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Chapter Twenty-Four

Xavier

I drop my unused gear in the coat room, wincing as my ribs protest the movement. The house is quiet, thank God. No squealing Finn, no pink-haired cute nanny giving me concerned looks. Don't have to act fine when no one's watching—and there's almost always someone watching when you're a privileged Rockwell.

My head throbs where my father's words hit harder than any punch from the brawl. Wrong name. Always the wrong fucking name. Because in his world, first names are just placeholders for people he doesn’t care to know. Still, it's kind of amazing how someone can stamp his own name on skylines across the globe—on resorts, hospital wings, corporations—yet can't remember his own son's. Which is doubly humiliating, when there's an audience to witness it. Especially when Maggie LeClair had a front-row seat to my father ripping my pride from my spine, stretching it inside out, and holding it up to the light like some cheap counterfeit.

The kitchen's empty now though—just the lingering scent of whatever Candice made for lunch. Something with rosemary. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge, pressing the cold bottle against my swollen eye. Coach Martinez took one look at me and benched me before I could even suit up. Hard to impress Coach when your right eye’s more swollen than your game stats. Turns out depth perception’s kind of a big deal when you’re chasing a puck at full speed. I wasn't even all that pissed about it, either. No point suiting up when you can’t even see the guy about to check you into next week .

I hold the Gatorade bottle to my swollen eye for a few more seconds before guzzling the contents in a few long squirts, then toss the empty bottle in the recycling bin. There are some homemade cheese stick things in a bin on the counter, so I grab a couple of those and eat them as I make my way upstairs.

I pause at the top of the landing, pressing my palm against my side. Breathing feels like getting stabbed. Still, I'd do it again. Pain fades; loyalty shouldn't. And Dylan needed backup. Those assholes had it coming.

But try explaining loyalty to Barron Rockwell. It’s a foreign concept to a man whose heart is probably locked in a Swiss bank vault. Who probably hasn't had a real friend since high school. And even that's doubtful.

I wonder how Dylan's faring today. Presumably a hell of a lot better than me—he's a seasoned pro at this. Dude has been involved in a bust-up at an average rate of about one a month since he rolled ceremoniously (and begrudgingly) into town. Not once where it wasn't instigated, though. Dylan’s chaos always has a cause—whether it’s worth the stitches afterwards is another story. And yeah, he gets triggered easily, but he's never launched into someone for no reason. And I've witnessed him walk away dozens of times when guys have tried to provoke him, too.

As I pass the upstairs playroom, Finn's high-pitched giggle mingles with Maggie's throaty laugh. It's a sound that could probably melt glaciers—or at least the ice in my chest. My hand instinctively reaches for the door handle, but I let it drop. I'm not up for questions about my face from Finn or about practice from Maggie. Or worse—about the humiliating confrontation with my father at breakfast.

I drag myself to my room, stripping off my hoodie and sweats, then step under the shower's scalding spray. The hot water stings my split lip but helps loosen my muscles. I stay under for twice the time I normally would, then throw on clean sweats and a Henley.

My feet carry me up to the Observatory before my brain catches up. The door creaks open and I inhale the familiar musty-wood smell, late afternoon sun streaming through the glass dome, casting weird shadows across the floor .

As I make my way across to my usual spot, I notice something on top of the pile of cushions by the telescope.

Two packages of Frosted Strawberry Pop-Tarts.

I pick up one of the packages, turning it over in my hands. The corner of my mouth twitches, threatening a smile despite everything.

Dropping onto the cushions, I tear open the silver wrapper. The artificial strawberry scent hits my nose as I break off a piece, not caring about my split lip. The sugar crystals dissolve on my tongue, sweet and familiar and nostalgic.

Something tight loosens in my chest, just a fraction.