Page 9

CHAPTER 9

North

W alking through Washington’s main terminal is a rare occurrence for us, something that only happens when the private airport terminal isn’t an option. It’s a different energy altogether, a mix of routine travel buzz and the unexpected sight of Titans jerseys scattered among the crowd. Even as the visiting team the fans show up, a small but loyal group clutching signs, snapping photos and cheering as we pass.

It’s not overwhelming, like the homecoming crowds at Pittsburgh, but there’s a quiet thrill in seeing those familiar colors and faces in a sea of strangers. Kids wave their jerseys in hopes of an autograph, and some fans shout words of encouragement or good-natured ribbing about tomorrow’s game.

I take my time, stopping to sign a few items and pose for selfies. It’s moments like these that remind me why I love this game, the connection it builds between us and people who’ve never laced up skates. Their excitement feels genuine, and it pulls me out of the insular world of locker rooms and ice rinks, even if just for a few minutes.

This is our second stop on this short two-game road trip. Last night, we crushed the Atlanta Sting in what felt like a practice scrimmage more than a competitive match. The win has everyone in high spirits, and although today is all about travel and a light skate practice, I can’t shake the lingering high of victory.

Tomorrow, we face the Breakers, but my mind is already skipping ahead to the flight home. I’m counting down the hours until I’m back in Pittsburgh.

Specifically, back to Farren.

Well, not to Farren, but rather within proximity of her which might present an opportunity to spend time with her.

It’s unsettling how much I want to see her considering how hard she works to maintain some distance and I push the feeling aside, focusing instead on the present.

Penn walks ahead of Rafferty and me, a ghost moving through the crowd, his pace brisk and his focus pinned to the ground. He’s been more withdrawn than usual since the incident at Stevie’s bar the other night, although King apparently tried to talk to him about it.

He got nothing in return.

“North! Over here!” a woman calls out, waving a Titans scarf in the air. I smile, veering toward her to snap a quick selfie.

Rafferty does the same a few steps behind me, stopping to sign a young boy’s jersey. His grin stretches ear to ear, and it’s easy to see how much he thrives on this energy. The kid looks like Christmas came early, and Raff’s genuine warmth only adds to the moment.

And it’s crazy how much he and Farren look alike.

Stop… thinking… about… her.

“North, man, let’s move,” Rafferty says from right behind me, snapping me out of my thoughts. I wave at another group of fans, offering them a quick smile before picking up the pace.

The bright light of the noon sun illuminates the exit doors ahead and I can see two charter buses idling at the curb, ready to take us to our hotel. Rafferty and I step outside together and we’re immediately mobbed by a crowd of reporters.

At first, I think nothing of it. Probably a gaggle of local sports journalists wanting twenty seconds of airtime for tonight’s six o’clock news, but then I hear someone yell, “What about the allegations, Rafferty? Are you using performance-enhancing drugs?”

My head whips to the left, staring at Rafferty in shock. His expression turns white, eyes wide with confusion. “What? No!”

We’re surrounded by people, questions coming from all directions and recorders being stuck right in Rafferty’s face.

“What the fuck?” I growl, pushing in protectively to stand at his side. I glare at the reporters.

“Rafferty.” A man wearing a heavy black jacket to ward against the cold steps forward and holds up a photograph, but I can’t quite tell what it is. “What do you say about the photos showing you buying PEDs?”

Another question rings out from the back of the crowd. “And what about the lab reports showing positive results of drugs in your system?”

Rafferty looks thunderstruck and my hand goes to his shoulder where I squeeze in reassurance.

Then Callum Derringer, the team’s general manager, is there. He looks calm but I can see the underlying anger as he addresses the nearest microphone. “We have no idea what you’re talking about, but these accusations are false. The Titans stand firmly behind Rafferty Abrams. We’ll have a more detailed statement soon.”

With Callum on one side and me on the other, we move briskly to the bus where Rafferty practically catapults inside, Callum on his heels.

“What the hell was that?” Atlas asks, coming to stand beside me as my teammates file onto the bus.

“No fucking clue but there’s no way Rafferty’s doping.”

Atlas and I exchange a look and we both know who’s behind this without even trying hard to get to the right answer. “Fucking bitch,” I mutter.

His stalker is now playing a dangerous game, and it’s clear she’s unhinged. No doubt she’s behind this.

