter rolls across the lawn.
On the surface, it appears to be a typical family gathering. Polite. Domestic. Almost ordinary.
But under the easy smiles and small talk, I can feel the current running through everything. Every laugh is measured, every cheer weighed. Deals are being tested, alliances drawn, and nothing here is as simple as it looks.
“Hey, Don,” some guy calls out. “Who’s the winner tonight? I’ve got my app open.”
My dad chuckles. “That’s up to the hockey gods.”
The guy groans, clearly disappointed the game isn’t rigged. From my spot at the kitchen island, textbooks spread in front of me, I half-watch while pretending to study for my finance final tomorrow. Every so often, a cheer or groan from the living room pulls my eyes up.
“Even if they win tonight, they’re out of playoff contention,” my dad says, like it’s no big deal. “Which was part of the design.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” someone else says. “Invest in a team and let it crap out. I’d want wins stacked on wins.”
