Senator Reynolds arrived during the first period, all polished smiles, firm handshakes, and no apologies about interrupting our viewing of the game. Why would he? Nobody in this box but me actually cared about hockey. My father’s box was an opportunity to see and be seen, to schmooze and make deals—everything I’d spent my entire life trying to avoid.
“Senator, thank you for joining us.” My father guided him to a quickly vacated seat beside him. “This is my son, Cole.” I took the seat on the aisle so the senator sat between us. “He’s been looking into some of our regulatory challenges.” That was a lie, but if that was how my father wanted to play this, I was game. Wouldn’t matter after Dmitri showed up anyway.
The senator’s handshake was firm. “Shame you’re not playing tonight. Were you injured?”
“Family obligation,” I said smoothly. The team’s pressrelease had simply said I wouldn’t be finishing the season. Boy oh boy, had that upset the betting markets.
“Your father speaks very highly of your commitment to Carter Industries,” Reynolds said as he accepted a glass of whisky.
“I want to be part of building its future,” I said with a smile. “And that future requires innovation, not strangleholds from foreign powers interfering in American businesses.”
Senator Reynold’s eyebrows shot up, and then his smile turned sly. “I’m sure your father has some thoughts into how to incentivize that.”
My phone buzzed.
Coach
He’s on his way to the box.
I needed to keep them talking, keep them comfortable until Dmitri arrived. “It sounds to me like some folks don’t understand how American politics work.”
Reynolds’ expression tightened slightly. “They think money and influence operate the same way everywhere.”
“Don’t they?” I asked then softened it with a smile. “Operate the same way, I mean. Just with different players and different rules.”
Reynolds studied me carefully then nodded. “That’s why relationships with people who understand the game matter.”
My father watched me carefully, as if he was surprised at the words coming out of my mouth. This was what he’d always wanted—me, sharp and ruthless, willing to play these games. He had no idea I was playing against him.
Below, the Marauders scored. The crowd roared. I didn’t even see whose goal it was.
My father gestured for me to refill the senator’s glass. I reached for the decanter, grateful my hands didn't shake as I poured. The whiskey smelled like everything I was trying not to think about—escape, oblivion, silence. I set it down fast and shoved my hands into my pockets.
“I think we’ll work well together,” my father said to the senator, nauseatingly satisfied. “Cole here is proof the next generation understands?—”
The door to the suite opened.
“Jedediah!” The voice was warm, the thick Russian accent pitched to carry across the suite. “What a wonderful surprise.”
Dmitri Lebedev stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit. Two men flanked him—security he didn’t truly need.
Every conversation in the box stopped as he walked past the abandoned catering and toward the rows of seats facing the rink.
My father’s expression turned carefully neutral. “Dmitri, I didn’t realize you were attending tonight.”
“I have box seats for the season,” he said, which was news to me. “You know my cousin, Aleksandr Novikov, recently resigned to pursue…” He stopped and smiled, sharklike. “Much like your son Cole, Sasha is joining the family business.” The bratva, he left unsaid.
My father said nothing, his expression blank.
Dmitri extended his hand to my father first, then to Senator Reynolds. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, his expression open and friendly. “Senator Reynolds, correct? I recognize you from the news. I’m Dmitri Lebedev.”
Reynolds accepted the handshake, too savvy to outright refuse it, no matter who might be offering. “Mr. Lebedev, it’sa pleasure. You said Alek Novikov is a relative? Are you a hockey fan too?”
“I am,” he said with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “And I keep a close eye on the betting markets. So volatile lately—especially when people receive bad advice about which games to bet on. Wouldn’t you agree, Jedediah? Very expensive mistakes for everyone involved.”
Reynolds’ expression shifted as he processed the name, the accent, the information about sports betting, and realized exactly who he was speaking with.
My father’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he smiled. But I caught it, and, more importantly, so did Reynolds. “Dmitri, perhaps we could catch up another time,” my father interrupted, his tone pleasant but not hiding the edge underneath. “We’re in the middle of?—”