When we board the bus, I see Rafferty slumped in one of the front seats and Atlas and I take the ones opposite him.

He no longer looks shocked but instead looks pissed.

“It’s got to be Tansy,” Atlas says.

Rafferty nods, his lips pressed into a flat line. “I know. But there are photos, medical documentation.”

“It’s clearly been faked,” I say hotly. “Tansy’s in marketing, for fuck’s sake. She can manipulate anything she wants. The truth will come out.”

“Yeah, but not before my reputation is ruined,” Rafferty snarls, his hands opening and closing into tight fists. I can feel the fury rolling off him and I’m bottled up with rage on his behalf.

The bus pulls away from the curb and Rafferty looks out the window, clearly not wanting to talk about it. I shoot Atlas a glance and he lifts one shoulder as if to say, What the fuck do we do?

I shake my head, not having a damn clue.

The entire ride to the hotel is silent and tense. Everyone on the team heard what happened and the last thing Callum said to Rafferty, after promising to help him figure things out, was that he’d be suspended from the team until then.

When the bus stops at our hotel, I wait until everyone leaves, including Atlas. Rafferty stays rooted in his seat, staring out the window.

“What can I do, man?” I ask gently.

His head swivels slowly my way and he sighs. “Nothing.” He starts to rise and then says, “Wait, can you call Farren and let her know what’s going on? This will hit the news any moment.”

“Of course, man,” I say, following him out onto the sidewalk. “What about Tempe?”

“I’ll call her.” He sounds utterly defeated and I don’t know how to help him.

“I got you covered” is all I can think to say.

“Thanks,” he murmurs and then heads over to Callum standing a few feet away.

The team loiters in the hotel lobby while one of the service staff gets our room keys to hand out. We’re all hypothesizing about what’s going to happen but when Callum comes in moments later, I don’t hesitate to find out for myself.

I intercept him quickly. “What will happen to Rafferty?”

“I don’t know,” he grouses, raking his fingers through his hair. “I just sent him off to get a drug test and—”

“He’s clean,” I growl.

“I believe you, and him,” he says in a censuring tone. “It’s to help build his defense. But until we can talk to the attorneys, he can’t play tonight. ”

“That’s bullshit.” Anger flushes through me. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“This isn’t a court of law,” Callum retorts and then takes a calming breath. “Look, I get you’re worried about him, but we’ll handle this in Rafferty’s best interests. I promise.”

I can do nothing but accept his word.

I push through to the front and get my key as quickly as possible. I brush off Atlas’s request to grab lunch and hightail it to my room.

I toss my bag onto the bed and sit heavily on the edge, my phone in hand. Rafferty’s words echo in my mind. The press ambush, the doping accusations—it’s a mess. He did a great job in maintaining his composure, especially in the face of something so inflammatory, but I know it’s eating at him underneath.

And now, I have to call Farren. She’s not going to take this well.

I scroll to her name and hit dial before I can second-guess myself. The phone rings twice before her voice comes through, warm and lilting. “What’s up, stud?” I can’t think of what to say and my silence causes her distress. “Is Rafferty okay?”

Because why else would I be calling?

“He’s fine,” I say, resting my elbows on my knees. “But something’s happened.”

“What?” she asks sharply, the easy warmth gone .

I hesitate for half a second before diving in. “There was an incident at the airport earlier. Some reporters cornered him, making false claims—”

“What claims?” Farren asks, her voice rising with alarm.

I rub the back of my neck, wishing I could soften the blow. “Someone’s accused him of doping.”

A sharp intake of breath crackles through the line. “What? That’s… That’s insane! Raff would never—”

“I know,” I cut in firmly. “We all know. The team knows. But you know how these things work. It’s already out there, and now he’s got to deal with the fallout. Callum sent him to get a drug test and the team will handle it, but…”

My words trail off.

But what?

Exactly what’s going to happen, I can’t say.

“Jesus,” she whispers, and I can hear the panic through her words. “What’s he going to do? What’s the team going to do?”

“He’s handling it,” I say, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “And the team’s got his back. He’s got a spotless record, Farren. This isn’t going to stick.”

“But what if it does?” she presses, her voice cracking. “What if it screws everything up for him? His career, his reputation, everything he’s worked for?”

“It won’t,” I say firmly. “He’s Rafferty. He’s not just a good player—he’s a good person. People know that. And we’re all standing by him, no matter what.”

