Page 65 of Twisted Play (Cruel Games #1)

COLE

Slade, my father’s brutal enforcer, opened the door to my family home before I could knock. He grinned at me and opened his arms for a hug, his cruel eyes softening momentarily as he waited. When I didn’t move forward, he laughed and rubbed my hair. “Welcome home, kiddo.”

Giving up, I laughed and gave him the hug he was looking for.

Slade was the reason I’d survived into adulthood, even if his name was the stupidest fucking thing I’d ever heard.

He hadn’t been able to save me from my father’s fists, or the cigarette burns, or being locked in the wine cellar, but he’d done a damn fine job of distracting my father with business when he could.

With an empire as corrupt as Carter Media, there was always bloody, murderous fucking business.

“Your father’s—” He stopped and looked at me, rubbing his jaw. “He’s planning something,” he said softly. “I can’t?—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said just as softly. Slade’s loyalty was to my father. He loved me like a brother, but if push came to shove, he’d leave me hanging out to dry.

“He’s in the study. ”

The familiar dread settled in my stomach like lead as I walked through the house.

The walls of sports memorabilia mocked me—championship rings from teams my father bought, trophies from leagues he corrupted, medals from athletes who sold their souls for his sponsorship deals.

Not a single photograph of me in my Yorkfield jersey.

Not one picture from the day I’d been drafted.

I passed the spot where my first participation trophy sat for exactly three hours when I was nine, before my father threw it away.

“We don’t display mediocrity in this house.

” The house felt like a museum dedicated to everyone else’s achievements, a constant reminder I’d never been worth displaying.

When I’d asked him at thirteen why none of my hockey trophies made it onto these walls, he’d looked at me with that familiar cold disappointment.

“When you accomplish something worth displaying, we’ll discuss it. ”

The scent of expensive whiskey and leather hit me as I approached the study, triggering a phantom burn in my throat.

My hands started to shake, just slightly.

I clenched them into fists, remembering the taste of alcohol washing down pills, the way numbness felt like salvation when you lived in this house.

“Cole!” my father said as I walked in, standing, and holding his arms open.

My eyebrows shot to my hairline at the effusive greeting, completely out of character for him, and then I realized we weren’t alone.

Delaney Hartwell stood beside her father, blonde, slender, with a smile as bland and blank as mine, the kind of practiced expression I’d perfected for family photos that never made it onto these walls.

When I didn’t accept my father’s embrace—when I couldn’t force myself to step into those arms that had broken my ribs when I was fourteen—he turned without missing a beat. “I’m sure you remember the Hartwells—Nate and Delaney.”

I shook both of their hands, my palm slick with cold sweat. Delaney didn’t say a word, and I caught the same hollow look as mine in her expression. Nate Hartwell was on his fourth wife, his latest roughly the same age as his daughter.

Fuck. This isn’t a social call.

“Take a seat, son.”

The endearment hit like a backhanded slap. When had he ever called me son without it being followed by disappointment?

I narrowed my eyes at my father but took a seat in an armchair, facing the Hartwells.

It was the same chair where my father had explained my hockey career was a “phase” I needed to outgrow.

Where he’d told me to man up after beating me.

Where he’d told me at fourteen I’d never amount to anything because I got a B+ in one subject.

Where he’d dismissed every college that recruited me to skate because they weren’t “serious academic institutions.”

My father poured me a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light, and my mouth went completely dry. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d known about the pills since I was sixteen, had treated my addiction like a business risk to be managed rather than a son crying for help.

“No, thank you.” The words came out rougher than I intended. He knew I didn’t drink anymore, the fucker.

His smile was amused. “Since when?”

Since Tristan found me half-dead in my dorm and saved my life while you were completely oblivious. Since Coach gave enough of a shit to get me clean .

“Since I decided to.” I kept my voice level, but my heart hammered against my ribs.

Nate had a glass, but Delaney’s hands were empty, folded so tightly in her lap her knuckles had gone white.

“Can I get you something?” I asked her, standing so I could set the glass down while I served her.

Anything to get away from the whiskey, from the way my father watched me like a predator sizing up wounded prey.

Her lips tilted up in a half-smile before her father said, “She’s fine.”

