My agent sits up. "Jim?—"
"One game, Jack. That's the disciplinary measure for assaulting a civilian on team property. It's not negotiable."
"One game," I repeat.
Jimbo leans forward and looks me dead in the eye. "I would've done the same thing, Thorne. Every man in this room knows it. But this organization has to show that violence has consequences. Even when the other guy deserves worse."
One game. Not a firing. Not a season-long suspension. One game. I can do that.
"Thank you," I say. I mean it more than I've meant anything in a long time.
My agent wraps up the legal details with the team's counsel. Beck shakes Jimbo's hand and leaves without looking at me, which still hurts, but less than it did five days ago. Juliet squeezes Mollie's arm on her way out. Coach Cross gives me a look that says ‘we'll talk later’ and then he's gone too.
The room empties until it's just me, Mollie, and my dad.
Mollie reads the room with that quiet intelligence she has and excuses herself. "I'll be in the hallway." She touches my arm as she passes and my dad clocks it immediately, his eyes tracking the gesture the way he tracks everything.
The door closes and it's just the two of us. Father and son, standing in someone else's office, neither of us knowing how to start.
My dad breaks first. "I know Savard."
That pulls me up short. "What?"
"Jean-Luc Savard. We came up in the same circles. Pacific Northwest hockey, back before his knee blew out and he switched to coaching." My dad rubs his jaw. "He was always a piece of work. There were whispers about him and younger women even back then. Nothing anyone acted on, but the kind of reputation that made certain guys stop inviting him around."
My hands curl at my sides. "And you never thought to mention it?"
"Calm down, son. I knew he was still in the Pacific Northwest, but…" My dad meets my eyes and for once he doesn't flinch away from what he sees there. "There’s no way I could have put it together."
“Well, if that’s all.” My expression tightens. “Then thanks, I guess.”
“Alex.” Dad hesitates, then says, "I spent thirty years making sure every room I walked into knew my name. Built the legacy, built the foundation, got the Hall of Fame nod. But I never once asked what you needed." He swallows. "I'm asking now."
I pin him with a hard glare. It's thirty fucking years too late, and we both know it. My dad will say the right thing today and probably forget it by next week, because that's his pattern.
I've watched it play out my entire life.
But he showed up this morning without being asked twice. He walked into a boardroom and stood behind me. He's standing here now, saying imperfect words in his imperfect way.
I don't forgive him. I'm not ready for that. Hell, I might never be.
But I do nod. Small and heavy, the same kind of nod Beck gave me in the parking lot. It carries more weight than anything I could say right now. “I’ll let you know what I need.”
My dad nods back. Then he straightens his jacket and walks out, because Mike Thorne has never once known how to stay in a room for a second later than he has to be.
I stand in Jimbo's empty office, alone. The morning light comes through the blinds in long stripes across the carpet. My hand throbs in the splint. My jaw still aches from Beck's punch. Somewhere in this building, the maintenance crew is probably still cleaning Savard's blood off the rubber mats.
One game, though. I can live with one game. Especially when I get her at the end of it all.
Mollie is leaning against the hallway wall when I come out, scrolling her phone. She looks up and searches my face. "How'd it go with your dad?"
I shrug. "He asked what I needed."
Her eyebrows rise. "That's new."
"Yeah." I take her hand with my good one. "We’ll see. At least no punches were thrown."
We walk out of the building together. The parking lot is bright with morning sun and the air smells like September, clean and sharp. The season starts in two weeks. My hand is busted. My best friend can barely look at me. My dad is still my dad.
