“No,” I said. “That’s positioning.”
My phone buzzed. My dad. I’d avoided him since the fundraiser, and I had no interest in walking into whateverversion of disappointment he’d decided to rehearse. I hit decline.
A second vibration followed immediately from my brother.
Drew:Dad heard Dunn’s digging into Adriana. He thinks it’s going to splash back on you. He’s pissed.
Me:He wasn’t even there.
Drew:Doesn’t matter. Someone filled him in. He wants a conversation.
I stared at the screen for a second.
Me:I can handle him.
Drew:Not tonight. He’s wound tight. Let me run interference.
Me:How bad?
Drew:Bad enough that you should make yourself scarce. I’ll hold him off as long as I can.
Me:Fine. Keep me posted.
Drew:Will do.
I set the phone face down on the table.
Jax gestured to the fries. “Can we forget the bullshit around us for five minutes and go back to being hockey gods?”
Chase smirked. “You mean like we’ll be when we face Crestview?”
I laughed. “Every fucking time. I can’t wait to wipe the floor with Mason.” He was their star player, their hammer—the guy who’d throw an elbow behind the play then flash a grin, pretending he hadn’t just rattled your molars.
We slipped into hockey like muscle memory—Crestview’s weak flank, Mason’s cheap shots, who needed to tighten up before playoffs. Theo broke down matchups like he’d already watched game tape twice. Chase argued about ice time, insisting nobody was riding the bench too long. Jax promised he’d drop gloves if Crestview tried to get cute.
For a few minutes, it felt normal.
But the possible information from Marcus about Darren using another name sat heavy in my mind.
By the time I got home, the house was dim when I stepped inside, wind rattling faintly off the ocean. Voices carried from the sitting room.
“If you want the board’s confidence,” my mother’s voice cut through, “this is the moment to prove yourself.”
“He’s my brother,” Drew responded evenly.
“Then protect him from himself.”
I stepped into the doorway. Dad stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, his phone still in his hand. The screen lit briefly before it went dark—Lorne’s name still visible at the top of the call log. The TV flickered silently in the background. He didn’t look surprised to see me.
“Dunn called this afternoon,” he said instead of hello. “He claims he has documentation linking Adriana Callahan to internal investigation. He’s implying you’ve attached this family to something volatile.”
“It’s fabricated.”
“That’s irrelevant.” His gaze narrowed. “Perception is leverage.”
“Mila’s not a liability.”
“She’s a variable,” he corrected. “And variables cost money.”