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The puck glides across the ice, sharp and smooth, just like we practiced. I shove past the defenseman, my stick catching the puck clean as I pivot, aiming for the top shelf.

“Move your ass, Grayson!” Coach yells from the bench.

I don’t need the reminder. My body moves on instinct, my muscles screaming but alive. The goalie lunges, but he’s too slow. The puck snaps past him and slams into the net with a satisfying thud.

The crowd explodes, and I skate straight into the team to celebrate. Then I glance into the stands, my eyes locking on the top row, center aisle.

My dad’s there, same as always, arms crossed and that intense look on his face. He’s not cheering like everyone else. He never does. His approval isn’t loud. It’s in the sharp nod, the way his jaw tightens like he’s saying, That’s it, Eli. That’s how you get to the show.

And he’s right. Every play, every shot, every second counts. The NHL doesn’t hand out contracts to slackers.

“Told you, man!” Logan, my left winger, skates up, slapping my helmet. “They’re eating shit out there. We’ve got this.”

I smirk. “Just keep up.”

The ref’s whistle blows, and we line up for the face-off. My mind’s buzzing with plays, angles, what’s next. But out of nowhere, the energy shifts.

The crowd isn’t roaring anymore. There’s shadowed movement and scattered yelling in the crowd.

The puck drops, but I don’t react. My head jerks up, back to the stands. The movement comes from a few uniformed men, hungry to get to someone.

“What the fuck is going on?” I say, watching people yelling at the police.

Logan skates closer. “What’s going on?”

My eyes lock on the commotion. Two cops. Uniforms crisp, expressions cold. They’re climbing the steps, pushing through the crowd, and…

Dad?

It’s him. He’s standing now, towering like always, but his hands...they’re behind his back. Handcuffs gleaming under the shitty stadium lights.

“No,” I breathe. It’s like the ice under my skates tilts.

The cops are dragging him, barely giving him a chance to move on his own. People are pointing, whispering. Some are filming.

“Eli!” Coach’s voice slices through the chaos. “Eyes on the puck!”

Fuck the puck.

I shoot toward the bench, ignoring my team’s confused shouts.

“Grayson! Where the hell are you going?” Coach barks, but I’m already ripping my helmet off as I leap over the boards.

The crowd blurs around me. I shove past people, my skates thudding on the ground as I hit the corridor. My chest heaves, breaths jagged and sharp.

“Dad!” I shout, sprinting toward them.

The officers barely glance at me. One’s reading him his rights, monotone and detached. The other’s got a firm grip on his arm.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, shoving between them and my dad. “What are you doing?”

“Step back, kid,” the shorter cop says, his hand twitching near his belt. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Bullshit! That’s my dad!”

Dad finally looks at me. His face is unreadable, but his voice is calm. Too calm. “Eli, go back to the game.”

“Like hell I will!” My voice cracks, loud and raw. “What’s going on? What’d you do?”

“Not here.” His tone sharpens, his eyes cutting through me. “Go back.”

“No!” My voice is breathless. “What the fuck is happening?”

The taller cop sighs, clearly annoyed. “Mr. Grayson is being taken in for questioning. That’s all we can say right now.”

“Questioning for what?” I snap.

“Step back,” the shorter one warns again, his voice colder now.

Dad leans in, his voice dropping low. “Eli. This isn’t the place.”

“Where the hell is the place, huh?” My throat tightens, but I keep talking. “You’re being dragged out in cuffs! In front of everyone! At my fucking game!”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer.

The cops start moving again, dragging him with them.

“Wait!” I grab at his arm, but the taller one shoves me back.

“That’s enough!”

I stumble but catch myself, my vision tunneling.

“Dad!”

He doesn’t look back this time.

The cold air hits me as I burst out of the arena, chasing after them. The squad car is parked right at the curb, lights flashing. People are gathering, murmuring. I shove through them, not caring who I knock into.

My dad stops, turning just as the cop opens the car door. His face is hard, but his eyes are tired.

“You’ve got a game to finish,” he says quietly.

“Fuck the game!” My voice cracks. “You’re all I have! Are you going away for a long time?”

When his gaze softens, it feels like this is the last time I’m going to see him. My eyes narrow, unable to sift through these thick emotions coursing through me. After everything that happened with Mom, and now this? I knew he was a manipulative asshole, but I underestimated how much.

The cop nudges him forward. “Time to go.”

Dad ducks into the car without another word. It’s almost an answer. The way he can’t meet my eyes, the way he’s staring forward too prideful to admit his current shame, and the way I’m left in the dark just like with everything.