There’s a long pause, and I can practically hear her wrestling with her emotions. “I hate that this is happening to him. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I agree quietly. “But he’s tough, Farren. He’ll get through it.”

Her voice wavers, and the depth of love she has for her brother is so clear and pure, it makes my heart ache. It makes me wonder what it would feel like if that were directed at me.

“What if he doesn’t?” she whispers.

“He will,” I say, my response softening. “I’ll be right there with him, making sure of it. You don’t have to worry about him being alone in this.”

She exhales shakily and I search for something to ease her mind, something to take the edge off her worry. “You know,” I start, “this reminds me of a time when I thought my career was over before it even started.”

She doesn’t respond, but I can tell I’ve got her attention. I rise from the bed and pace the room, letting the memory come back to me.

“When I was in juniors, there was this scout who came to watch me play. Big deal guy—everyone knew his name. I was having the game of my life, thinking this was my ticket to the next level. But then I made this dumb mistake, turned over the puck in the last minute and it cost us the win. The scout walked out before I even made it off the ice.”

Farren stays quiet, but her breathing is steady now, like she’s waiting for the rest.

“I thought I’d blown it,” I continue. “I spent weeks beating myself up, thinking I’d ruined everything. But then, out of nowhere, my coach pulls me aside and hands me a letter. It was from that scout. He said he didn’t care about the mistake—he saw potential in the way I played the rest of the game.”

I let out a small laugh. “Turns out, it wasn’t about one moment. It was about the bigger picture. And Rafferty? He’s got a hell of a bigger picture going for him.”

Farren’s silence stretches for a beat, and then she says softly, “You really believe that?”

“Without a doubt,” I say. “And you should too. He’s going to be okay, Farren. We’re all going to make sure of it.”

Her exhale is steadier this time, the sharp edges of her fear dulling. “Thank you. For being there for him. For me.”

“Always,” I say, meaning it more than I probably should.

There’s a moment of quiet between us, the kind that feels heavy with unspoken words. I want to tell her more, to reassure her in a way that goes deeper than words. But the quiet moment of hope dissipates quickly.

“It was Tansy,” Farren says, the same revelation I had just hitting her.

“Yeah… that’s what I think. Your brother too.”

“That fucking bitch,” she seethes, and I’m pretty sure if Tansy were in the same room as Farren right now, she’d be dead. “Do you think Rafferty should tell Callum about her?”

“It’s probably time to involve higher-ups, but that’s Rafferty’s call.”

“Any idea where this woman lives?” Farren asks, her tone so cold, a chill runs up my spine. “I’m going to go have a word with her.”

“You’re most definitely not doing that—”

“Oh, yes I am,” she growls, and shit, that sounds like a level of determination that will land her ass in trouble.

“You fucking stay put,” I snap, and she sucks in a breath of shock. “You do not get involved because Rafferty has a lot at stake right now. Tansy Carmichael is Brienne Norcross’s cousin, so there are family ties that complicate things.”

“So Rafferty’s fucked either way,” she snarls.

“No.” I blow out a huff of frustration. “I’m sure the team will do the right thing, but for now, you have to let this play out. Rafferty just wanted me to call you so you weren’t blindsided by this. But you need to stay calm, for your brother’s sake, okay? ”

A long silence, but then she murmurs, “Okay. I hear you.”

“Good girl,” I reply, and it transports me back to our snow day together. We went inside to get warmed up, which to Farren’s way of thinking meant dropping to her knees right inside the front door and giving me a blow job that forever changed the way I will view orgasms. It was mind blowing and I held her head as she bobbed before me, whispering “good girl” to her. She tipped her head back, mouth full, and smiled at me when I said that to her.

My groin tightens with the memory but I push it aside. It would be so easy to have some phone sex right now, but I’m enjoying this part of Farren where she gives me her emotion and heart. I’m enjoying her needing me for something other than physical pleasure.

“What have you been up to today?” I ask, wanting to strike conversation with her.

And to my surprise, she engages. “I had a job interview. Downtown bar, but I don’t know if I’ll take it. The crowd didn’t look like they tipped well.”

I can’t help but laugh. I sit down on the bed and rest against the headboard. “What exactly does a bartender need to be considered good tips?”

Farren starts talking and I’m not sure what it is about the woman, but it’s music to my ears.