“As I told him before,” I say, keeping my voice light even as my pulse starts climbing, “I don’t plan on quitting hockey to work for him.”
“It’s best if you do this willingly,” Daniel replies, and there’s something under his politeness—something that says he’s already counted the ways I can be forced.
“Why doesn’t he call me?”
“He asked me to do it for him.”
Translation: he wants it documented.Witnessed.Framed.Something he can point to later and claim I refused so he had to wreck my life.
I lean my hip against the counter and stare out at the lake through the glass, because I need something in front of me that doesn’t demand anything.The water doesn’t care who I love.The lake doesn’t have rules for my body.
“They’ll pay any bonus you might lose,” Daniel continues, “plus they have a few women lined up so you can meet them.”
I go still.
It’s almost funny, how quickly my insides go quiet.How fast my mind starts sorting exits.
“Women lined up?”I whistle, like this is a game.Like I’m entertained.“That’s ...new.What kind of women are we talking about?Assistants, CEOs ...image managers?”
“Potential brides,” he says, like the word “bride” is a business term.“Early twenties.Willing to marry a hockey thug.”
My hand tightens around the phone.
I laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I’ll throw something, and I can’t break this kitchen when it’s finally the way Vesper likes it.“They’re too young for me.And we should probably verify none of them have been fucked by my father—or my brother.”
“Don’t be crass, Callaway.”
Crass.
As if my father hasn’t made a sport out of ruining people with a smile.As if my mother hasn’t watched and called it tradition.
“Like you don’t know my father likes them young and innocent,” I snap, and my voice cracks into something real before I can stop it.“It makes me wonder if Mother knows and she just has her little indiscretions on the side.Dear Dad ...well, he’s a fucking asshole who should?—”
“Stop,” Daniel orders.
That one word hits like every command I’ve heard in my life.Not shouted.
I swallow.My stomach flips again, this time with anger.
“That’s not all,” he adds, smooth as oil.
“Oh, there’s more.”I make myself sound eager.Bright.Curious.The version of me they prefer.“What else is happening in the land of Winthrop?”
“Your choices,” he repeats, carefully enunciated, like I’m slow.
“Do you mean hockey?”I ask.“Because I’m still very good at that.Number one, baby.”
Okay, I’m not number one, but I’m one of the top players.
“This is not just about your performance on ice.”
“Right,” I murmur, staring at my own reflection in the window.I look like a man in control.I look like a man who can handle a phone call.“It’s about my performance everywhere else.”
“Your father believes you’ve breached your obligations.”
Obligations?
The word shouldn’t be able to do that to me anymore, but it does, because obligations were how they kept me obedient when I was younger.Obligations were how they turned love into leverage.Obligations were how they taught me that my body didn’t belong to me—only the version of it they could use.
