Tomorrow will suck. But tonight, she comes first.
Chapter Thirty
Thorne
I'm awake before my alarm. Mollie is asleep on my chest, her red curls fanned out across my skin, her breathing slow and steady. She smells amazing, like vanilla and citrus, and I drag in a deep breath to fill my lungs with her scent.
Termination. Season-long suspension. Criminal charges. My name next to the word assault in every headline, forever
These are all terrifying. But I got the girl, didn’t I? That’s probably a fucked-up way of thinking about it.
Since last season ended, I've been on shaky ground with this team. The trade rumors. The Kuznetsov cross-training. My dad's podcast comments.
Every month has brought a new reason to worry that my time with the Havoc is running out. And now I’ve handed the front office the cleanest excuse they could ever ask for. A player who breaks a civilian's face in the team's own facility is a liability no organization wants to defend.
I should be panicking. And maybe part of me is. But underneath the dread there's something solid and immovable, like bedrock under sand.
I would do it again. Every punch. I wouldn't change a single thing.
Savard has worse coming to him.
I'm just glad Mollie is okay. That certainty is the only thing keeping me upright as I ease out from under her and get dressed.
My agent picks up on the first ring. He's been working the legal side for days and has talking points ready for the meeting. I call Beck next. He picks up, but barely speaks. The conversation is terse and painful; I hate every second of it.
"Will you come?" I ask.
"Yeah. Mollie’s my sister. You were defending her."
I exhale. “Thanks, man.”
He hangs up without saying another word, but hey. I'll take it.
I text my dad. He responds immediately withI'll be there, which is the most useful thing Mike Thorne has done for me in approximately fifteen years. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I’m willing to spend all my capital on this.
I kiss Mollie’s forehead while she's still asleep and leave a note on the nightstand that says I'll be back soon.
The drive to the facility feels like I'm heading to my own execution. I park in the lot and sit in my truck for a minute, staring at the building I've walked into almost every day for years. My face is on the billboards out front. The gift shop sells jerseys with my name on them. I'm the co-captain, the golden boy, the franchise face.
This is my worst nightmare. Not the punches, not the consequences. The loss of control over my ownstory. I've spent my entire career crafting the Alex Thorne narrative, and now it's in someone else's hands.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I get out of my truck and go inside, taking the elevator straight up to the executive offices.
My agent, Jack, meets me in the lobby, briefcase in hand, expression grim but professional. Beck is already there, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. He doesn't make eye contact with me, but he's here. That means something.
My throat tightens when I see him. I nod. He doesn't nod back, but he doesn't leave, either.
My dad arrives last, because of course he does. Expensive suit, silver-streaked hair, the easy confidence of a man who has spent his whole life walking into rooms and owning them. He claps my shoulder and says, "Let's get this handled, champ."
I want to shrug his hand off, but I don't. I need every ally I can get right now, even the ones I don't fully trust.
Jimbo's office is full. The owner is behind his desk, hands folded, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. The team's legal counsel sits in a chair to his left, with a legal pad and a face that says she's billing by the hour. Juliet is there, arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral. Coach Cross is there too, standing against the far wall like he's trying to decide whether to hug me or hit me.
Fair.
"Sit down, Thorne." Jimbo nods at the empty chairs.
