The phone lights up, vibrating the sofa cushion.
Buzz, buzz.
For fuck’s sake. This must be important.
Daddy: Are you at the arena? Call me
Daddy: Where the hell are you? Bennett’s out of control
Daddy: You’re supposed to be managing him
Managing him.
Like he doesn’t have a coach, a therapist, an entire organization surrounding him.
Bennett was never supposed to be my responsibility in the first place. My father put me in an impossible situation.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, blocking everything out.
My father, the fund.
Bennett.
I can’t manage him.
Right now, I can’t even manage myself.
By tomorrow, my father will want a plan for Bennett and Lucas will want a plan for the fund.
Tossing the phone on the coffee table, I lay down on the sofa and finally let myself cry.
I never should have gotten involved with Bennett Steele.
And after all of the risks I took, I lost him anyway.
I wake up on the sofa, the first beam of light cutting across the wood floor of the living room. I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes and my neck’s stiff and achy from the awkward angle.
Yesterday comes crashing back.
The hockey game.
The emails about the fund.
My father’s angry texts.
Rubbing my swollen eyes, I reach for my phone and dial my dad.
He answers on the first ring.
“Tori — where the hell have you been?” His voice is scratchy, like he didn’t sleep.
“I’m at my apartment.”
“Why weren’t you at the game?”
I don’t bother telling him I was there but left early because I couldn’t bear to watch.
“I’m working. The fund’s rocky because of Eleanor MacDonald’s poisonous tongue.”
