Since our next game is at home, I don’t want to risk that. Coach Roake acted like he walked on water, and I was once again reminded of the complex power my father holds. It goes far beyond his domain of New York.
I don’t know if there’s a place his influence can’t reach.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Greyson,” he greets me. Brisk and businesslike, even though it’s nine o’clock at night. “How was practice?”
“Good.” It’s a reflex to answer that way. I was distracted, so… not so good.
“Really? Because I got a call tonight, informing me that my son was almost thrown off the ice.”
Oh, that. Well, Erik should really keep his fucking trap shut when it comes to Violet. He made some passing comment about her, and I went off the deep end. I’m sure as hell not admitting that to my father, though.
“If it’s team trouble, you need to clear that up by the weekend.”
Obviously. “We got it sorted,” I lie.
Unlike Violet, I actually know how to lie. Well enough to trick my father to his face? Probably not. But the phone is a barrier that makes it easier to pull the wool over his eyes. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“That Reece girl is leaving you alone?”
I cringe and almost drop my phone. “Um…”
“I haven’t seen the merit of hockey,” he continues. “But I have several donors who are following your game closely. We’re planning on attending the tournament finals in April—so your team better be there. Roake mentioned that some teams have been scouting you?”
I’m suffering from a case of mental whiplash. From Violet to donors to scouts.
“Yes. A few have come to speak with Coach and me after the games.”
He hums. “Good, good.”
“Why did you ask about Violet?”
He hesitates.
I stand suddenly, my stomach twisting. Violet. Donors. Scouts. “What did you do, Dad?”
“I’m not talking about this.” He harrumphs. “You focus on playing well for Crown Point University, son, because the real world will kick you in the nutsac if you’re not ready for it.”
Great imagery. “I’m ready.”
“Prove it byfocusingon what’s important.” He pauses. “Hockey. Your grades. That’s it.”
He did something. I can feel it in my gut—but he’s not going to fess up to it.
“Oh, and Greyson?”
I stop myself from hanging up on him.
“You’ll be home next week. Spring break. We’re celebrating.” He sounds… pleased with himself. “I’ll send a car.”
A car to take me on a five-hour drive back to my hometown of Rose Hill. Me and a driver and nothing but awkward silence—and music, if we’re lucky. Sometimes they play shitty stuff, or my headphones get stowed in the trunk by accident.
I find myself nodding, wondering what I can do to get out of it. I don’t need to go home—it isn’t like I live in a dorm that’s closing. CPU actually doesn’t offerthatmuch on-campus housing. I’d bet most of the students will be sticking around for the week-long break.
“Sounds great,” I agree, mainly to not suffer an argument. Another one. My gaze swings over my bookcase… and the hole in the neat row of spines. My heart stops. “I’ve got to go,” I manage. “Homework.”
“Get to it.” The line goes dead before I can hang up. If there’s one thing my father is skilled at, it’s having the last word.