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Reed jabs a finger at me. “The only fucking reason I haven’t pushed back is because with you and Wick on the line, we can probably take this whole thing.” He gives me a hard look. “Ifyou get your shit together.”

I hear what he’s saying. That there’s a chance to fix what happened before—when I failed the team by fucking up—no—by gettingcaught. Because that’s what all of this is about. Not the action of doing, but of getting busted. That’s the failure.

Coach leans back in his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. “Be straight with me, Pace, is this too much for you to handle?” He toys with the platinum ring on his right hand. A PNZ alumni ring. “It’s a lot of obligation, and your father’s expectations—”

“I can handle it,” I say quickly. Probably too quickly. “Just getting my bearings. They don’t have an ice rink down at the Forsyth Pen.” At the displeasure in his eyes, I assure, “But I’ve kept up my cardio and weight training. I’m fit. I’ll make it happen. Wicker and I can come in early for extra practice.”

Oh, Wick’s gonna love that.

There’s a moment of tense silence as he watches me, assessing. “I’m giving you one game—this weekend—to prove yourself. Otherwise, I’ve got other players with less baggage that can fill the spot.”

“And my father knows that?” I ask, not because I want to, but because it matters.

“It was his ultimatum.” A flicker crosses his face. Sympathy? Fuck.

Nodding, I say, “I understand.”

“Good.” He nods to the door, and I rise, my body aching from the punishing workout.

By the time I shower and change, everyone has already left, including Wicker. I walk outside, expecting him to be in the car, but the SUV is gone.

Instead, Father’s black Mercedes limo is idling at the curb.

His driver and security, a stout fucker named Frank, opens the door as I approach, and it doesn’t matter that no words are spoken. The command is crystal fucking clear.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath.

I get in the back, sitting across from Father. He’s in a white suit, as always. A drink in a crystal tumbler sits next to him and his gaze is cast down, looking over something on his phone. God forbid he looks me in the eye.

The driver starts the car, and once we’re moving, he continues tapping at his phone screen. My anxiety ratchets up, building with every passing minute, until I begin, “The mistakes I made today, those were my fault. I didn’t get enough sleep last night. I already spoke to Coach Reed about putting in additional effort, going in early and—"

Without looking up, he raises his hand, silencing me. After a few more taps of the screen, he pauses, taking a sip of his drink. “Since I made you my son, you’ve been afforded every opportunity—just like your brothers. The best schools. Excellent tutoring. Special coaching to cultivate your skills. You’re gifted in your own right, testing in the highest percentiles. You’ve also been given a specific type of leeway that comes from being an Ashby. A leeway I revoked when you were arrested.”

Father’s connections, his power and money, easily could have gotten me out of my charges. Or at the very least, I could have been given a slap on the wrist. But he decided to make an example of me. Not just to my brothers, but to East End. His wrath knows no bounds. Fail and you’ll be punished, name be damned.

“Once you paid the price for your indiscretions, I wanted to wash the slate clean. Give you back the privileges of being family. I made you a Prince–the highest honor of our house. I’m giving you a shot at creating the heir, which comes with a lifetime of rewards.” Before I can go through the motions of thanking him for this, he suddenly asks, “Do you know why I want you on the hockey team, Pace?”

Control.

The way he packs our schedules with obligations has always been about control for him.

But I reply, “No, sir,” and it’s not even a lie. I’m not sure why it’s hockey instead of any other bullshit job.

He muses, “You always took isolation exceptionally well. Wicker, of course, could never suffer it. Lex might have, but I don’t think I would have liked what it did to him. You, on the other hand…”

His eyebrows jump upward, probably remembering how well I took to some of his earliest punishments. There was never a dark hole Father forced on me that couldn’t be quickly adapted to. I crafted stories in my mind, keeping it sharp, and I was always able to find something to make fast friends with. Once, a tiny spider named Geraldine. Another time, a shiny beetle I called Shadow. One notable time, I managed to meet a couple of mice who I’d pretended were Wicker and Lex. I talked to them for days on end, and the next time I was put down there, they were still nesting in the vent, so I talked to them some more. I had so many conversations with those mice that I’d ended up forgetting which versions of Wicker and Lex I’d told this or that to. It’d confuse the fuck out of my real brothers whenever I’d pick up an old discussion they weren’t even there for.

Father sips his scotch. “But no Prince can rule alone. I need to know your time away hasn’t damaged your affinity for teamwork.”

The accusation makes hot indignation flare through me. “I can be part of a team,” I tell him, but it’s only half true. If the team is Wick and Lex, then it’s not a question. Being in prison didn’t change what we are to each other.

Humming, Father inspects his cube of ice through the crystal tumbler. “Am I mistaken, or have you made the Princess one of your little pet projects?”

I freeze. “Sir, I–” There’s no use denying it. That much I’m sure of.

He finally looks up, meeting my gaze. “Because if so, I approve.”

I glance around the cabin of the limo, as if someone might be lying in wait to garrote me. “You do?”