"They want me back," I say. "The draft money, the NHL visibility. They want a public face. A clean name with an American career. To them, hockey is a way in."
"A way into what?"
"Legitimate rooms. My father has spent years building legal businesses to hide the mafia money." I lean against the counter. "He needs someone people see on TV and in arenas. Someone with the Voss name attached to talent instead of territory."
"And you said no."
"I said no. The same no I've been saying since I was sixteen."
I pause. The next part does not belong to my father.
"I chose hockey at sixteen because of the hockey. That's what I told my father. But the real reason I chose to stay in the States instead of going to Milan—the reason—was a boy sitting next to me on a bench outside the rink after practice with terrible handwriting and a smile that made me look down before he could see my face."
Cole's mug stops halfway to his mouth. His hand goes still.
"I chose hockey because hockey meant staying in the same country as you."
He sets the coffee down. Slowly. The tension in his jaw loosens. His lips part, but no sound comes out.
"My father expected the no," I say. I let Cole have the silence before I move past it, because if I stay in it, I'll say more than the morning can hold. "He smiled. Said the door is always open. Marco put his hand on my shoulder after that and said, in the dialect, 'The boy thinks he has a choice.'"
"In front of your father."
"My father heard it. Didn't correct it. Didn't disagree. Let Marco say it and let the silence do the work. He doesn't threaten. He has Marco for the threats and silence for the enforcement."
"And then you told him about Maya's father."
"After dessert. Marco had left by then. Just me and my father. I told him and his hand was on his phone before I finished. One text. Three seconds. The speed of a man with men waiting for exactly this kind of request."
"He was ready."
"He's always ready. That's the point. The family doesn't fight your boundaries. They wait for your boundaries to need them. Uncle Enzo learned that. I just learned it." I press my palms against the counter. The granite is cold against my skin. "The protection I purchased for Maya is exactly the leash my father wanted around my neck. And the leash works because it's made of love. That's the part I can't get around. He didn't trick me. I walked in."
Cole stands and sets the mug on the table. He crosses the kitchen and stops in front of me, close enough that I feel the heat coming off him. His hand finds my chest, palm flat over my heart.
"You're inside his world now," he says. "The protection isn't free."
"The protection is never free."
"What's the cost?"
"I don't know yet. My father doesn't name the cost upfront. He lets the debt accumulate. And when the debt is large enough, the conversation changes from the door is always open to the door never closed."
Neither of us moves. Cole's palm stays over my heart, and my hands stay braced on the counter behind me. We should be at practice. The regional final is Friday, and Addison will noticeour absence, but Cole doesn't step back and I don't reach for my phone.
"I'm scared," I say.
His palm stays there. The word is out again, the one the family taught me to bury because scared is a weakness and weakness is leverage.
"I'm scared that I just gave him exactly what he wanted. That the man who built me just watched me use his men to protect the people I love and now he has a hook in me that he'll pull whenever he wants."
Cole's hand presses harder against my chest.
"You said something in the kitchen that morning," he says. "When Maya asked about new terms. You said the new shape has to be different. That the old shape was built on things none of us could see."
"I remember."
"This is the same thing. The old shape with your family was you alone, carrying the weight, making decisions in private. The new shape has to include us. Maya's right. The decisions are hers. And yours. And mine. Together."
