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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

John

Why did I underestimate the lengths my father would go? Sometimes I wonder if he hates me. What did I do to deserve a father who’s only thought is of himself? Most fathers would run into a burning building to save their son. Mine burns the building his son sleeps in.

Now I’m sitting in the office of Reed’s father, the league commissioner. If there’s anyone other than my teammates that I don’t want to disappoint, it’s Mr. Cross. And Becca, fuck. What’s she going to think of me?

The walls of his office seem to shrink around me as my leg bounces nervously. Mr. Cross is right outside the glass door, talking to an employee who hands him a file.

I recall my father’s words when I called him, and he demanded that I handle the situation and leave his name out of it. Yes, I’m still listening even though I’m almost positive he’s the reason I’m here. Every tick of the clock causes my throat to constrict.

The door clicks and instead of looking toward the door, I keep my focus on the photos behind his desk of Reed and him after we won the Frozen Four. There’s also one with Brooke’s dad in their playing days and another with his whole family .

Mr. Cross slaps the folder onto the desk, sits in his thick, tufted black leather chair, and leans forward on his elbows. “Basilio, what in the world have you gotten yourself into?”

For the first time in my life, I’m speechless. If I say what my father told me to, I’m probably out of the league. If I don’t, I wouldn’t put it past my father to have me injured or worse. Because it’s about his reputation. His needs.

“John, this is a serious allegation. One that can get you banned from the game,” he says as he pinches the bridge of his nose and releases a weighty sigh. “We have evidence that you threw a game. We were called by an anonymous source, and our investigation implies that you bet against your team.”

Anonymous?

The timing feels pointed. My dad always liked to pull strings—maybe this is his latest play because I walked away from Stella and the future he mapped out. He’s certainly capable, but the thought makes my skin crawl. As the idea takes root, I know what I need to do—save myself.

“I swear. I didn’t.”

He takes a photo from the folder and slides it across the desk with the league logo carved into the middle. Reluctantly, I pick it up, and it shows me in a Stallions ball cap—my favorite cap. The one I wear daily.

“Tell me the truth, and I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

“This is me, but it’s not what it looks like.”

“You’re placing a bet.”

He scoots another photo in front of me with the betting ticket enlarged.

“John, you bet on the opposing team that you were playing the next day. This is worse than Pete Rose. He bet on his own team and in my book, it should be fine to bet on your own team. To have faith in your team. But this… this is not that. This doesn’t look good.”

Why did I do this? I know why. Gain my father’s respect.

As I clench my teeth together, my anxiety soars while anger bubbles beneath the surface. Mr. Cross and the league investigators will pin this on me instead of the people responsible.

“Say something. Anything to convince me. Let me help you.”

There’s already been headlines in the hockey world, and all my current and most of my former teammates have reached out.

Why were you called to the league office?

Why are you missing a game this early in the season?

What the fuck is going on? This one was from Reed.

And Becca has called and texted, but I haven’t had the balls to talk to her. Not yet. I’d rather know my fate first.

Humiliated, I say, “Do I need a lawyer?”

“It depends on what you’ve done.”

“I made the bet, but I didn’t throw the game.”

“Why, John? Why?” He blows out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “I can’t control the narrative if you don’t give me your side of the story.”

I clutch the arms of the chair, angry that my father got me into this mess, and I would be willing to bet he played a hand in it. When I told him I had been ordered to the commissioner’s office on game day, he didn’t seem surprised.

The next day, I’m back on the ice with my teammates. Hawley, among others, want to know why I saw the commissioner. I brush off their questions exactly how Mr. Cross told me to.

“He’s going to honor my dad at the All-Star Game. Please keep it a secret. He wants my dad to be surprised and said I better play well enough to make the All-Star team, so my dad has a reason to be there.”

Hawley takes me at face value, but I see the sarcastic curl of Palici and Canup’s lips. They’re not buying it, but they keep their reservations to themselves. I ignore the ongoing text chain from the Stallions.

Reed: There’s no way my dad brought you to the office to plan what amounts to a party.

Bryce: Whatever it is, we have your back.

Corbin: Speak for yourself. He hasn’t talked to Becca in days.

Reed: What? Why would you do that to her?

Flynn: Now this really doesn’t pass the smell test.

Corbin: Answer, asshole.

I listen to the last message Becca left me. Her voice trembles as she sniffs. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I believed you when you said you loved me. But obviously you don’t. But we can make it without you.”

