"But you're—"
"An adult? Doesn't matter." I tasted the soup, though I couldn't really taste anything. "He has leverage, so he pulls the strings."
Phoenix watched me carefully as he lifted his own spoon. "What kind of leverage?"
I'd never told anyone the full story. Not my teammates, not my coaches, not even the therapist the team had hired when I'd started having panic attacks during my first season. But something about Phoenix's direct gaze made me want to be honest.
"When I was thirteen, I..." I swallowed hard. "There was an accident. At boarding school. Another boy got hurt, badly burned. My father covered it up, made it go away. But if it ever came out, my career would be over."
Phoenix's spoonpaused halfway to his mouth. "You burned someone?"
I nodded, unable to form the words. The memory of that day still haunted me—the smell of charred flesh, the screams, the knowledge that I'd lost control in a way that could never be explained.
"And your father holds that over you?" Phoenix asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
"Every day. Every decision I make, he's there, reminding me that he owns me." I set my bowl down, appetite gone. "So yeah, different cage, same bars. At least yours has a door you can open."
"Your mom?"
I shrugged. "She doesn't care."
Phoenix was quiet for a long moment, stirring his soup thoughtfully. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "That's...really fucked up."
I laughed despite myself. "Yeah, it is."
"Why hockey? If he controls everything, why let you play?"
"Because it makes him money." I shrugged. “Because he wants future investment on this side of the Atlantic and knows I can get it for him. There’s a lot of money in sport.” The US sports market was the largest globally, which was why Father had insisted I play here and not Canada. I didn’t know why I was being so honest. It was embarrassing.
When we’d eaten the toasties I'd made when the soup wasn't enough, I gestured to the huge game and entertainment center. “Wanna play?” I needed to think about something else. Phoenix nodded, his eyes lighting up slightly despite his battered face.
"Sure. What do you have?"
I gestured to the cabinet beneath the massive television. "Pretty much everything. PlayStation, Xbox, Nintendo. Take your pick."
As Phoenix browsed through my game collection, I watched him move—still careful, but with a new ease that hadn't been there before. Our conversation had shifted something between us. Not trust, exactly, but understanding.
"FIFA?" he suggested, holding up the case.
I groaned. "Seriously? Out of all those games, you pick the one I'm absolute rubbish at?"
His mouth quirked into something almost resembling a smile. "But it’s soccer. Thought you Brits were supposed to be good at it?”
“Football,”I corrected him with mock-outrage, but set up the game while Phoenix settled himself on the couch. The familiar loading screen appeared, bright and colorful against the otherwise monochromatic apartment.
"Fair warning," I said, handing him a controller. "I might be terrible at this, but I'm still competitive as hell."
"Shocking," Phoenix deadpanned. "Professional athlete is competitive. Never would have guessed."
I snorted. For someone who'd been half-dead four days ago, his sarcasm was recovering remarkably well.
We played in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the click of controller buttons and occasional swearing when one of us missed an easy goal. Phoenix was surprisingly good—his reflexes quick despite his injuries, his strategy solid. I found myself actually having to try.
"Where'd you learn to play?" I asked after he scored his third goal against me.
"Foster brother," Phoenix said, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Gavin. He was obsessed with this game. Played it constantly."
I noticed the past tense but didn't push. "Well, he taught you well. You're kicking my arse."
