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“That’s putting a lot of pressure on yourself.”
He tips his head to the side, cocky grin in place. “Babe, I’m all about the pressure.”
“Arrogant.” I shake my head, but my tone is teasing. Admittedly, it’s good to have confident Blake back.
“Fuck, I can’t believe I walked out.” He laughs and steps toward his car.
“Is that a no-no?”
He stops walking and looks at me. “You don’t walk out on a Morton.”
“Well, you just did.”
He shrugs. “I’ll apologize later.” His smile widens before slipping into a serious expression. Conflicted eyes bore into mine, and I’m swept into an ocean of uncertainty and determination. The weight of his dreams, the burden of his family’s expectations, is palpable in his gaze. But underneath it all, there’s a flicker of rebellion, a spark that refuses to be extinguished.
“Thanks for being here. Going through that. It helped to have an ally.”
“Anytime, Blake.” And I genuinely mean it. We’ll return to being acquaintances tomorrow, but I’m glad to have been here for him. Blake may be king of his castle, but there is always an Achilles heel with all kings. His weakness happens to be an old-fashioned family tradition.
CHAPTERNINE
BLAKE
The bladeof my stick cuts through the rink like a sharp exhale fogging before me. I’m slamming pucks into the net with more force than necessary, each slap shot a silent scream echoing off the arena walls. Dad’s words ricochet in my head: “It’s time to hang up those skates and join the real world, Blake.”
“Easy there, Duke,” one of my teammates calls out, his voice bouncing across the ice. He’s got a point. I’m gunning these shots like they’ve personally offended me.
“Practice isn’t for your mommy and daddy issues,” another chimes in, a grin on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They know something’s up; they always do after a weekend dinner. What they don’t know is how close to home the comment hit.
I send another puck flying, harder this time. It smacks the back of the goal with a satisfying thud. This is it—the year I set to prove myself. With team scouts watching, I either make it or break it. I want to go pro with every fiber of my being. Hell, I need it.
But guilt gnaws at me, relentless as a dog with a bone. Morton Textile, Inc. looms over me like a shadow. A legacy heavy on my shoulders.
And a promise made to a dying man.
“Nice focus, Morton!” Coach’s call sounds distant.
If he only knew.
I skate around defenders, muscles coiled tight. I deke left, fake right, shoot and score. It’s instinct, muscle memory, and years of training, but my mind is miles away, tangled in impending board meetings and balance sheets instead of goals and assists.
“Nice shot,” someone slaps my shoulder, pulling me back to the now and to the practice.
“Thanks.” My voice is flat, even to my own ears. I push off, gliding away from the group, my reflection a blur against the slick surface.
“Legacy” isn’t just a word; it’s chains. Chains that bind me to a desk, a title, a life I never asked for. But then there’s the ice, this team, and how my heart pounds against my chest when I sprint down the lane—alive, free, untamed.
I will win the skills tournament and prove myself yet again.
Maybe then, Dear Old Dad will take what I do seriously.
“Come see me after practice, Morton!” Coach’s voice pulls me back again. Always back to the present.
“Sure, Coach,” I manage between breaths, tightening my grip on the stick. I’m here, in the moment, where I belong.
And yet, the weight remains, threatening to pull me under, away from this dream of mine. Away from the thrill of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the sweet sting of cold air in my lungs as I race towards the goal.
“Family first,” they say. But what if your family’s dreams aren’t your own? What if the path they paved feels more like a prison than a privilege?
