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I squared my shoulders and tugged down the hem of my sweater as she stepped aside, waving me in. Once over the threshold, my eyes immediately landed on Cally. He was sitting up ramrod straight, his fingers linked in on the table in front of him, his face … completely fucking composed.
Voss cleared his throat. “Michael. Thank you for joining us.”
I dragged my attention away from Cally—pausing briefly on Coach who looked like he wished he could be anywhere but here right now—to meet Voss’s gaze. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”
Probably not the best idea to get mouthy with the GM when I was pretty sure I was about to get my ass handed to me, but the moment I’d heard Cally’s dad was here, I’d lost the ability to see reason. Any pep talk or advice I’d given myself on the forty-five-second elevator ride up here had completely fallen by the wayside.
“What’s he doing here?” I notched my chin back, gesturing his direction.
The bane of my husband’s existence leaned forward to fill a crystal glass from a matching carafe, his movements slow and unbothered like this team didn’t have a fucking game to play tonight.
“Picture it” he drawled, taking a long, slow sip of water. “The wife and I are driving up to surprise our son. We’re just passing Scarborough when our phones start blowing up. Shannon gasps, and covers her mouth. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, immediately picturing hospitals and caskets and all the fucking shit that can absolutely wreck a man.”
He set the glass down, spinning it slowly, drawing out his performance.
“But then she says to me, ‘Hunter got married.’ I jerk the car to the side of the road to catch my breath. My first thought once my hands stop shaking is, ‘I wonder who he is.’”
He met my eyes with a direct, impenetrable glare.
“So I’m here to make sure no one fucks with my son and his goddamn husband after that little stunt they pulled earlier tonight.”
“That’s not … I don’t …”
Genuinely, I had no idea what I even intended to say.
I couldn’t deny Cally and I were married—that cat was very firmly out of the bag. But also, HOLY FUCKING SHIT. Cally’s dad knew he was gay? And he was here to help us?
I stumbled forward, clutching the chair in front of me.
“Sit, Michael. Please.” Voss gestured at the chair I was gripping like my life depended on it.
I sank down, trying desperately to get a read on Voss and Hendricks. Now that I knew Cally’s dad wasn’t here to make things worse, they were the wildcards.
Especially since they were the ones who held all the power.
A bottom-six center, I wasn’t ever going to be the guy fans raved about. But I had one skill that, in my prouder moments, I knew set me apart from guys like me. The thing was, I was good at seeing a play before it developed—a dropped shoulder before a reverse check, a defenseman loading his back skate to snap a breakout pass, or the tiny drop of a stick handle that telegraphed where the puck was going next.
But sitting here across from our GM and coach, they weren’t telegraphing shit.
Which could only mean one thing: we were cooked.
FORTY-ONE
MIKEY
“For the record,” Voss began, “your sexualities have no bearing whatsoever on your continued employment with this organization. Our general counsel wants me to make that abundantly clear.”
He looked from Cally to me, holding each of our gazes until he was satisfied that we’d not only heard him, but understood him as well. “Are we all on the same page here?”
“Yes,” Cally answered as his dad typed something on his phone and slid it toward him. Cally’s eyes moved over the screen for a few seconds, and he gave his old man a brisk nod.
I fought the urge to lean over and snatch up Robert’s phone. I appreciated that he was on our side—though I still had trouble believing it—but sitting here across the table from my husband, having no insight into what he and his father were planning, I felt cut adrift. Both physically and metaphorically.
“Michael?”
I dragged my focus back across the table. “Yes. Of course.”
“Fantastic. Glad that’s out of the way.” Voss’s shoulders dropped on a loud exhale, and the mask was suddenly gone—he went from stone-faced corporate overlord to affable warmth, the rigid posture vanishing in favor of an easygoing smile.
