Balling my fists, I mentally count to ten.
“Relax, Iverson, it’s just a joke.” He waves to someone.
Carlson’s palm lands on my shoulder. “Let’s go get a drink.”
Grabbing a drink at the bar, Carlson and I soon find ourselves in the garden. Fairy lights drape along every surface. A fresh, floral scent melds with the hint of the rainstorm forecast to roll in overnight. Music floats through the gardens from the string quartet playing in the atrium inside.
It is utterly romantic and instead of taking this in with Pen in my arms, I’m standing at one of the many high-tops positioned around the gardens with my coach. A man whom I admire and would do anything for. A man that I’d disappointed, even if I did it for him.
“I hear you’ve been at the training center almost daily during the off-season,” Carlson says, his fingers tap against his glass of Scotch.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He raises his glass to his mouth and sips.
“I’m…” The thump of my heart drowns out the quiet, murmured conversations around us. “I’m focused on the game. I’m ready for this season.”
“Once your five-game suspension is over, you mean.”
“Yes.” My eyes remain on his, and I swallow thickly. “I know if I hadn’t got a penalty in the last two minutes, Toronto may not have scored, and I’d have been playing, rather than in the box. I’m sorry I let the team down… let you down.”
His steely stare assesses. “I could give two fucks about that. We were at game seven because of you and Silverberg. You two carried the team all season. What I do care about is what happened after the game. Are you sorry about that?”
I’m two months north of what happened. The smart answer is “yes.” It’s what Sasha and Greg advise. It’s what any smart man would do, lie.
“No.”
“Disappointing.” It’s almost a snarled breath.
“I know.” My gaze falls to my pint glass.
“I’ve known you since you were eighteen. You’re scrappy, but you’re an honorable man, a good man. Not the beast that I saw seething with anger, a man whose teammates had to pull off Landon.”
Eyes closed, the images of that moment flood back. Blood trickling from Landon’s nose as he lay sprawled on the ice, his face twisted in angry shock. My teammates holding me back as I growl, “If you dare, I’ll end you,” while Toronto players jump into the fray.
“You worry about disappointing me, what about disappointing yourself? That’s why I’m angry. These aren’t the actions of the man I know.”
Pain radiates in my chest, and I rub against its tightness, hoping to quell it. I know why I did what I did and why I can never tell him.
“Guess you’re lucky that despite your zero remorse for your actions, Landon has chosen the high road. He may be a smug bastard at times, but you could learn a thing or two from him about being a good man.”
“You have that the wrong way around, Daddy. Landon can learn how to be a good man from Rowan.” Liv’s shaky voice yanks our focus. She stands, wringing her hands, beside Pen, who squeezes her bare shoulder.
His head tilts. “What does that mean?”
With an encouraging smile, Pen nods at Liv, who looks between her and her father.
“Daddy, remember how I told you about the guy I was seeing at the end of the semester.”
“The halfwit you said ghosted you and you didn’t want to talk about him?” His eyes darken like a stormy sky.
“Liv, you don’t?—”
“But I do, Rowan” she cuts me off. “I don’t know how you knew it was him, but I knew the moment you punched him that you’d figured it out. That you’d done it because of me.”
“Who? What is she…” Carlson’s face twists with fury. “Landon? It was Landon Phillips?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m so stupid. I thought he really liked me but?—”
