“No, I was visiting someone,” I say as the doors open.
“Night before a crucial game?” His tone sharpens just enough to draw blood. “Kids like you need curfews, I fucking swear.”
Kids like me.As if I’m not thirty fucking years old and a professional at the top of my game. His best forward, not that he treats me like it.
I step onto the elevator and press the button for our floor with a vicious stab of my finger. “I was at practice yesterday. I’ll be at morning skate today. I’ll be dressed and ready tonight. Whatever you need from me professionally, I’ll deliver.”
“You better, or I’ll scratch you again. That seemed to work to re-focus your priorities.”
Something hot and fierce rises in my chest at his fucking confidence, when he’swayoff base. I have to breathe through the spike of anger when I want to snap that what re-focused my energy was stumbling into marrying his gorgeous, stunningly smart daughter.
“With all due respect,” I say, carefully pinning my attention forward. I’m proud of how level my voice stays. “My priorities have never been a problem. They are still exactly where they need to be.”
He shifts beside me. He’s not as tall as me, but he’s thickened with age, and if he took a swing at me here, it would hurt.
Also, I can’t pummel Frankie’s dad.
Could I?
I stare at the numbers as we climb.
I can feel his glare boring into me from the side. “Are they?”
There’s no right answer to that. I’ve said what I need to say.
“Jesus Christ, Granger. Do you not understand how distracting?—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, and I have to take a breath before I continue. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
The elevator slows. Sixth floor.
“Excuse me?”
I turn to face him fully now, letting my duffel bag drop to the floor between us. “Whatever judgments you’re preparing to make about my personal life, you can keep them to yourself.”
His eyes narrow. “This is about your performance on the ice, Granger. That’s all I care about.”
The elevator dings. Seventh floor. The doors start to slide open.
Wilson’s hand shoots out, holding the door, but also blocking my path to get out of the car. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You think you’re different.”
“I think,” I say carefully, “that you don’t know anything about my life outside this team. And you don’t have a right to.”
“I have every right when it affects your play.”
“It hasn’t.” I hold his gaze. “It won’t.”
“That’s what they all say, right up until it does. And then you know who gets blamed? Not the player who couldn’t keep his head in the game. Not the woman who couldn’t understand that hockey comes first. It’s the coach. Always the coach, for not managing it better. I’m trying to spare you, kid, and you’re sneering at me.”
The pieces click together with sickening clarity.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “I’m not him.”
The words hang between us.
Wilson’s expression hardens. “What did you say?”
Every word out of his mouth sounds like an echo of what Frankie described—the way he tries to cast doubt and create worry with vague threats.
