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CHAPTER 1

ANNA

T here are certain phrases every daughter expects to hear from her parents:

“Get good grades.”

“Be home by ten, or you’re grounded.”

“Say please and thank you.”

These are the staples—the rules meant to set boundaries. Then there are the other ones, the affirmations that make us feel special:

“Of course you’re my favorite.”

“You’ll always be number one in my book.”

“You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Little soundbites of love and encouragement, tossed out by adoring parents across the globe almost daily, no doubt.

And then, there’s my dad.

“Did you know you can freeze your eggs?”

I stare at the back of the refrigerator and shake my head. I have no idea where this is going. I wish I did, but this man can be a wild card on the best of days.

“Are we talking about my eggs or eggs in general?” I ask while rooting around my vegetable drawer looking for some leftover chocolate. Because, of course, that’s where I keep it and I know I didn’t eat both of those Reese’s Cups last night.

When he doesn’t answer me right away, I know it’s my cue to turn around and give him some attention. It’s been me and my dad, just us against the world, for as long as I can remember. My mom is still in the picture, but she’s in Europe, where she’s lived with her second husband for the last five years.

“So,” I start to ask, looking over at where he’s parked himself at the kitchen table. “The eggs?”

He flips the magazine he’s reading around so I can see the article headlined, “ The Secret Lifetime of Eggs ,” and explains. “Eggs from the store, from chickens. You can freeze them and they’ll still be good if you use them within a year.” He shrugs, but his eyes are wide with wonder and what I’m hoping is amusement. “Who knew?”

“Not me,” I say, my eyes landing finally on the lone Reese’s Cup wrapped in its package and hidden at the back of the veggie drawer. Right under the lettuce, exactly where I meant to put it so I could think about my food choices.

“Well, you’re welcome. Seems I saved future you from FOMO,” he says with a chuckle.

“Did you really just say ‘FOMO’ to me?” I shake my head as my eyes land on a bag of apples I’d forgotten about in the produce drawer. Opening it, I swipe an apple, fighting the urge to groan at the irony. In one hand, folks, she holds a sugary treat. In the other, a piece of delicious fruit—which will she pick to eat?

It’s an easy decision, really. I put the apple back and turn off my internal guilt-ridden monologue. Instead, I take a moment to stop at the sink and turn on the faucet so I can wash my hands and enjoy my Reese’s Cup with clean hands. Only as I do, the clanking sound that comes out of it tells me there’s an issue. As water spurts out in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spray of confusion, I almost drop my beloved chocolate treat as I jump away from the sink. “Hey!”

“Not again,” Dad grumbles as he hops up and joins me. In seconds, he’s dropped to the ground and has ducked his head inside the cabinet, looking around. A few expletives later, the water stops.

“Better?”

His voice is muffled, but I can hear him. Blinking through the droplets of water that are left streaming down my face, I look down at my top, which is now soaked through.

“That’s up for debate, but the water’s stopped at least.”

I toss my Reese’s Cup on the table and head back to my bedroom. Once there, I strip off the ridiculously wet shirt I’m now burdened with, grabbing one of my sweatshirts and pulling it on over my head. It’s an oldie, but a goodie, so it’s worn down just right in all the perfect places. I’ve had this sweatshirt since I got my job––Dad bought it for me the day I got my position as the assistant for the coach of the city’s ice hockey team and his family. So, technically it could be considered a ‘work’ shirt since I am keeping their main man organized and running, right?

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turn around. The Renegades teal looks nice against my skin tone. The River City Renegades are an AHL hockey team based in River City, Virginia. We’re the farm team for an NHL team in Washington D.C. mainly, but we’ve had our players end up on teams in Chicago, in the Carolinas, and even in Canada.

Straightening my hair, I do a fast double check in the mirror. I inspect my pants to make sure nothing sprayed them as well before I grab my phone out of my pocket and start a search for a local plumber.

“Hey, Dad,” I say as I walk back down the hall to the kitchen, “do you want me to line someone up to come out tomorrow, or should we do an emergency callout?”

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I find my sweet pops leaning over the sink, grinning as the faucet is running smoothly now.

