My drive home is silent. No music, no late-night radio hosts griping their way through my speakers. Just the sound of my own ragged breathing and the distant thrum of my tires against the pavement.
When I pull into my driveway, my house is dark. It’s an old home I bought and renovated myself a year ago—classic Connecticut architecture and history.
There is a palpable fear in the pit of my stomach of losing this home if I get sent down to the AHL. All thework I put into it. It took me months to fix up, doing most of the work myself in our off seasons. I wanted it to be something solid. Something permanent. Somethingmine.I swallow down the sour taste in my mouth left at the thought of someone else building a life here.
Once inside, I force myself to turn my phone back on to assess the damage.
Fifteen missed texts. Two more missed calls from Dad.
Kelsey’s name is near the top of the list. Her message is long, too long—but I already know what it says.
“We need to get ahead of this. Let’s set up some interviews, rewrite the narrative. You were provoked on the ice. As captain, you have to defend your team. We want the headlines to readRhodes McKnight is passionate and talented,not unhinged and unstable.”
I stare at the screen for a second. I am feeling more unhinged and unstable by the second, so maybe the reporters aren’t too far off.
Then I lock it back up and toss my phone onto the counter, leaving it there as I head up the stairs to my bedroom. I can’t even begin to respond to any of that tonight. My avoidance is going to tick her off.
She can get in line if she wants to be pissed at me. Her and fucking everyone else.
Chapter Three
Monroe
The admissions office is stifling. Brown walls, brown floors, brown chairs. The dean of admissions is in his office with another—probably less problematic—student.
I can hear muffled voices through the thin walls, and the heavy ball of anxiety is sitting like a boulder in my chest. I’m dressed in black jeans, an ivory tank top and brown blazer, and my hair is down, curling gently around my face. I look professional. Academic. I even put my glasses on, cosplaying as someone who has their life together.
When was the last time I wore anything other than sweatpants or party clothes? Or even took the time to get ready for the day? Showered before noon?
Months.
I’d spent the last twenty-four hours alone, silent and sober.
And after I had turned over my options over a hundred different ways, I kept landing on the sameone—it was going to be Carter Abrams’ way or the highway.
It sucked that he was usually right about most things. It sucked even more that I loved him enough to actually try—to really try to not be such a nightmare mess of a daughter.
Heonlyhas me—no other children, no partner to speak of. That thought hit harder than I wanted it to. He never remarried after the divorce. I’ve never even seen him date. His entire life is hockey and me, and I’ve given him every reason to stop counting on me at all.
I know he’s dealing with enough already, especially with his team. His captain, Rhodes McKnight, is giving him hell. I saw the footage from their last game. Another fight. Another Wolverines headline featuring their “bad boy” captain. I had audibly gasped when they zoomed in on his injuries.
I notice the voices quieting behind the door and shake the thought of Rhodes’ bloodied face out of my head and back to my current state. It was probably the first day in over eight months that I hadn’t had at least one drink. I felt like shit. But I wrote the date down anyway. It felt like a cold-turkey-or-nothing kind of situation.
The door to my left creaks open and a petite blonde walks out, smiling at me as she passes.She must not know who I am.
“Ms. Abrams?” Dean Lamare stands in the doorway of his office and waves me over. “Come on in.”
I stand, smoothing my jeans and shifting uncomfortably. The floorboards creak under my feet as I walked into the office. The dean shuts the door with a softclickbehind me and pads around his desk. Tall bookshelves tower behind him, filled with academic texts, and large ornate windows let swaths of light intothe room. Too much light for day one of sobriety, honestly.
“Please, sit,” he motions to the chair in front of his desk when I don’t immediately move from the door. I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. My hands are shaking with nerves, and I clench them shut to keep him from noticing.
“I understand you’re wanting to re-enroll and complete your last semester here at U of C.” He levels his gaze at me, and I’m surprised to see it devoid of the usual pity I’ve learned to expect. Kindness is all I can detect in his face.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, twisting my hands together in my lap.
“Understood,” he replies, pulling some forms out from a drawer beside his leather chair. The scent of pine and leather conditioner permeate the space around me. “I’ve spoken with your father about your extenuating circumstances, with your injury and your mental health.” The matter-of-fact way he speaks to me is almost refreshing. There’s no judgement, there’s no shame. Just the facts.
“Ah,” I say. “Yes. It’s been a difficult year.” My voice sounds small, not at all like my usual biting tone.