I stand here, frozen. The car pulls away, the red and blue lights spinning, and I’m left in the middle of the chaos, people staring, whispering, and recording.

“Eli!” Logan’s voice cuts through the noise. He jogs up, still in full gear, his face twisted in confusion. “Dude, what the hell just happened?”

I don’t answer. My jaw clenches as I look at the night sky.

This is some sick fucking joke from the universe or God himself, isn’t it?

First my mom leaves me in this shitty lifetime, now my dad will be behind bars for who knows how long.

What’s next? It better not be hockey because then I’ll start murdering motherfuckers.

I turn and head back inside, ignoring the questions, the looks, the coach’s furious shouting.

Because I don’t give a shit about this game right now. My dad’s in cuffs, and I need answers.

I rip off my gear like it’s on fire, slamming each piece into the duffel. My hands are shaking so bad I almost miss the zipper. My jersey’s stuck halfway over my head, and I yank it so hard I hear the seam pop. Whatever.

Logan lingers at the locker room door. “Dude, you’re really leaving? Coach is gonna lose his shit. He has you covered for second period, but he’s gonna expect you get back out there.”

“Let him lose his shit,” I snap, slinging the bag over my shoulder. “I don’t care.”

He whistles low. “Alright.”

“My dad just got dragged out of the arena in handcuffs,” I bark, shoving past him. “You think I’m sticking around to play grab-ass on the ice?”

“Shit. Sorry, man.”

I don’t respond. The parking lot’s almost empty, just a few stragglers heading inside for the second period. My car’s parked at the far end, a sleek black Porsche my dad surprised me with when I turned twenty-one. I toss my bag into the trunk, slamming it shut harder than I mean to.

I slide into the driver’s seat and punch the ignition button. The engine roars to life, but it doesn’t calm the storm in my head.

I grab my phone, scrolling to Mr. Coleman’s number. Dad’s lawyer. He’s always handled our shit.

“Come on,” I mutter as it rings. Once. Twice. Straight to voicemail.

“Fuck!” I throw the phone onto the passenger seat.

Okay. Think. Who else?

Ms. Loretta. Dad’s assistant. She knows everything — every meeting, every deal, every stupid detail of his life. If anyone knows what the hell is going on, it’s her.

I hit her number, praying she answers. The line clicks almost immediately.

“Hi, Eli,” she says, her voice soft, familiar.

“Ms. Loretta,” I start, but my voice cracks. “What’s going on? Dad just got arrested. They mentioned ‘questioning.’ What the fuck is happening?”

“Oh, Eli,” she sighs. “Your father didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” I press, my chest tightening.

“Your dad…” She pauses like she’s trying to figure out how to break bad news. “He’s been arrested for embezzling.”

“Embezzling?” I echo, my voice shooting up. “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s his company. How the hell do you embezzle your own money?”

“I don’t know, Eli. I really don’t,” she says. “But the board’s been restless lately. Whispers about missing funds. I didn’t believe it, not for a second. But then this…”

Her words blur together as my head spins.

“Ms. Loretta,” I cut in. “What do I do? I don’t know what to do.”

She hesitates. “Go to the police station. Try to see him. But prepare yourself. This is going to get ugly.”

“Ugly how?” I grip the phone tighter.

“There’s going to be press. The media loves a scandal, especially when it’s a man like your father. Just keep a low profile.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I hang up before she can say anything else.

The drive to the police station is a blur. My mind races, replaying her words over and over. Embezzling. Missing funds. Ugly.

When I pull up, the scene is exactly what she warned me about. Paparazzi everywhere, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions.

“Shit,” I mutter, pulling my hoodie up and ducking low as I park.

As soon as I step out, they’re on me.

“Eli! Is it true your father was arrested for fraud?”

“Does this mean your family’s company is going under?”

“What do you have to say about the allegations?”

I keep my head down, pushing through the crowd. They’re relentless, shoving mics and cameras in my face.

“No comment!” I shout, my voice hoarse.

Inside, it’s quieter, but not by much. Officers hustle around, phones ringing, people shouting.

“I’m here to see Richard Grayson,” I tell the woman at the desk.

She doesn’t even look up. “Visiting hours are over.”

“I’m not visiting,” I snap. “I’m his son.”

Her eyes flick up, and she sighs. “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

“Seriously?” I throw my hands up. “He’s my dad!”

“Sir, sit down or leave,” she says firmly, turning back to her screen.

I slump into a chair, pulling my phone out again. Mr. Coleman’s name stares back at me. I hit redial.

This time, he answers.

“Eli,” he says, his tone clipped. “I’m with your father right now. I was just about to call you.”