Standing over a rookie I barely know who fully expects me to put my fist through his jaw, I feel worse than I have in a very long time. Nobody has ever looked at me like that before.
But I’ve been on the other end of this. I know exactly how he feels, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the pain.
I turn my back on him and skate over to Coach Metcalfe. I don’t let myself look at the stands. Better to let Metcalfe rake me over the coals than to face the ugly truth.
I don’t look. I can’t.
Because if Remy’s expression is anywhere near as terrified as the new guy’s, it’ll break my fucking heart.
Chapter Eight
Remy
In the office, Dante has become the human embodiment of a tornado. This isn’t about the incident anymore. It’s about control. About who gets to have it, and who doesn’t. I’m not sure that what he’s doing can even be called pacing at this point. He circles behind the desk, where Sergio is in “his” chair, all the way around to the space behind the chairs where Renee, Owen, and I are sitting.
“Did you learn nothing?” he snarls at Owen. “It’s literally your first day back!”
Owen’s hands are balled into fists on his knees. He’s holding it together, but just barely. Not explosive. Contained. That’s an important distinction. “I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what? Didn’t lunge at your teammate?”
I’m new to Dante’s rants, but even I can tell that this question is rhetorical. Owen, however, sets his jaw and lifts his chin. “I didn’t do anything. I just got between him and Lenyx. Why am I the one getting in trouble when the other guy caused the problem?”
Dante bends down and gets right in Owen’s face. “Lenyx is fine. The rookie is fine.Youare the one whose ass is on the line. The press is here today. I’m not going to let you drag my team’s reputation through the mud, so you need to check yourself beforeIfucking wreck you.”
Sergio sighs and rubs his hand across his forehead. “Dad, that’s not even a real saying.”
“Who gives a shit?” Dante snarls. “You think I won’t wreck him?” He redirects the full force of his anger back to Owen. “Isthat what you think? That I’m going to let my son handle you with kid gloves? I built this team.I’mthe one who got us the Stanley Cup twice, andI’mthe one who’s bringing the magic back. You’re just a goalie. You’re not even a legacy player. You’re only as good as your performance. You’re disposable, Rourke. I could replace you likethat.” He snaps his fingers right under Owen’s nose.
There it is. The real problem. Not the hit. Not the clip. This.
Owen’s face is bright red, and his fists are balled so tight that his knuckles have turned white. It’s easy to read his body language as anger, but when I study his profile, I notice the slight tic in his jaw, the redness of his eyes, and I realize that he’s hurting.
And no one in this room seems to care.
I swallow once. “Listen, Mr. Giovanetti—”
If my goal was to get Dante’s attention off Owen, I’ve succeeded. He whips toward me. “And you.I said FIX him, not WATCH him BREAK IN HD!”
The Remy Callahan Petty Bullshit Scale is overloaded. Dante’s anger is totally inappropriate to the situation. Sergio won’t stand up to his father. Renee winces and rubs her temples. Owen’s lost his will to fight.
And honestly, this is the fucking NHL. Dante Giovanetti is the master at making a mountain out of a molehill.
So I do what I do best. I de-escalate. Not by pushing back. By shifting the frame. “Owen didn’t break,” I say coolly. “His reaction to the incident during practice wouldn’t have made anyone bat an eye if it wasn’t for his recent suspension.”
Owen’s head jerks toward me. Like he didn’t expect me to step in. Like he’s not sure what to do with it. I can’t read his expression, but his fists relax.
Dante’s lip curls. “That’s completely inaccurate, Miss Callahan.”
I keep my voice level. “I’m from Boston, Mr. Giovanetti. I know hockey.”
Dante’s eyes narrow to slits. “Are you suggesting that you know my game better than I do?”
He wants a reaction. Something loud, something emotional. I don’t give it to him.
Behind Dante’s back, Sergio flinches. He crosses his arms and taps his wrists together, forming an X in an attempt to make me shut up. But I’m not going to back down. If I do, I lose him. And the room. For one thing, if Dante keeps needling Owen this way, one or both of them is going to do something that will make my job a hell of a lot harder. On top of that, I’ve got my father’s stubborn streak. My dad always told me that he didn’t like to start fights, but he’d damn well finish them.
But Mom was the one who taught me how to deal with men whose egos get ahead of their brains.
