"I want a better apartment for them."
His lips twitched into almost a smile. "Done."
I sighed. That had been my get-out. "What exactly would you want to know?" The words tasted like ash.
"Who he spends time with. Any changes in behavior, mood, habits." He leaned forward slightly. “Particularly anything that might suggest he's developed...unsuitable attachments." The implication was clear. Cole's sexuality was a weapon his father wanted to wield, and I was being recruited as the one to forge it.
"And how exactly am I supposed to get close to him again? I just walked out of his apartment an hour ago."
"I'm sure you'll think of something. You managed to get into his bed once before." The casual cruelty in his voice made me want to vomit. "Young men like Cole are remarkably predictable. They want to be heroes, to save people. Give him another chance to rescue you. While he focuses on you, he won't be looking for anyone else. I'm sure you're aware how closeted the NHL is. You have a cover story and his agent will cover for you. His next save might not have."
My hands shook as I reached for the envelope. The paper was thick, expensive—like everything else in Edward Armstrong-Wells's world, I didn’t believe for one second Wells had nothing to do with this. Inside, I could see the neat stack of hundreds.
"How do I contact you?" I heard myself ask.
The man handed me a business card with nothing but a phone number printed on it. "Text that number once a week. More often if there's something urgent."
"I don't have a phone."
He huffed but leaned forward and withdrew one from a panel in the door. Who did that? It was like some bad mafia skit. "Pre-paid and loaded with my number."
The limousine slowed to a stop. Through the tinted window, I could see we were back near Cole's building. "This is your stop," he said, pressing a button to unlock the door. "I trust you'll make the right choice, Phoenix. For everyone's sake."
I climbed out of the car, the envelope burning in my jacket pocket like stolen fire. The limousine pulled away without another word, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with the weight of what I'd just agreed to pressing down on my chest like concrete.I looked up at the gleaming tower where Cole lived, where I'd spent four days feeling safer than I had in years. Where I'd left a note saying he was right about me.
Looked like he was.
Chapter seven
Scrum - Post-whistle pushing or confrontation between players.
Cole
Hockey practice had always been my refuge, but today, the ice couldn't freeze the chaos in my head. Practice was never intense in season, but Coach wanted to go over our face-offs, saying we were getting sloppy. Tomorrow we were traveling to St. Louis and playing the Sentinels.
"Again!" he bellowed as I missed a pass, the puck skittering away uselessly. "Armstrong, what the hell was that? My grandmother could make that connection, and she's been dead twenty years!"
I gritted my teeth and reset. The exhaustion wasn't physical—I could skate for hours without breaking—but my mind kept drifting back to Phoenix and the way he'd looked at me before I left. Like I was the enemy. Like I was my father.
"Heads up!"
The warning came too late. Max won the face-off and I miscued it. Max's pass hit me square in the shin guards, the impact jarring me back to reality. Coach's whistle shrieked across the ice.
"Armstrong! Locker room! Now!"
I skated to the boards, my teammates carefully avoiding my gaze. Getting kicked out of practice was unprecedented for me. Coach followed me down the tunnel, his face thunderous. "What the hell is wrong with you today?"
"Nothing," I muttered, pulling off my helmet. "Just distracted."
"Distracted?" He barked a laugh. "You're a ghost out there. We've got a shot of getting a wild card, and you're skating like you're at a public session." I couldn't argue with him. I'd been useless since I stepped on the ice.
"Whatever's going on—fix it," he said, jabbing a finger into my chest protector. "You've got until tomorrow to get your head straight. If you can't, you're sitting the next game out."
The threat should have terrified me. Instead, I felt a strange detachment, as if the division suddenly mattered less than what had happened in my apartment this morning.
"Yes, Coach," I said mechanically.
He studied me, his anger giving way to something closer to concern. "This have anything to do with your father showing up at the celebration?"
