I’m only half-watching the game. I’ve already made my mind up, but some part of me wonders if exposing my father for who he really is will be the thing that finally destroys our relationship. On a surface level, he’ll be okay. People like my father are never really punished, and if anything dire happens, I know Elle will be waiting in the wings to take over. Still, there’s a small voice in the back of my head wondering if we’ll ever be able to recover from what’s about to happen, knowing I’ll have to live with that choice, even if it was his actions that steered me here in the first place.
I’ve taken Grace’s suggestion to the extreme. The other night, she suggested I record myself confronting my father and show it to Mattias, which gave me another idea. Release the documentary, but embed it with an exposé on my father’s business plans. She and Margot thought I was unhinged, but I convinced them that this might be the only way to salvage the team. Besides, Mattias isn’t the only one who deserves to know the truth. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious, but like a final girl in my own horror film, I’m left standing alone, forced to confront the monster head-on—this ugly, beastly thing that’s transmogrified beyond my control.
My fatherinvited the investors to tonight’s match, given it’s charity night. Ryan’s downstairs filming, but I’m not worried about leaving him to his devices. He knows what he’s doing by now, which has cleared up some space for me to fraternize with the suits from Eros. Little do they know, I’ve got Parker’s recording device under my shirt again, and they consented to being recorded the moment they set foot in the arena.
I’ve already gotten some bombshells. These guys are so cocky, they talk about the sale like it’s already happened. Like the Monarchs have already been liquidated and they’ve already raked in their millions. They do it in hushed voices away from the waitstaff of course, but their arrogance blinds them. With this, plus the sale documents and the things my father said to me in his office, I’ve got more than enough material to take the hammer to them.
I keep glancing at the score. The Monarchs really need this win tonight, and I can tell the whole arena’s on edge. Mattias is playing dirtier than usual and it looks like Armstrong’s gotten to him. My heart sinks when I think how, just a few games ago, he might have clued me in.
Not anymore.
My father slides up to me and I stiffen. “You’re not gonna miss this, Fred. Think about it. Soon, you won’t have to spend every Saturday night at a hockey rink watching these losers.” I grimace as he raises his champagne flute and adds, “Look at all the empty seats. This place is gonna do a hell of a lot better as a basketball arena. Or as condos or whatever they end up developing here if it’s bulldozed.”
These losers are my family. It’s true, the stands are only about seventy percent full, but that’s a lot better than it was at the beginning of the season. We’ve come a long way.
A chorusof gasps fills the arena and I turn my attention back to the ice. With a little less than twenty seconds to the buzzer, Falkenberg has possession, but Armstrong’s right behind him. He passes to LeBlanc, but LeBlanc passes right back.
“Come on,” I whisper under my breath. Mattias searches for his in—trying to find a pocket to make the shot. Time’s up. He’s gotta take it.
Only, Armstrong’s stick appears as if from nowhere, knocking it out of Mattias’s possession. My body grows tense as Mattias dives—and misses. Armstrong knocks into him from behind, sending them both flying into the boards. Even from all the way up in my VIP box, I hear the sickeningthumpas Mattias collides laterally with the wall, Armstrong crashing into him.
His head!
I watch in horror as Mattias fails to get up. Armstrong manages to find his footing, offering a hand down to Mattias, but Mattias either doesn’t notice or is in too much pain to move. Whistles screech across the ice.
The rink falls mostly silent.
I faintly register some announcer’s voice. “Falkenberg looks like he’s down bad—”
Then he moves, and my heart leaps into my throat. Players surround him as he tries to roll over and push himself up. I flinch as his body convulses and he heaves—vomit falling from his mouth.
He collapses.
“That’ll do it to you,” I hear one of the investors say.
I’d drag them to hell myself if I could. I shove past my father and run out of the box.
I need to get downstairs.
The escalator won’t move fast enough, so I race down it two steps at a time, hardly registering the dirty looks thrown my way. I hear the thundering announcers, calling the game for Mattias, saying he won’t be back on the ice for a while. They don’t know anything.
I barrel through the curtain partition on the ground floor. An usher tries to get in my way at first, but she must recognize me because she lets me go. I sprint to the boards next to where he’s still laying on the ice, surrounded by paramedics. They exchange words I can’t make out before lifting him onto a stretcher.
He’s unconscious. I watch in horror as they tie his limp body down. One of them removes his helmet and his head rolls boneless to the side, eyes closed. Poirier is there, too. When our eyes meet, he shoots me a dark look through the plexiglass.
The arena erupts in applause as Mattias is carried off the ice, as they do when anyone’s injured, but the sound of it only makes the whole thing more horrifying. The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period, and the game moves on with intermission entertainment.
I chase after the paramedics and catch them in the corridor that leads to player parking. Ambulance lights are already flashing outside.
“Ma’am, you can’t be here.” One of the EMTs not carrying the stretcher turns to stop me. I crane my neck over his shoulder to see, but he blocks me out.
“Freddie Hearst, I’m with corporate,” I breathe. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Probably, but I can’t guarantee anything just now. It’s a rough sport.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Too early to tell. Concussion, if I had to guess, but we’ll have to let the doctors figure that out.”
