Brutal Obsession (88)

I sit on my bed and inhale again, not wanting to exhale.

My father calls me. I consider sending it to voicemail, but the last time I did that, he showed up at my game.

Him. At a game.

I haven’t seen him witness me play in years, let alone speak to me after the fact. It probably has something to do with our clashing reputations. Can a beloved senator really have a bloodthirsty hockey player for a son?

Since our next game is at home, I don’t want to risk that. Coach Roake acted like he walked on water, and I was once again reminded of the complex power my father holds. It goes far beyond his domain of New York.

I don’t know if there’s a place his influence can’t reach.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Greyson,” he greets me. Brisk and businesslike, even though it’s nine o’clock at night. “How was practice?”

“Good.” It’s a reflex to answer that way. I was distracted, so… not so good.

“Really? Because I got a call tonight, informing me that my son was almost thrown off the ice.”

Oh, that. Well, Erik should really keep his fucking trap shut when it comes to Violet. He made some passing comment about her, and I went off the deep end. I’m sure as hell not admitting that to my father, though.

“If it’s team trouble, you need to clear that up by the weekend.”

Obviously. “We got it sorted,” I lie.

Unlike Violet, I actually know how to lie. Well enough to trick my father to his face? Probably not. But the phone is a barrier that makes it easier to pull the wool over his eyes. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“That Reece girl is leaving you alone?”

I cringe and almost drop my phone. “Um…”

“I haven’t seen the merit of hockey,” he continues. “But I have several donors who are following your game closely. We’re planning on attending the tournament finals in April—so your team better be there. Roake mentioned that some teams have been scouting you?”

I’m suffering from a case of mental whiplash. From Violet to donors to scouts.

“Yes. A few have come to speak with Coach and me after the games.”

He hums. “Good, good.”

“Why did you ask about Violet?”

He hesitates.

I stand suddenly, my stomach twisting. Violet. Donors. Scouts. “What did you do, Dad?”

“I’m not talking about this.” He harrumphs. “You focus on playing well for Crown Point University, son, because the real world will kick you in the nutsac if you’re not ready for it.”

Great imagery. “I’m ready.”

“Prove it by focusing on what’s important.” He pauses. “Hockey. Your grades. That’s it.”

He did something. I can feel it in my gut—but he’s not going to fess up to it.

“Oh, and Greyson?”

I stop myself from hanging up on him.

“You’ll be home next week. Spring break. We’re celebrating.” He sounds… pleased with himself. “I’ll send a car.”

A car to take me on a five-hour drive back to my hometown of Rose Hill. Me and a driver and nothing but awkward silence—and music, if we’re lucky. Sometimes they play shitty stuff, or my headphones get stowed in the trunk by accident.

I find myself nodding, wondering what I can do to get out of it. I don’t need to go home—it isn’t like I live in a dorm that’s closing. CPU actually doesn’t offer that much on-campus housing. I’d bet most of the students will be sticking around for the week-long break.

“Sounds great,” I agree, mainly to not suffer an argument. Another one. My gaze swings over my bookcase… and the hole in the neat row of spines. My heart stops. “I’ve got to go,” I manage. “Homework.”

“Get to it.” The line goes dead before I can hang up. If there’s one thing my father is skilled at, it’s having the last word.

But that doesn’t matter.

I stand and cross to the shelves, running my fingers over the spines. Books I personally stacked. One in the center leans across a gap, resting on its neighbor.

A missing piece.

And there’s only one thing that’s worth going missing.

Nausea snakes through me.

I smelled her. I knew she was in here. I knew and I didn’t think to inspect every inch of it. I was distracted. But now I’m not. Now I know she was here for one thing, and one thing only: to steal the last memorabilia from my mother.

Dad eradicated her from our lives when she left.

And then she died a year later, alone in a hospital room. She didn’t want to tell him about the cancer. And in turn, I never got to say goodbye.

By the time we found out—by the time her family clued us in—she had been dead a week.

We missed the tiny funeral out on Long Island. They spread her ashes into the Atlantic Ocean from a small fishing boat. Dad had already removed evidence of her from his house. He took down the pictures that hung on the wall, donated or tossed the clothes and jewelry she left behind. Without her physically being here. And then she was just… gone. Like she had never even existed at all.

So the photos in that book are the last pieces of her.

Without them, I fear I’ll forget her face. Her voice is already a distant memory. Her smile, her fake-serious expression when she caught me doing something I shouldn’t, and she was doing her best not to burst into giggles… those stick. Her laugh, too. I hope I never forget them.