Brutal Obsession (106)

Someone skates by, head turned out toward the crowd.

Devereux.

My throat closes. He seems to be searching for me.

A Knight catches him off guard and crashes into him. They both hit the glass hard, and Greyson shoves at the other player. Instead of a fight, they part and go in separate directions.

The buzzer sounds.

Overtime.

I swallow. The skaters leave the ice, and the announcer gives a rundown of what’s about to happen. A three-on-three sudden death. The first team to score in the next five minutes wins.

Mom leans toward me. “You have to believe that I did this in our best interests.”

Our best interests? I scoff. “I don’t have to believe anything.”

She bites her lower lip, and she can’t meet my eyes. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Grey



Where are you?





I type a reply, but a large hand snatches my phone before I can hit send. I twist around, shocked. The bodyguard tucks my phone in his pocket, then looks pointedly down at my mother. With a quiet sigh, she pulls hers from her purse and hands it over.

This is so fucked up.

“You have to fix this,” I say under my breath. “Mom. Please.”

“Quiet,” the guy snaps.

I face forward again.

‘That’s my boy,” Senator Devereux says to his colleagues. “Coach Roake made a smart move sending him out to clinch the deal.”

There’s a general consensus. Agreements about his son’s talent, the coach, the team. I twist my fingers together. My palms are sweating. Even up here, in our glass box, I can sense the crowd’s energy. Their excitement. But it doesn’t touch us.

My nerves are rioting, and it takes everything in me to sit still.

Knox and Steele join Grey. Miles takes his place in front of the goal. They begin, and I hold my breath when Grey gets the puck. He’s checked by a Knight and goes sprawling.

The senator grumbles. Just as quick, though, Grey is back up and charging after the puck. He wins a battle for it and takes it all the way into the Knights’ territory. He flicks the puck toward the upper-left corner of the goal.

The goalie is quick to snatch it out of the air. He tosses it back to one of his teammates. And they’re off again. Miles blocks one, two, three shots from their opponents.

My heart remains in my throat until there’s only precious seconds left. In the end, it’s Knox who scores the final goal. He fakes a shot, which the Knights goalie falls for, and then sails it easily between his open legs.

The stadium erupts. The ice is immediately swarmed with Hawks players, closing in fast on Knox and Miles. They’re jumping up and down, celebrating their much-needed win. I lean forward and see the senator accepting congratulations like he won. He mentions something about scouts and his son getting recruited, then waves his hand toward the door.

They all leave, and his bodyguard follows. The door swings shut, and there’s a heavy snick of a deadbolt sliding home. They’ve locked my mother and me in.





46





GREYSON





“Devereux,” Coach calls.

I stop mid-stride and turn back toward him. I was on my way to find Violet. She disappeared partway through the third period, and she never returned to her seat.

Neither did Willow.

Knox, just behind me, makes a face. But he keeps moving toward the doors.

I sigh. On my own.

Except… not. Coach slaps my arm and gestures for me to follow him. We get in the elevator and ride it in silence, getting off on the publicist’s floor.

He glances at me. “You’ve got natural charm,” he says. “Use it.”

I nod. I don’t have time for this, but it’s my future. There must be a scout looking to speak to me… and Coach is acting like it’s a big fucking deal.

So I staunch my worries about Violet and follow him down the hall to the publicist’s office. She’s there, pouring a cup of coffee from her side table. She turns and brings it further inside and hands it to…

My father.

I grimace but quickly smother it. No need to show my disgust. Our phone call this morning was rather abrupt, and I had planned on telling him to fuck off. That was part of the plan. No, the main part of my plan. And then Violet and I were going to ride off into the sunset together and pretend none of this shit ever happened.

Wishful thinking.

“Ah, Greyson.” Dad draws attention to me. He’s standing beside a man I can only assume is an NHL scout. He wouldn’t waste his time on anyone less. “Good game, son.”

“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a smile.

The charm came easier before I knew what sort of demons he keeps close. Still, I straighten my spine and step farther into the room with Coach Roake at my back.

“Yes, most impressive,” the scout says. “Tim Monroe, with the Boston Bruins.”

I almost choke. Almost. Not just a scout—the fucking coach of one of the best teams in the league. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He smirks. “A hat trick at this level? You’re going to go places… but only if your record remains clear.”

He eyes me, and I eye him back. He’s the guy who coaches the Bruins. He’s got a thick head of light-blond hair, smooth skin. His beard is trimmed and neat. I wonder how many other players he’s personally visited…