I need to know how she is, but I’m being hauled away. With no other recourse, I let it happen. It doesn’t sink in right away that I’ve been ejected until the commentators start discussing what this means for the game.
“—looks as if both Rourke and Toutain have been ejected from the game. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“No, but the cameras caught everything. You know, after that fight on the ice earlier this year, Rourke’s developed a bit of a reputation as a wild card, but in this case, I’m on his side. Toutain had no reason to assault that Venom employee standing behind the glass.”
They shouldn’t be on my side.
“From where I’m sitting, Toutain is the one at fault, but we’ll see what the court of public opinion has to say—”
Coach Metcalfe is livid. “Facemask off, Rourke!” he bellows.
I yank my helmet off, gasping for air. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know what the hell that was about, but—”
I cut him off. “Is she okay?”
Coach Metcalfe’s eye twitches. “I don’t know.”
Violet appears beside him. I’m so disoriented that I truly have no idea where she came from.
“She’s fine,” Violet says. “Shaking, for sure, but she’s okay. She’ll have a bruise on her elbow at worst.”
I finally catch another glimpse of Remy. She’s panting, one hand pressed to her chest, but Violet’s telling the truth. She’s upright, with no sign of blood on her.
Thank God, thank God, thank God…
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give out.
But the disappointment in her eyes almost breaks me.
“Come on.” Violet shoves me deeper into the tunnel. Inside, Dante screams in Sicilian. And for once, I’ll shut up and take it.
All that matters is that Remy’s okay now. I can take whatever comes next, as long as she’s safe. I repeat that mantra to myself as I head to my fate.
Even if I just destroyed everything else.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Remy
“This is such fucking bullshit.” Dante’s face is only inches from Owen’s.
The man seated to the right of Dante’s now-empty chair clears his throat. “Mr. Giovanetti, as your lawyer, I suggest that you—”
Dante ignores him. “We’ve given you everything, Rourke. You werenobodybefore I brought you in. Some little nobody from a shit AHL team in Boston. I’m the only reason anybody knows your name.”
“Dante, please,” says one of the League reps, a man whose name I missed since everyone else seems to know each other. Whoever he is, he sounds exhausted.
Dante doesn’t flinch. He stays in Owen’s space, palms splayed on the table, mouth contorted into a snarl. Owen, on the other hand, is completely devoid of expression, which somehow makes the whole scene worse.
I remember what he told me about his father, and I wish I could intervene. No wonder he learned to shut his face down when men start yelling. Instead, I keep my mouth shut. Not because of the attention I’d draw by speaking, though I’m not thrilled about that prospect, either. No, I keep my lips pressed tight together because I don’t want to spill any fuel on the fire. Any discussion of potential misconduct would only make things worse for Owen.
The League rep rubs his palm against his forehead. “This isn’t helping anyone, Dante.”
Judging by the tension in the room, nobody actually believes that’s going to stop him.
Dante whirls on the spot so fast his chair nearly tips over. Three League reps and a small army of lawyers sit on the left side of the table; Sergio and Renee sit to the right, looking deeply exhausted already.
