“He was,” Ignatius said quietly. “Cole unconscious, unable to object… Wells would have seen his opportunity.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth, nauseous. Binding meant locking Cole’s fire away. Caging the most essential part of him. Killing the spark I’d seen in him—bit by bit.
“We have to find him,” I said, voice unsteady but determined. “We can’t let Wells do this.”
Ignatius finally looked at me with something like respect. “Then we move now. And we don’t stop. I know where to start.”
I nodded.
Because Wells Armstrong hadn’t just taken his son.
He’d taken his chance to break him.
And I wasn’t going to let that happen.
Chapter nineteen
Power Play – A man advantage caused by an opponent's penalty
Cole
I surfaced all at once and not at all, like clawing upward through warm water and finding only ice at the top. My skin itched. My head hurt. My throat felt scraped raw. Something beeped steadily by my ear, too calm for how fast my heart was punching against my ribs.
For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was.
Arena lights? Locker room ceiling? Phoenix’s warm smile over me?
No. None of it. His absence was like a wound scraped raw, even though the ceiling above me was white and perfectly smooth, not a tile or crack in sight. The air smelled clean in a way hospitals didn’t—more money than medicine. Too warm. Too still. Which made my heart rate increase even more because I knew.
I blinked, and my father came into focus beside the bed.Of course he did.
He sat in a cream leather chair like he owned the place—which he probably did—in a suit that had never felt the touch of wrinkles. Hands steepled. Legs crossed just so. He looked at me the way he did at stock reports: mildly interested, mildly bored, never surprised. “Good,” he said blandly. “You’re awake.”
My throat didn’t feel like it worked, but I forced out, “Where—”
“Private facility,” he interrupted smoothly. “Specialized. Safer.” His gaze flicked to my face, assessing. “How much do you remember?”
I tried. And everything came rushing back in bright, jagged pieces. The game. The Grizzlies. The puck on my stick. The roar of the crowd swelling in my veins. Going for the hat trick because Phoenix was watching. The two defensemen closing in. The hit.
A sickening, whirling, bone-deep impact. Then nothing. I swallowed, wincing. “I got hit.”
“You did,” he agreed. “Hard. They carted you off after you lost consciousness. The broadcast cut away for a while, thank goodness.” His voice went cool. “Very poor optics which for once helped rather than hindered.”
Something cold slithered down my spine. He sounded irritated, not worried. I lifted my hand but it didn't move.Restraints."The hell?"
"For your safety."
But I knew they weren't. “Coach?” The words scraped coming out. But that wasn’t really what I wanted to ask. The name I wanted to say. I was just lucky my brain had somehow worked before my mouth.
My father’s expression didn’t flicker. “He’s not here.”
The room tilted slightly. A pulse of heat flared under my breastbone, then faded. “Why?” Surely the coach…
“Because,” he said, voice softening into something dangerous, “you lost control on the ice. Again.”
I stared at him. “No. I haven’t—I haven’t in years.” But I had. The ice had melted before. Barely days ago.
“That’s what we all hoped.” He reached for a folder on the small table beside him. Thick. Crisp. Too official-looking. “But what you think happened and what actually happened differ significantly.”
