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The door clicks and instead of looking toward the door, I keep my focus on the photos behind his desk of Reed and him after we won the Frozen Four. There’s also one with Brooke’s dad in their playing days and another with his whole family.

Mr. Cross slaps the folder onto the desk, sits in his thick, tufted black leather chair, and leans forward on his elbows. “Basilio, what in the world have you gotten yourself into?”

For the first time in my life, I’m speechless. If I say what my father told me to, I’m probably out of the league. If I don’t, I wouldn’t put it past my father to have me injured or worse. Because it’s about his reputation. His needs.

“John, this is a serious allegation. One that can get you banned from the game,” he says as he pinches the bridge of his nose and releases a weighty sigh. “We have evidence that you threw a game. We were called by an anonymous source, and our investigation implies that you bet against your team.”

Anonymous?

The timing feels pointed. My dad always liked to pull strings—maybe this is his latest play because I walked away from Stella and the future he mapped out. He’s certainly capable, but the thought makes my skin crawl. As the idea takes root, I know what I need to do—save myself.

“I swear. I didn’t.”

He takes a photo from the folder and slides it across the desk with the league logo carved into the middle. Reluctantly, I pick it up, and it shows me in a Stallions ball cap—my favorite cap. The one I wear daily.

“Tell me the truth, and I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

“This is me, but it’s not what it looks like.”

“You’re placing a bet.”

He scoots another photo in front of me with the betting ticket enlarged.

“John, you bet on the opposing team that you were playing the next day. This is worse than Pete Rose. He bet on his own team and in my book, it should be fine to bet on your own team. To have faith in your team. But this… this is not that. This doesn’t look good.”

Why did I do this? I know why. Gain my father’s respect.

As I clench my teeth together, my anxiety soars while angerbubbles beneath the surface. Mr. Cross and the league investigators will pin this on me instead of the people responsible.

“Say something. Anything to convince me. Let me help you.”

There’s already been headlines in the hockey world, and all my current and most of my former teammates have reached out.

Why were you called to the league office?

Why are you missing a game this early in the season?

What the fuck is going on?This one was from Reed.

And Becca has called and texted, but I haven’t had the balls to talk to her. Not yet. I’d rather know my fate first.

Humiliated, I say, “Do I need a lawyer?”

“It depends on what you’ve done.”

“I made the bet, but I didn’t throw the game.”

“Why, John? Why?” He blows out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “I can’t control the narrative if you don’t give me your side of the story.”

I clutch the arms of the chair, angry that my father got me into this mess, and I would be willing to bet he played a hand in it. When I told him I had been ordered to the commissioner’s office on game day, he didn’t seem surprised.

The next day, I’m back on the ice with my teammates. Hawley, among others, want to know why I saw the commissioner. I brush off their questions exactly how Mr. Cross told me to.

“He’s going to honor my dad at the All-Star Game. Please keep it a secret. He wants my dad to be surprised and said I better play well enough to make the All-Star team, so my dad has a reason to be there.”

Hawley takes me at face value, but I see the sarcastic curl of Palici and Canup’s lips. They’re not buying it, but they keep their reservations to themselves. I ignore the ongoing text chain from the Stallions.

Reed: There’s no way my dad brought you to the office to plan what amounts to a party.