Blocked?
For a second, I just stare at it.
Then the truth hits.
He doesn’t want to talk to me.
He doesn’t want me.
25
LIAM
When I hitthe ice for our next home game, I’m on edge, reckless, twitchy, primed for a fight.
It’s been three days since that shitty manila envelope landed on my porch. Two days since I blocked Emma’s number, hoping distance would keep her safe.
Maybe if they see we’re not in touch, they won’t bother her.
It’s all I can hope for.
Three and a half million dollars? I don’t have.
I’ll never have it.
I’m not a robber.
I don’t have anything to sell, and no bank’s stupid enough to loan me that kind of money.
Basically, I think I might have to let them kill me.
The thought eats at me, driving me wilder.
I play like a madman, reckless and violent. I’m not in it to entertain the crowd. I’m in it to draw fucking blood, to feel pain.
Two fights in two periods. I barely feel the punches, barely care when my knuckles split open. The penalty box is my second home tonight.
By the third period, I’m surprised Coach hasn’t benched my ass.
I check a guy so hard into the glass that he skates the wrong way off the ice, concussed.
Back in the box for me.
When I finally get back on the ice, Coach yanks me again. Nik’s waiting on the bench, eyes blazing. He gets in my face, teeth bared like a fucking jungle cat ready to rip my head off.
“Calm. The. Fuck. Down.” He’s menacing as all get-out, a true mafia boss.
But I barely hear it.
This is not about hockey. It’s not about anything other than the sheer terror I have felt for the past three days straight.
I cannot calm down.
I do not have the tools in my psychological toolbox to manage the panic that rises every time I think about the fact that my mother and the love of my life are at risk because of my stupid fucking father.
If he weren’t dead, I’d surely beat him to within an inch of his life for pulling me into this mess.
All I can hear in my head is the clock ticking down.