“No need, sweetie. It’s fine. Should hold up another day.”

“Are you sure?” Opening the door to the cabinet under the sink, I look inside suspiciously.

“You don’t trust me?”

“You drive a Zamboni, you’re not a plumber.”

He laughs. “I know how to fix a sink. And the toilet, too, for that matter. But don’t worry, I’ll call a plumber this week and get it looked at, okay, Mom?”

I’m preparing a witty comeback when we’re both startled by the sound of his phone and the insane ringtone he’s chosen. Normal people have a bell sound or a song, even the regular “ri—i-ng, ri—i-ng” that you can set it to, but not my dad. He’s got a chainsaw.

Spotting his phone on the kitchen table, I grab it and slide it over to him.

“That’s not normal,” I say, adding a tsk-tsk as he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not normal,” he mutters as he puts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Shaking my head, I glance at the time and realize I need to get laundry going. I love a day off like nobody’s business, and boy, can I be lazy on these days or what? Seriously, I’m all go-go-go; being a personal assistant, I’m busy by nature. There’s not one set task list, which I like because I’m never bored, but that also means that each day is like a mystery surprise. My friend Ollie, who is probably my best friend at this point in my life, says it’s because I can’t sit still.

I shuffle back down the hallway to my room and start gathering the clothes strewn all over as a result of my pace during the past week. Look, to have a job like I do, you must be organized; in fact, if you’re not—do not even apply. I was the kid who had file folders when I went to school; the one who insisted that my locker have an extra shelf so I had another spot where I could put a container or two. The kid who worked off their calendar starting at age twelve…another thing Ollie likes to tease me about.

Ollie is not only a friend, but we kind of, not really, work together, too. Ollie plays for the Renegades, and I work for his coach, Ben Masters. It makes my trips to the arena a little more enjoyable because I get to see him when I go by. It’s funny to me that skinny, little Ollie who used to tutor me in history in high school is now a giant. A brute force to be reckoned with on the ice, although the guy I know is all sweetness and light, and really fun to be around.

I stop and look around my room. For someone who’s always prided herself in being organized, it all seemed to fall away, at least personally, when I took this job. What’s the old saying—a carpenter’s house is never finished? Well, a personal assistant’s home—or in my case since I moved home temporarily, her bedroom—is never organized.

I find the empty laundry basket in a hall closet and busy myself filling it up with my dark clothing, my thoughts dipping back to Ollie. We’d attended community college together after high school; we were left behind by our friends, but we liked it. It made us closer, but it was harder when we got our two-year degrees and both ended up in different states to finish school. I can remember hugging his body and feeling bones, and two years later when I saw him again after we’d both moved back to the area, he’d become…well, not quite the same skinny guy he used to be, I’ll say that.

Shaking my head, I turn my attention back to the task at hand: laundry, Anna. Do the laundry. I take the basket and once I’ve filled it up, I head back down the hallway to the laundry room, cutting through the kitchen.

As I walk by, Dad suddenly stops talking. It could be me, but I can tell that the energy in this room has changed since I left. I ignore the shift and keep walking to the laundry room. He stays quiet for a moment, but I can tell it’s for my benefit, that he’s not done talking. He only remains silent until I close the door—well, almost all the way.

I leave it cracked just enough so I can eavesdrop, of course. I swear, my nosiness will one day be my downfall.

His voice drops an octave, making it harder for me to hear what he’s saying. But I can still tell he’s worked up. There’s a subtle quiver in his words, the strain of someone trying to keep their cool but failing. It’s the way his voice dips lower with every syllable, and the tightness in his tone tells me he’s fighting to stay calm.

The next few words are barely audible, but they’re enough to make my stomach drop. “I told you, I can’t pay it right now. You’re going to have to wait.”

A silence follows, only broken by the sound of Dad’s breath—sharp, forced. And then, a voice on the other end, cruel and cutting, too muffled for me to make out clearly, but it’s unmistakable—the kind of voice that bullies, pushes, and manipulates.

“I’m doing my best here,” Dad snaps, though I can hear the tremor in his voice. “I said I’ll get the money…just give me some more time, alright?”