Imagining her believing that I don’t love her makes my gut wrench in pain. But I can’t bring her into this mess. Once it’s over, she’ll understand. She’s the most compassionate, caring woman I’ve ever known. So, I send her a simple text.

Me: I do love you, just a lot of things are going on. I have pregame warmups, so we’ll talk soon.

I know I’m being a total ass by not calling her, and it hurts me more than anyone could ever know.

Right before I put my phone away, it dings with a notification. Hoping it will be Becca, I give it a glance.

The Penalty Player Skating on Thin Ice:

Is the Dallas Rattlers captain, John Basilio Betting Against His Own Team?

My usual steady hands tremble as I read the headline staring back at me in big, bold letters.

At least part of what I told the commissioner leaked.

The question is: was it leaked on purpose?

Designed to draw my dad out of the shadows.

Mr. Cross knows my dad well. They played during the same era and like Mr. Cross, my dad is a hockey legend.

But Mr. Cross knows my dad has a temper.

Maybe he’s trying to poke the bear in hopes my dad implicates himself.

My stomach churns like Becca’s grandmother making homemade ice cream.

I smile at the memory of Corbin and Becca’s Mamaw bringing homemade ice cream to college when coming to see Corbin play.

But this moment isn’t sweet; it’s sour—the glances of disdain from my Rattlers teammates after seeing the headline.

It’s eerily quiet on the way out of the locker room.

No fist bumps or building ourselves up with adrenaline, and it’s all because of what they think I’ve done.

But the moment my blades carve up the ice, my troubles melt away.

It’s like second nature to skate fast on thin steel, sharper than a steak knife.

Out here, the questions banging around in my head quiets.

No more headlines. No more worrying about the endless questions that will no doubt plague me in the after-game media interview.

My teammates and even my coach glare but with every glide backward to defend, I’m able to keep my footing. Surrounded by the crisp air inside the arena, and the chants from the home crowd, I stay grounded.

At the first intermission, things get heated in the locker room with guys accusing me of betting against us. I stay quiet. I’ll show them on the ice. Eventually, they’ll find out that I’m not the bad guy here.

During the second period, one of the Vipers players intentionally trips Hawley then pokes him in the back with his stick to keep him from getting up quick.

Immediately, I’m there, gloves off, to go to the wall for my teammate.

Fists fly and as the ref tries to break it up, he gets an elbow to the neck. My elbow.

We jaw back and forth, and he sends me to the penalty box.

Frustrated that they didn’t call the foul, I think back to the last ref who missed the same call last week, then again during the first week of the season against Seattle.

It’s the same guy. I nibble on that little nugget and make a mental note to tell Mr. Cross.

Could this guy be part of the network they’re trying to bring down?

Since I’m not playing, I take a glimpse into the stands.

Black and red Rattlers jerseys dot the arena like a Monet painting.

None of them are here for me except a few puck bunnies who hang around.

Every game, I say have a good night, ladies, and go on my merry way, knowing they’ll hookup with someone on the team or staff.

A knot forms deep in my abdomen as I recall telling Becca that we wouldn’t have worked out in college, that now is our time.

But l need to make sure that my father falls, not for what he did to me but the damage he’ll have done to the game and the public trust. The commissioner made it clear that it’s more than my dad.

He believes there is a criminal element involved.

A sharp, razor-edged grin cuts across my face as I’m unable to deny the satisfaction I’ll receive when my dad falls from grace.

Coach plays me for three minutes during the third period, seemingly as a punishment. The game ends. We lose. I slam my helmet across the room, and the noise echoes against the lockers gaining everyone’s attention.

And soon the arguing starts.

“You lied. This is why you went to the commissioner’s office.”

“You’re fucking scum.”

“How could you bet against your own team?”

I wait, gather my thoughts, and let them keep hitting me where it hurts until I finally say, “I.” I point to the Rattlers logo on my chest, “I did not bet against us. Ever.”

“That’s not what the article says.”

“Well, don’t believe everything you read. It’s just some reporter trying to make a name for themselves.”

Palici laughs in my face. “There are several articles claiming the same thing.”

“They’re just reporting the same thing, using the original story as their source. Hockey Fans International claims blah… blah… blah,” I defend.

Coach keeps me far away from the media room and says to be in his office tomorrow morning, so I sneak out and call Mr. Cross to let him know about that ref so they can see if there are any dots that connect.

But before I put my phone on the seat beside me, I listen to the voicemail Becca left me, not once but five times.

What did she mean by “we can make it without you?”