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Or the promises a twelve-year-old boy made to an ailing grandfather brings guilt at the prospect of breaking them?
Snap out of it, Morton.I flex my fingers and shake off the restlessness. There’s only one way to escape the shadow of Morton Textiles: to shine so brightly on the ice that no one can ignore it.
“Blake Morton, NHL star”—it has a nice ring to it. Better than “corporate mogul,” anyway. But can I turn my back on everything my family built? Can I live with the disappointment in my father’s eyes if I choose the team over the desk? Can I let down a ghost?
“Only one way to find out,” I whisper into the empty corridor, determination settling in my bones. Dad will have to wait. Right now, it’s all about the game. And nothing—not even family—will keep me from the ice.
The whistle pierces the thick tension, signaling the end of practice. I catch Coach Howell’s gaze from across the rink. His expression is unreadable as he motions for me to follow. I steel my insides as the other guys throw curious glances my way.
“Again, Morton?” Drew mutters as he skids past me, one eyebrow cocked. I shrug, muscles tensing, knowing that whatever Coach has to say won’t be small talk about the weather.
“It’s probably just team captain stuff.”
Drew smirks. “Sure. It has nothing to do with being a terror on the ice today.”
“I take it dinner didn’t go well.” Ryan lifts his shirt and wipes his face.
“Dinner was fine,” I lie. No way am I telling them the bombshell Dad laid down. That’s a total buzz kill the team doesn’t need. Besides, I don’t want anyone to know my fate. If word got out about my three-year plan, no team would sign me at graduation.
Yet, you told Amanda without hesitation.
“Did the poor girl survive your mom?” Easton asks, leaning on his stick, ears attuned.
Jesus. What is this, a hen party?
“Of course. She was in the presence of greatness. Why wouldn’t she be?” I skate past him and head to the exit.
“You came back kind of early. You didn’t have that much fun,” Andrew says to my back. I flip him off.
“I don’t kiss and tell, boys.” I internally cringe. It was meant as a joke but came out sounding douche-like. And how Ryan’s back went ram-rod straight, I know the joke didn’t land right.
“Since when?” Drew asks.
“Since now. I need to talk to Coach.”
I leave the guys and find Coach standing by the door to his office, fingers drumming against the glass pane as he waits for me. Every step toward him feels like wading through slush, heavy and resistant. I’m clueless about what this meeting is about.
“Close the door,” he says when I step inside. No pleasantries.
I comply, the click of the latch echoing in the cramped space. His office is a shrine to hockey glory—trophies glinting on shelves, pictures of victorious moments frozen in time on the walls. But today, they all seem to loom over me, reminders of the weight riding on my shoulders this season. Things I want to accomplish, but just out of reach.
“Take a seat,” he motions towards the chair opposite his cluttered desk, where play diagrams vie for space with recruitment letters.
“Any reason you were going after it extra hard today?” he asks, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlaced over a gut that speaks of years spent on the sidelines rather than the ice.
I remain standing as restless energy courses through me. “I just want a winning season, sir.”
“I’m glad you mentioned that.” He leans forward, elbows on the desk. “You know how critical this year is, being it’s our first in Division One. We’ve got scouts sniffing around, not to mention the donors. They want a show. They want a leader. That’s where you come in.”
I nod, unsure where he’s going with this.
“You know we have the charity Gala coming up. This means we need to stay scandal-free. Maybe keep the extracurricular activities to a minimum.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“You’re monitoring my sex life now?”
“Fuck.” He leans back and lets out a low-sounding grunt. “I knew this would come out sounding bad.”
