Page 20 of Callous Shot

It buzzed again with another message.

@danhfirestarter:

i’m a redhead with pale skin. imagine how much more obvious this shit is on me you dickhead

no ones giving me shit for it tho so sucks to be you

literally

@linkb_flames:

ha fucking ha. don’t ever do that again

@danhfirestarter:

don’t let anyone else leave marks on you again then

My mouth fell open as I stared down at the words on my screen. He wasn’t implying what I thought he was implying, was he? Or was it a threat?

@linkb_flames:

are you threatening me? what the fuck is your problem?

@danhfirestarter:

just fuck off and die

I shoved my phone back in my bag, not willing to engage with him any longer. I needed to get my head in the game. That was the only thing that mattered right now. My teammates were counting on me to put in the effort in this training session.

With that in mind, I fitted my neck guard and joined the rest of the Flames on the ice.

“Ten more minutes. Bellingham. Campbell. Passing dynamic drills. Now. Fontana. With me.” Coach blew his whistle, and I skated across the rink to join Jasper for a set of defensive drills. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a lone figure sitting among the sparse pockets of spectators. This was an open practice, which meant anyone could show up to watch, but few did. Mostly partners of the players or people waiting for one of the public sessions to begin. This person stood out a mile, not least because of the cut of his bespoke Henry Poole suit and the severe expression on his face.

My father.

What was he even doing here? He’d never attended any of my games. The very fact that Vincenzo Fontana was the Flames’ captain meant he immediately associated the team with criminals and corruption. Then again, even if we’d had a more “suitable” captain, I doubted he would’ve come. He’d never been to any of my school lacrosse games, either.

He noticed me watching him, and he jerked his head towards the exit.

Sorry, Dad. You’re gonna have to wait a bit longer. Grasping my stick in my right hand, I held up my left, opening and closing my fingers twice. Ten minutes, I mouthed, and his brows drew together. I turned back to Jasper, doing my best to put my father out of my mind, but I could feel his gaze boring into me as I moved across the ice. It made me fumble what should’ve been a simple pass, and my teammate shot me a quizzical look.

“Everything okay, bro?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Focus, Link. With an effort, I managed to make it through the final ten minutes of practice. Instead of heading for a much-needed shower, I left my stick in the care of Jasper and tugged off my helmet before making my way over to where my father was now standing at the edge of the rink.

“Lincoln.”

“Dad. This is…unexpected.” I ran my gloved hand through my sweaty hair, and my father grimaced. I was suddenly thankful to Enzo for insisting on the neck guard, because my father would definitely have had something to say about my temporary neck decoration. He had a lot to say about things he didn’t find suitable. And if I ever dared to wear anything other than long sleeves in front of him, reminding him I’d voluntarily marked my skin with tattoos… Suffice to say, that wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat. It wasn’t worth the inevitable fallout when he went off at me about how Bellinghams were supposed to uphold certain standards.

Sometimes you had to choose your battles, especially when it came to my father.

“Go and shower.” His lip curled. “I can smell you from here. Why you enjoy this hobby, I have no idea. Your brother certainly wouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, sorry.” My gaze dropped to my skates. What was it about Harold Bellingham that made me feel like that little kid again, the kid who could never live up to his impossible expectations? “I came straight over because I didn’t think you’d want to wait around.”

“I don’t. Be quick.”

Seven minutes later, showered and dressed in jeans and a simple red Whelford hoodie, with the hood strategically arranged to hide the mark on my neck, I rejoined my father on the tiered seating. He didn’t bother looking up at me, tapping at his phone screen, and I waited silently until he was ready to speak.