Fourteen
Brody
In hockey, there’s a moment right before you take a shot when everything slows down. You see the angle. You know what you need to do. And you either take it or you miss your chance.
Walking back from the rehearsal dinner with Chloe’s hand in mine, more stars overhead than I’ve seen in months, I can see my shot. It’s clear as day. The perfect angle. The open net.
Just take the shot, Kane. Just tell her: I’m in love with you. This stopped being fake weeks ago. The contract ends tomorrow, but we don’t have to. Simple. Direct. Honest.
Except my throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper, and my heart is doing things that would concern a cardiologist, and every word I’ve carefully planned disappears the moment I look at her.
“So,” Chloe says, her voice soft in the cold air. “You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah. I did. Do.” Smooth, Kane. Very articulate. “What about you? You said you needed to talk too.”
“I do. I did. I mean—” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, nervous. “Wow, we’re bad at this.”
“Spectacularly bad.”
She laughs. She’s beautiful in the starlight, her dress dark blue against the snow, her hair catching the light from the lanterns lining the path. She looks confident. Happy. Like the woman who talked about event planning this morning, passionate and sure of herself.
Like someone who deserves better than a guy who’s spent over a month pretending and is only now figuring out it stopped being pretend somewhere along the way.
“Brody—” she starts.
My phone rings.
Of course it does.
I pull my phone out, thumb hovering over the voicemail button, and stop.
The number is local. Unfamiliar. But something in my gut twists.
“I should—” I gesture to the phone. “Sorry. Just let me?—”
“It’s okay. Take it.”
I answer. “Hello?”
“Is this Brody Kane?” A man’s voice. Professional. Clipped. The kind of voice that deals with unpleasant situations regularly.
“Yes.”
“This is Michael O’Ryan, security manager at Grand Pines Casino. We have a situation here involving a gentleman claiming to be your father. He’s accumulated some debts and is asking for you. Says you’ll cover him.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. My father. Gambling. Again.
I turn my back to Chloe, and the cold rushes in, pricks the back of my neck.
“Is he—” I stop. Clear my throat. “Is he safe?”
“He’s intoxicated and becoming disruptive. We’d like to resolve this quietly, but we need someone to come get him and settle the immediate situation.”
Translation: Pay what he owes, or we call the cops.
I glance back at Chloe. She’s watching me, concern etched across her face.
“Where do I need to go?”
