Aaron’s mouth opens, but Monroe’s already pushing off the ice, heading toward the exit without another glance. I send him a slow, hard look before following her off the arena.
She stomps off to the bleachers, grabbing her bag and blade guards, ignoring the group that follows her every move.
When she’s out of earshot, Aaron decides he has a fucking death wish.
“Did she sleep with the whole Wolverines team or just you?” Snickers from the group make my pulse pound.
“You know,” I say slowly, turning to face them. “I knew she had some shitty friends, but damn. How long did you skate together? Six years? Seven? Who lets one of their closest friends go through something like that alone?”
Silence. Aaron has common sense enough to look vaguely sheepish, but the rest of them don’t.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
I walk away knowing Monroe wouldn’t want me to fight all her battles for her, but not being able to stop myself from having the last word. If they think they’ll be able to just come in here and intimidate Monroe while she figures her life out again, they’ll have to go through me first.
I shake off the feeling and fix my face when I see Monroe talking to Elsie. She did absolutely amazing today with all the kids. She’s still completely magnetic on the ice. The Nationals team can fuck right off.
Monroe finishes talking with Elsie and I saunter up behind her, sliding my hand around her waist. Her eyes go wide as she leans back to look at me. We haven’t done much PDA outside our night at The Black Boar, because I haven’t exactly been sure what I’m allowed to do.
If it were up to me, I’d never have my hands off of her.
“My dad could walk in here at any second. Or your teammates,” she chides, sliding out of reach. My hands flex at my side at the loss of the feel of her.
“The only person who has a problem with that is you, Monroe,” I remind her. She smiles slightly and shakes her head. “My guys know we’re seeing each other, so it’s not them you have to worry about.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says quietly, contemplative. When she stops pulling away and leans into me, I take a moment to plant a kiss to the top of her head, fully knowing I’m pushing my luck now. As expected, she looks up at me, hazel eyes chiding, and bends down to grab her bag, motioning me to follow her as she walks toward the door.
As you wish, sweetheart.
* * * *
After I drop Monroe off at her apartment, I grab my phone and see a voicemail and several texts from my dad. Lovely.
You got two choices, kid. Send the fucking money, or I make a call. I tell the NHL that their golden boy is fucking up their games. And don’t think for a second they won’t listen. All it’ll take is a few concerned sources saying you’re betting behind the scenes, throwing the games. They pull you so fucking fast for fucking up their bottom line. Just wait until the media gets their hands on it. Imagine that, huh? Your name—your whole fucking career—dragged through the mud just because you were too proud to help your own father.
DO NOT ANSWER (8:15am):Don’t ignore me, Rhodes. I know you are seeing these.
DO NOT ANSWER (8:27am):You owe me. You think you don’t just because you made it big?
DO NOT ANSWER (8:42am):You think people won’t believe me?
DO NOT ANSWER (9:45am):$50K by the end of the month or I go public.
Fifty thousand dollars.
It’s more money than he’s ever asked me for before.
More than the first time, when I was just a kid trying to figure out how to handle my deadbeat father crawling back into my life. More than the second time, when I was twenty-one, fresh into my career and still naïve enough to believe this shit had an expiration date. More than the third time, when I’d just signed with the Wolverines and he smelled the money like a damn bloodhound.
Fifty. Grand.
Shit.
My head pounds, my jaw locked so tight that it feels like my teeth might crack under the pressure. I rake a hand through my hair, staring down at my phone, at the unread messages, the missed calls, the voicemail notification.
This time it isn’t just begging for money, it’sgive me what I want, or I’ll destroy you.I downplayed my anxiety to Monroe last night and now, sitting here in my dark house, I let it all wash over me.
I could call my mom. Tell her what’s happening. Ask for help. But I already know how that’ll go.