I ignored him, waiting for Delaney to answer. She looked so fucking young, and there was something around her left eye—makeup, but not quite enough to hide the shadow underneath.

She gave one sharp shake of her head. “No, thank you.”

My father swirled his own glass then leaned forward, propping his elbows on his thighs.

The gesture was casual, conversational, which meant whatever came next would destroy me.

He’d perfected this routine when I was eight years old—the calm before he shattered something I cared about, like the time I’d run home with my first hat trick, bursting with pride, only to find him on a business call.

He’d held up one finger for silence and never asked about the game.

“Cole, I’m sure you’re aware Nate is a partial owner of the New York Anarchists and also owns a competing network.”

The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.

If by competing network, my father meant a collection of sport-specific channels that threatened his stranglehold on sports media, yeah, I was aware of that.

But why the fuck was I sitting here, listening to this, with Delaney looking like she wanted to disappear into the upholstery ?

Wait.

My stomach dropped.

Fuck no.

Oh, hell no.

“Nate and I are hammering out an agreement to merge our networks. As part of that, you and Delaney will marry, and you will take over as CEO when I retire.”

Delaney’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the suddenly suffocating room, but by the time my eyes met hers, she’d already composed herself. The practiced blankness was back, but I could see the trapped animal behind her eyes.

She hadn’t known. Jesus Christ, she hadn’t known either.

“Father.” I kept my voice steady despite the way my pulse slammed against my throat. “I have a contract with an NHL team and intend to play when I graduate.”

His jaw clenched, and there it was—the monster I knew. “The fuck you will.”

Familiar rage started building in my chest, hot and desperate. “That contract is worth millions. I’ve worked for this since I was?—”

“Since you were what?” His voice was silk over steel. “Since you were six and I paid for your first skating lessons? Since you were ten and I bought you custom equipment? Since you were sixteen and I covered up your little drug problem so it wouldn’t affect your future draft prospects?”

Each word reminded me everything I’d ever accomplished was somehow his doing, even the things he hated. I owed him my dreams.

Nate smiled, but there was no warmth behind the expression. “We’ll announce your engagement in a week.”

“No,” I said, but the word came out weaker than I intended. The walls felt like they were closing in, and I could smell my father’s cologne, the same scent that used to make me hide under my bed as a child.

“The hell you won’t,” my father snarled, and for a moment, I was eight again, cowering as he backhanded me.

“Boy,” Nate said, his voice a relaxed drawl despite the menace underneath. “I don’t think you understand this isn’t optional. I certainly don’t think you understand how Delaney’s going to suffer if you turn her down.”

My eyes snapped to the blonde woman, noting the way she’d gone completely still, like prey freezing when a predator looks their way. The hint of bruising on her pale cheekbone became suddenly, sickeningly clear.

Fuck.

“You don’t want Tristan to lose his hockey scholarship, do you?” My father’s voice was conversational again, like he was discussing the weather. “Or any of the other members of the team? And that cute little redhead, the team’s new medic?—”

The air left my lungs in a rush. No. No, no, no, no. Not Eva. Not my fierce, beautiful sparrow who trusted me despite having every reason not to, not the woman who fit so perfectly between Tristan and me, who made us both better just by existing in our world.

My eyes flew to my father’s, and I knew my face had betrayed me completely. The bastard was smiling now, triumphant.

“—You don’t want her to lose her job, do you?”

How does he know about Eva?

I dropped back into the armchair, my legs suddenly unsteady. The weight of the trap crashed over me like an avalanche—Eva, Tristan, their futures balanced against Delaney’s safety, against my own freedom. Every person I’d ever cared about dangled from strings my father controlled .

“You’re a bastard,” I snarled, but there was defeat in my voice, and we both knew it.

My father smiled, the same cruel expression he’d worn when he’d burned my acceptance letter to a different university, when he’d crushed every dream I’d ever had that didn’t serve his purposes.

“The comfortable lifestyle you live is entirely due to my ruthless business practices. Call me whatever names you want, but you are going to announce your engagement next week.”

The whiskey glass sat on the table beside me, amber and tempting, promising oblivion from this nightmare. I stared at it, remembering how easy it would be to drink until none of this mattered, until I couldn’t feel the way my father had just carved out my heart with practiced cruelty.

Fuck.