The tone on the other end grows harsher. Dad’s words quicken as he tries to reason with whoever he’s talking to. But all I can hear now is the growing anxiety in his voice.

My heart sinks as I listen, feeling a mix of helplessness and anger. My father is usually so solid, so calm…But right now, he sounds small, cornered.

I bite my lip, wanting to rush out there, to ask him what’s going on—but I stay put. The quiet conversation continues, and I wish I could somehow protect him from whoever is on the other end of that phone. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right and I can’t stay here and pretend I’m not hearing him, either.

“Dad?” I step into the doorway and lean against its jamb. “What’s going on?”

“That was the bank. About the… scam artist. ” He chokes on the words, his voice tight with frustration.

“Scam artist?” In truth, the only thing I know about scam artists comes from my experience with an ex-boyfriend named Jason, but that’s a heartbreak story best saved for another day.

“I don’t even know how it happened, Anna. One day, things were fine. I was doing alright, making my investments, and the next…I find out I’ve been suckered into a Ponzi scheme.”

I blink, trying to wrap my head around what he’s saying. “Ponzi scheme?”

“Yeah,” he says with a bitter laugh. “It’s where you think you’re investing in something legit, and they promise returns that seem too good to be true—because they are. But instead of actual investments, they’re just taking your money and using it to pay off other people, making it look like you’re getting returns. But eventually, the whole thing collapses, and the money’s gone.”

His eyes are filled with helplessness now, like he’s sinking under the weight of everything that’s happened.

“So, I’ve been feeding money into this thing for years, and instead of investing in something real, I’ve just been putting it into a black hole.” His shoulders slump, and it breaks my heart. “The guy who promised me security, stability—he’s disappeared. No one knows where he is. And all of my savings, everything I’ve ever put away, is gone.”

My stomach tightens with his words. I want to yell at him for falling for something like this, but I can’t. I can’t be angry with him. I don’t know that I wouldn’t have done the same thing, if we’re being honest.

Instead, I sit there, watching him deflate in front of me, as he exhales deeply.

“The bank says there’s some insurance coverage, but…” His voice turns hollow. “It won’t be enough. It won’t fix this. Everything I worked for is gone…”

I can feel my tummy hitch in anticipation as his voice trails off. Gone? Someone scammed my sweet father out of his savings? I realize I’m shaking, and I look down at my hands and see only red.

I feel helpless. “What can I do?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“There’s got to be something we can?—”

His hand slices through the air as he holds it up, dropping the words as they fall from my mouth. “Nothing. Just…I’m sorry. I need to go for a walk.”

My father, a man who does not react like this, is freaking me out. I watch as if in slow motion as he puts his hands on the table and pushes himself to an upright position, then walks over to the hooks on the wall by the door and grabs his coat, threading one arm into it at a time.

I can’t let him go alone, so I swiftly make my way across the room and grab my jacket off its hook as well, only he turns around and stops me.

“No, no,” he says, shaking his head. “I need to be alone right now. Please.”

Searching his eyes, I want to insist that I come with him, but it’s selfish. I can see he means it. He wants to be by himself. I stand back in understanding to let him pass, and as I do, my phone beeps from my back pocket.

Ignoring it, I hold the door open as he trudges across the porch and down the steps, making his way out to the street. I know better than to push anything more; if this is what he wants right now, then so be it. I can still worry, and judging by the bile rising in my throat, I won’t have any problems there.

My phone beeps again, signaling me, so I grab it and peer at the screen. On rare occasions, Coach Masters or his wife will message me on a day off and ask me to do something. I always have the option to say no, but they do pay me when I step outside of the box at times like this.

Reading the message, today is one of those rare moments.

Sorry to bother you today, Anna, but I’ve got a huge favor. Are you able to stop by the home office and grab some paperwork to drop off at the arena? Will pay you your day-off bonus if you can.

Coach Masters doesn’t get along with the General Manager of the Renegades. To be fair, not many people do. He is cringey and I’m not a fan myself, but I can be a conduit and help pass along paperwork and information between the two camps if needed.

I don’t need to think twice. Normally, I do weigh up these requests, but my dad isn’t around right now and seeing Ollie will make me smile, so decision made.

You got it.