Towers rubs his temples. “This is a PR nightmare.”
“Only if you don’t fix it,” D-Vo says. “Reinstate Ava. Investigate Banks. Do the right thing.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we forfeit,” I say without hesitation. “And we’ll make damn sure everyone knows why.”
36
AVA
The arena is packed,and Emerson and I have to squeeze past a half-dozen Gliders fans to get to our seats. The puck will drop any minute now, and the Treehouse is electric. Chippy is sweeping the ice with a giant stuffed devil that’s the spitting image of the visiting team’s mascot, and the crowd is eating it up.
“This is insane!” Emerson shouts, raising her voice to be heard above the crowd noise.
“The radio said it was a sellout!”
It’s a first for the Gliders. Hopefully, the first of many.
I’m still in my feelings about getting fired, but I refuse to be bitter.
Or at least, not entirely.
I still have no interest in seeing my father, even from a distance, but Knox convinced me to come tonight. I’m not entirely sure it’s going to give me closure, but I want to support him. After all, it’s not like I can avoid the arena forever.
So, yeah. I’m at the Treehouse, I’ve got an ice-cold bevvy in my hand, and I’m rocking my new Gliders jersey.
The things we do for love.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Knox, and the realization has me grinning like a fool.
“What’s that smile?” Emerson wiggles her brows. “Does it have anything to do with the number eighty-six stitched on your back?”
My cheeks heat and I instinctively check to see if anyone’s listening. I can barely hear Emerson, so the odds are low.
Does it even matter anymore?
Not a bit, but I guess it’s force of habit.
“Which player is eighty-six?” I ask, tapping my chin with my pointer finger. “There are so many numbers that I get them all confused.”
Emerson rolls her eyes. “Fine. Play coy, but you’ll tell me eventually.”
She’s probably right, but not tonight. Just being here, in this arena, is taking its toll. I don’t have the energy to get into the rest of it.
Heck, I haven’t even told her I was fired yet.
Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and the last thing I want to do is spread my misery around. I’ll tell her after the holiday.
Emerson glances at the time on her smartwatch. “Wasn’t the game supposed to start at eight?”
“Yeah. What time is it?”
“Almost five after.” She frowns. “That’s weird. The NHL is usually fanatical about starting on time.”
She’d know better than I would. I may be immersed in the world of sports, but I’m a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to the details.
My gaze slides to the player’s tunnel.Empty. “Would they delay the start if someone was injured?”