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“Plans change,” Mr. Morton cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument. Gone is the carefree guy when we first met, only to be replaced by what I presume to be Mr. Morton’s business persona.
I watch Emily’s eyes flick to Blake’s, a silent conversation passing between them. Her fingers tap a coded message against her wineglass, and it’s like they’re both bracing for impact. I have no clue what’s going on. My mind is still stuck on his “fun with hockey” comment. Is that why they didn’t attend the games this weekend? Because they don’t take it seriously?
“Plans can change back,” Blake retorts, the edge in his voice baring his frustration without raising his volume. But he’s reeling inside.
I swallow, the food now tasteless, as I witness this family dance of power and rebellion.
“Blake, we’ve invested—” Mr. Morton starts coughing, unable to finish his sentence.
“Father, you have me to assist with the business. Blake has other aspirations, just as valid.” Emily’s voice is smooth, like satin sheets.
Mr. Morton’s face reddens, a vein bulging at his temple as he presses a cloth napkin against his lips. Another cough racks through him. He muffles the harsh sound with the linen.
“Your brother has responsibilities,” he manages between hacks, straightening up but still wheezing. “To this family. To its legacy.” He turns back to Blake. “Your hobby’s had enough time.”
It takes everything in me to hold back a gasp. Hobby? Did he really call Cessna’s U’s most valuable hockey player’s sport a hobby?
“Playing for Cessna isn’t some pastime,” Blake retorts, his tone level but firm. “It’s preparation.”
“Preparation?” The word falls out of Richard’s mouth like a physical blow, and I wonder how many countless debates they’ve had over this topic.
“Emily understands. Don’t you?” Blake shifts his gaze to his sister.
She nods, a silent show of solidarity, her fork tracing patterns on her plate, yet she doesn’t dare speak. Not again. Her silence is her statement, loud and clear.
I bite my lip, tasting the salt of anxiety as the air thickens with unspoken words and expectations. But I’m shocked. From what Ryan has told me, Blake is already drafted. Sure, he has to prove himself to be called to the league, but he’s on the right path. And it’s so obvious the guy lives and breathes hockey. It’s his passion.
The Morton dining room is a battlefield, with me caught in the crosshairs. I want to defend Blake as he tries to maintain control. To tell his father this man with his floppy hair and passion for ice doesn’t belong in a boardroom. Those types of men are different. Sure, they’re every bit as alpha as an athlete, but they don’t have the same adrenaline drive. Their drive is different. More cut-throat. A person doesn’t become a team leader by being selfish. And every businessperson I’ve encountered is shrewd and self-centered.
“Blake has potential that extends beyond sports,” Emily finally says. She swirls the wine in her glass, the crimson liquid catching the soft light. “And I believe he deserves the chance to explore it.”
Her statement hangs in the air, a challenge to the status quo. She leans back, despite her back as rigid as Mr. Morton’s gaze.
“Potential?” Richard snorts, his disdain palpable. “Hockey’s a young man’s game. What happens when it’s over? He needs something concrete. Like what we built.”
“Concrete can crumble,” Blake counters. His gaze locks with mine for an moment, fierce and pleading, before flicking back to his father. His hand finds the edge of the table.
“Your sister had her head on straight from day one,” Richard continues, his voice rising like the crescendo of a symphony I desperately want to mute. “She got her degree and joined the business. That’s how you contribute to a legacy.”
“Emily made her choice; I’m making mine,” Blake fires back, but there’s a tremor in his stance, a crack in his armor.
Richard’s face reddens, anger blooming like a dark cloud ready to burst. He rises abruptly, knocking his chair back with a clatter that echoes through my bones. The coughing returns with a vengeance, each hack slicing through the tension.
“Are you okay, Dad?” Emily’s composure slips, concern etching her features as she stands, reaching out a hand that hovers uncertainty.
“Fine,” Richard gasps between coughs, waving her off. “It’s just a cold.”
“Damn it.” The words are barely a whisper. Blake drops his head into his hands, fingers threading through tousled dark hair. His shoulders shake—whether with rage or despair, I can’t tell. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Dad, but we had a deal. You like negotiations, how’s this? The Gala and skills tournament are coming up in December. If I win, then you agree to our original terms. If I lose”—he takes a shaky breath—“then I won’t sign with the team and come work for you after graduation.”
I can barely breathe as the crystal chandeliers blur into stars above while I wait for Mr. Morton’s answer. Richard gains control of his breathing and sits back down, eyes never straying from his son.
“Fine. December it is, then.” He slams his fist down. “But you’ll come into the office to intern.”
“I have practice and school?—”
“Either that or no deal.”
“Fine. It’s a deal.” The scrape of Blake’s chair against the hardwood is sharp, a final note in an unfinished symphony. And I’m left there, gripping my fork like a lifeline, baffled that his dad fails to see his son’s potential and the lack of support from his mother.
