I’m mostly caught up with the media storm—I’d have to be both blind and deaf to have missed the NHL insanity that’s been plastered on every social media site as of this morning.
Rhodes McKnight: Was the Wolverines Captain intentionally throwing games earlier this season?
It’s all garbage.
There was so much going on when he left his house yesterday—I woke up without him next to me and assumed he was up grabbing breakfast or in the shower. When he came back to his room and gave me his house key, we just sped right past the “here’s the key to my house” conversation we probably should have actually had. That we are absolutelygoingto have once he gets back.
I’m giving him grace, because yesterday was shit for him. My dad is losing his actual mind trying to figure everything out and figure out what steps they need to take in order to clear Rhodes’ name.
I should have told my dad weeks ago. I should have made Rhodes tell him.
Now, sitting alone at the rink, watching the ice stretch empty beneath the buzzing overhead lights, all I can think about is how much worse we let this get.
I let thewepart of that sentence hang in mid-air. We. Rhodes and I are a we. And I want to be part of that we. Fully. I’m all-in. But he can’t make a habit of disappearing like this, because I am clearly not taking being out of the loop well at all.
I’m worried for him. For his safety, especially if everything I’ve heard about his dad is true.
I cross my arms, staring at the scuffed-up surface. If I close my eyes, I can still hear my dad’s voice from this morning.
‘Did you know about this, Mo?’
I had barely stepped into his office before he was on me, his expression dark with frustration. I knew this was coming—I just hadn’t expected it to hit quite this hard.
I had shifted on my feet, guilt creeping up my spine.
‘Yeah, I knew. I thought he was going to tell you.’
Dad had scoffed, shaking his head. ‘Well, he didn’t. And now he’s in a hell of a lot of hot water, and there’s only so much I can do until the investigation is over.’
His voice had been clipped, the way it got when things were out of his control.
‘The commissioner is involved now, there is supposedly some kind of evidence they have to look into,’ he’d gone on. ‘I’m gonna lose my best player because he’s got pride growing out of his fucking ears and didn’t tell anyone his dad was back in the picture.’
I’d had nothing to say to that—because he hadn’t been wrong.
And now, we’re here. It could take weeks for the NHL’s investigation to conclude. I let out an audible sigh.
I’m startled when a voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“Hey, Monroe,” Beck says, sliding into the seat next to mine. I scoot over to give him some room. “I’m filling in for Rhodes today. I wasn’t sure if Elsie told you or not.”
She didn’t, but I assumed someone would, since Rhodes wasn’t even in Connecticut right now.
“Sure. No problem. Do you have Rhodes’ notes? I can walk you through how we usually run the practice. They’re getting pretty good now. You shouldn’t have to pick anyone up off the ice today.”
Beck chuckles. “Yeah, I looked them over. I’ll let you take the lead. Should be a fun couple of hours.”
We sit a beat in silence together as the clock ticks closer to the clinic start time.
He clears his throat before speaking next. “Don’t be too mad at him,” he says. “He means well. His execution is sometimes off, though. He’s not trying to piss people off.”
I let out a dry laugh. “I’m not mad. I’m…frustrated that he feels like he can’t talk to me. He just took off.”
“Yeah, well. If it helps, none of us got anything more than that, either. He’s a closed book about his dad. It’s taken me years to even know how bad it’s been. Sloane probably knows the most, honestly.”
“It does help a little,” I say quietly. “He gave me a key to his house.” I don’t know why I offer that information but it slips out. Beck smiles at the statement.
“He’s pretty far gone for you, Monroe. I don’t know if you can tell.”