"Before March."
"I'm in the middle of a season, Marco."
"You're always in the middle of a season." His hand lifts in a small, dismissive gesture. "This takes an hour. A signature." He watches my face, reading the resistance I don't bother hiding. "Your name has been on the filing since you turned eighteen."
Eighteen years old. My father's study. Him behind the desk, the lawyer beside him, documents spread across the leather. My name written into every line. Dante Voss. The athlete. The public face. The name that makes the paperwork look ordinary.
"Send me the documents," I say.
"How's the season?" Marco asks, concern sliding back into his voice like it belongs there.
"Good. Eleven wins in a row. Scouts from North Carolina, Philadelphia, Boston."
"Papà likes Philadelphia."
"I know."
"Philadelphia is close to New York. Easy travel. Good media market." He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders. "The family has connections in the front office."
"I know, Marco."
He watches me. The same weight our father carries behind his eyes, measuring what was said, what was meant, and how much it will cost.
"And the other thing?" he asks.
"What other thing?"
"The girl."
My stride breaks—a half-step stumble where my left foot hits the pavement wrong, the jolt shooting up my ankle before I force the next step even. Marco doesn't look down. He doesn't have to. The fucker heard it.
"Papà mentioned a girl," he says.
The girl. Filings, problems, liabilities. The girl.
My hands flex at my sides, fingers curling into my palms before I force them flat against my thighs. Marco's talking about Maya. The journalist. He's asking about the public problem, the one Papà can see from New York. Cole is the private one, locked behind a door down the hall.
"There's no girl."
"That's not what Papà heard." Marco's gaze stays on my face, unblinking. "He heard there's a journalist. Editor of the campus paper. Connected to you through the Maddox kid."
"She's Cole's stepsister. She covers the team for the Chronicle. That's the extent of it."
"Papà is concerned about the Chronicle." Marco turns slightly, scanning the quad before looking back at me. "He's concerned about what a journalist with access to the team might find if she starts looking in the wrong direction."
"She covers hockey."
"Journalists don't stay in one lane, Dante." His eyes stay on mine, dark and steady. "You know that."
"This one had the biggest campus story of the semester last week. Anonymous sourcing. Sealed records." I pause, letting the words sit. "She killed it. Spiked it on sourcing grounds."
The sentence leaves my mouth smooth. Controlled. Too fucking controlled.
Marco's head tilts, and my pulse picks up half a beat. The silence that follows is measured, heavy. He holds it two beats longer than the conversation needs, his eyes moving across my face the way they move across a document, reading what's written and what's between the lines.
"Papà wants assurance," he says finally.
"Tell Papà the Chronicle covers hockey scores and dining hall renovations."
