I hold still. Enduring is easier than fighting. Fighting means collateral damage. Fighting means giving him another excuse to say I’m ungrateful.
“You’re late,” she adds lightly, though her grip on my tie tightens enough that the silk bites into my neck.
“Practice ran long,” I say. My voice comes out flat.
Her gaze flicks to my hand where the cuff rides up, exposing the tape around my knuckles. Her mouth twists in distaste.
“For God’s sake,” she murmurs. “You couldn’t keep those covered?” Her fingers trap my wrist for a second, turning it so the tape flashes white against the dark fabric. “It looks brutal. We’re trying to sell a partnership, Declan, not a cage fight.”
She looks at the tape like it’s trash. Like it’s a flaw in the product.
I think of Talia’s hand covering mine on the bench. I think of her mouth pressing against these same taped knuckles,accepting the violence and the protection all at once. Talia kissed the tape. Beatrice wants to hide it.
Like I’m a prop. An accessory.
Before I can pull away, she lifts her hand in a little flutter toward the photographer hovering nearby. “We should get a picture before your father steals you. The board wants to see the happy couple.”
Happy couple.
The words sit in my stomach like a swallowed puck.
Beatrice steps in closer, pressing her side against mine, hand curling possessively over my chest. I can feel eyes on us—the board, the donors, my father somewhere across the room.
“Smile, Declan,” she murmurs, teeth barely moving. “Try to look like you like the future we bought you.”
I bare my teeth. It probably passes.
The flash pops. White wipes out the room for a second. I blink spots away and see Talia’s face instead—flushed, open, eyes heavy as she whispered against my mouth,“I don’t want to pretend I don’t see you anymore.”
My father waits near the bar, a glass of something dark in his hand. His suit is a shade darker than mine, his smile a polished, practiced thing that never reaches his eyes. He’s talking to two trustees, but as Beatrice steers me toward him, his gaze flicks over and rakes down my frame.
Assessing. Grading.
The corner of his mouth ticks up. Barely. Approval.
I used to scrape for that look. Bleed for it. Now it hits like a punch.
“Declan,” he says when we’re close enough, clapping a hand on my shoulder. His grip is firm but not affectionate. “Trustees wanted to meet the man behind the stats.”
“The myth, the legend,” one of them jokes, extending a hand. His cufflinks probably cost more than my truck. “Heard you’re the reason we’ve got a shot at the Frozen Four this year, son.”
Son.
It grates differently coming from him than it does from my father.
I shake his hand anyway, the tape on my knuckles pulling tight. “Just doing my job,” I say. The line is automatic. Rehearsed. Safe.
Donors laugh. Glasses clink. My father nods along, playing the proud parent. Nobody here cares that they’re talking about the same hands that dented a locker door around a kid’s head.
For the next hour, I’m a puppet with a drink I don’t touch. I listen, nod, endure. Beatrice stays attached to my arm like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. Her fingers tap patterns against my sleeve when she’s bored—which is always. Her laugh tilts higher when she wants something. It never touches her eyes.
The entire room is mirrors and glass and polished lies.
And then, through all that glitter, something real.
I spot her without meaning to. My gaze breezes past the terrace doors—and stops.
Talia stands near the glass, next to Coach Addison.
