Page 141 of Twisted Play

“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 brokenmy 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.”