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“Oh, well that’s nice.” Mom smiles at me, but doesn’t follow up with any other questions. Smart lady, my mom.
“Is she here? We’d love to meet her.” The emphasis my dad places onshemakes the question sound vaguely aggressive. I slowly count down from five before I answer.Five…four…three…two…one…
“No.”
“Mm.” Dad breathes out hard from his nose, adjusting the lapel of his suit in an agitated manner. “Well, perhaps you’d do better with less distractions at home. Focus on hockey and win more games.”
“I don’t have any distractions at home.” My jaw is aching, and I realize I’ve been clenching my teeth.
“Good. Because you know how easy it is to ruin your career.” His hand is curled in a fist at his side, and I wonder if he even knows it. He knows I’m not seeing a woman and it’s driving him crazy not to be able to react the way he wants to.
“Who’s ruining their career?”
I stiffen at Nigel’s voice and for the first time, I wish him gone. He steps up beside me, close enough for his sleeve to brush mine. I have to physically restrain myself from moving away from him.
“Ah, St. James. Nice to meet you, son.” For the second time tonight, one of my teammates treats my dad’s outstretched hand like it’s attached to a corpse.
“I’m not your son.” Nigel corrects him, mildly, shaking Dad’s hand and smiling in a way that threatens violence. I close my eyes, briefly, and reevaluate my decision not to drink.
Nigel
Corwin is standing so rigid, it looks like he’s got a 2x4 shoved down the back of his tux. The tension rolling off him is noxious. It’s miraculous the entire room can’t feel it. I have to slide my free hand into my pocket to keep from reaching for his.
I nod to Corwin’s mom, pointedly ignoring his dad. “Good evening, Mrs. Sanhover. You look lovely.”
When I first met Corwin six years ago, I’d wondered from where he’d inherited his beauty. Nobody could accuse Mitch Sanhover of being a looker. Now, it’s clear they came entirely from his mother: same rich brown hair, aquamarine eyes, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. When she smiles, it doesn’t meet her eyes—something she doesn’t share with her son, thankfully.
“Thank you. I’ve enjoyed watching you this season; you play well with Corwin.” She tells me.
“Yes, we make a good team,” I agree. Next to me, Corwin makes a small motion with his shoulder like he’s rolling off an injury. I glance over at him and there is a vacant, dead-eyed look on his face, like he’s not even present. It sends a small shiver of fear down my spine. He looks nothing like the relaxed, happy Corwin of this morning.
The other partygoers seem to part around us, nobody breaching our little circle. I can see Lawson taking photos, shooting glances our way; when he catches my eye he nods, grimacing. I wonder where Volstrom has gotten to—perhaps he’s the first to escape, sneaking away while the rest of us are occupied.
“How do you feel about your prospects for next season?” Corwin’s dad asks me. “You’re a free agent under your current contract, if I’m not mistaken?”
I don’t know how he managed it after only just meeting me, but he certainly knows how to hit where it hurts. Corwin turns his head toward me and I catch his eye; I wish I hadn’t. For just a moment he looks anguished, before he remembers to keep his expressions on lockdown. I want to tell him not to worry, and that I’m not going anywhere.
“I’d like to stay in South Carolina.” I respond to his dad, while still looking at Corwin. The words are for him.
“You think they’ll offer an extended contract, do you?” There is an unmistakable sneer to the words, like he knows something I don’t. Corwin and I break eye contact at the same time, looking over at his dad.
“There’s no reason to suspect they won’t.” Corwin tells him, in a careful monotone.
“St. James isn’t the kind of guy you keep around for the long run, and management knows it. They wanted him for a year, so they signed him for a year. Trust me, they won’t keep him around. That’s the business.” His tone is dripping with condescension. Like Corwin is a child who has no idea how things are done in the adult world.
I’m going to fucking deck this guy in the middle of a charity event. It pisses me off that he’s saying things I’ve been thinking. Like he reached into my head and plucked out everything I’ve been worried about since things with Corwin started getting serious. Beside me, Corwin shifts in agitation, pulling at the collar of his shirt like he can’t breathe.
“Honey, stop doing that or you’ll make a mess of your bowtie.” His mom chides him. He drops his hand back to his side immediately.
I wish Janine Porter would come back, tell us she needs us for photos or signing checks. Fucking anything. I open my mouth to suggest we join Lawson when Corwin’s dad speaks over me.
“I’m going to go get another drink. Put in some extra work on your wrist shot, boy. You’re a weaker player this season; you don’t want them to think you’ve already peaked. And you, St. James, enjoy your time in South Carolina.”Oh, fuck you. I force a smile and nod, staying silent, not trusting myself to say something appropriate.
As he walks away, he pats his son on the back in a way that might have been paternal if Corwin didn’t trip forward a step as though he was shoved. I swear I see red—it was completely unwarranted, using that much force. He did it on purpose, knowing Corwin was uncomfortable and probably had his knees locked, meaning he would have to overcompensate to keep from stumbling. I reach for him, but drop my hand at the last second, remembering where we are and who we’re with. Corwin doesn’t see the movement, but rights himself and runs a hand down the front of his jacket, smoothing it.
“Bye, Dad.” He mumbles, but Mitch Sanhover is already gone, retreating toward the far end of the room where the bar is located. I hope he chokes on it.
I take a minute step toward Corwin, still careful not to touch him. His mom looks at the space between us, sharp eyes measuring the distance.
