Page 28 of Break the Ice

But it’s that hatred that’s driven me into thinking about how I can’t stand her at all hours of the day and night. Even if I’m insanely attracted to her at the same time.

None of it makes any god damn sense, yet I’m relishing every moment we face-off.

“My silence isn’t free,” I call on my way out the office. “Remember that tonight at seven when the car shows up.”

I get the last word and pride myself on it the entire walk back to the player lounge.

“There you are!” calls out Dad. He appears in his best attempt at a business suit, his sheets of silvery brown hair tucked behind his ears. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

My older brother, Colt, stands several feet behind him, like he’s only here at Dad’s behest.

Probably is.

His injury and the sudden end of his career remains a sore spot for him even all these years later. As a result, he avoids most NHL events.

Dad steps toward me and claps a hand to my back. “We were watching you out there—you’ve got it in your blood. The Golding gene to crush the competition. But maybe next time, don’t actually bleed while doing it.”

As if on command, a droplet of blood drips from the open gash on my brow. I show no sign of giving a fuck.

Because I don’t. A little scrape or two’s never fazed me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“If I didn’t come by, would we ever see you?” Dad gives a gruff laugh that’s too loud and directly contrasts his fancy tailored suit.

As it turns out, no matter how many zeros are in his bank account, he’s still a small-town boy who loves cutting up on the ice. As if his wavy, ear-length hair and thick beard weren’t proof enough. He might be a businessman these days, with his hands in several pots of money—some legal, some less than legal—but he’s not refined in the way a guy like Quigley Blackman is.

He’s more brute than businessman and always has been. From the time I was a kid, he believed in solving things with his fists. It’s how he acted on the ice, how he acted at home with Mom and his sons. It’s how he damn sure disciplined Colt and me, beating into us the obsession with preserving in the sport of hockey.

I got it worst than anyone for my defiance.

He slides an arm around my shoulders and says, “I wanted to speak with you about everything that’s been going on.”

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

“You know,” he says, throwing a glance at Colt, “Hawk’s been missing for over a week now.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’ve been keeping your nose clean, right?”

“I’ve been doing what I always do. Whatever the fuck I want.”

Dad’s heavy brow creases. “You know exactly what I’m asking, Rafe. Don’t be so damn difficult.”

“He wouldn’t,” Colt says suddenly from the background. “Not even Rafe would be that reckless.”

“I’d like to believe that too. But he’s proven me wrong before. If you acted out of defense, I don’t approve but I understand. Hawk might be his name, but he’s more like a vulture—he’d do anything to take us down.”

Dad doesn’t even try to hide the bitterness in his voice. The deep loathing rolls off him as its own energy that thickens in the air. The animosity between him and Hawk has stood the test of time.

Once rivals, always rivals.

“You’re all we’ve got left. I’m long-retired, and Colt’s got his injury,” he goes on. He squeezes his arm tighter around my shoulders, his version of a fatherly hug. “You’re the legacy, Rafe. I protect our legacy no matter what.”

I shrug off his arm with ease, demonstrating his lack of control over me. Dad might be powerful for a man his age, but he’s no match for me in my prime. He doesn’t intimidate me for a second. He damn sure won’t exert dominance over me.

“Protect your legacy yourself. Both of you. I’m not interested.”