Page 77 of The Price of Ice

He considered calling his father’s friend, who’d looked at his contract, but of course her specialty wasn’t litigation, and, in any case, it felt... wrong. She hadn’t owed him anything more than to explain the contract to him, but he couldn’t help but feel angry at her by association for the decision he’d made to sign it.

THE HOUSE LOOKED PRETTYmuch the same, except for some new covers on the sofa cushions, it could have been three years earlier, or five. They’d got there midafternoon and after feeding him some homemade cake she’d made ahead of time, his mum suggested he put his new chopping skills to the test and help her with dinner. It wasn’t something he’d ever done before, maybe she’d never asked, or maybe he’d said ‘no’ because cooking was an omega chore and therefore took him away from hockey.

Kallen couldn’t remember if anyone had ever told him that, but it felt different than it had with Levy. He did his best to focus on the task at hand and not let his mind wander to either his cooking instructor or the lack of communication from the legal profession.

It was almost a relief when his dad got home from work.

Kallen saw him pause when he caught sight of the apron he was still wearing and pressed his tongue to his palate to keepfrom making an excuse. But then his father stepped forward and dragged him into a hug—tight and without any back pounding.

When they separated, his dad was eyeing him carefully. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low, raspy. He wasn’t sure if it was a real question or just a greeting.

Then his father’s gaze fell along his body. “Your legs okay?”

Oh. He dropped his gaze, stiffening. Of course, his mother had told him about the paralysis, and it wasn’t like Kallen didn’twanthim to know. “I... It was only for a week.”

His father reached out and squeezed his shoulder, and Kallen nearly jumped out of his own skin. “It shouldn’t have happened at all,” he said, sounding angry.

Not at Kallen, he hoped, but he wasn’t sure. His dad hadn’t got angry often growing up, leaving that to his wife. Kallen’s mum, for all she was sweet and mild-mannered, could be pushed into a towering rage under the right circumstances. Graham Guin had much preferred to diffuse the situation with a joke, or simply dismiss any objections as easily overcome by willpower.

He couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. Of course it shouldn’t have happened, but did his dad mean that Kallen should have seen it coming and avoided it? Or that—

“We should talk, after dinner,” his dad said, cutting off his circling thoughts.

Dinner passed in a bit of a blur. His mum tried to draw him out, but gave up when Kallen couldn’t quite keep track of the conversation. The flight hadn’t been that long, but the experience of leaving his life behind had left him wrong-footed. He mostly wanted to grab a shower and go to bed, but of course now he had the conversation with his father hanging over his head. If he tried to postpone it, he’d probably spend all night tossing and turning.

At least he could be grateful that he was able to toss and turn now.

“I want to make you an appointment with Uncle Mike,” his mother told him, completely out of nowhere as far as he could tell.

Kallen raised his head. “What for?”

“Uncle Shel’s husband.” She pushed a plate of broccoli towards him, which he summarily ignored since she’d boiled it into mush as usual. “He’s a neurologist, remember?”

“I don’t need a neurologist.”

His mum sighed. “What would it hurt to check?”

He could have argued until the cows came home, but instead he told her the truth. “I think I need a psychologist.”

The surprise derailed her enough that he could go back to eating, and after that his dad started talking about Paul’s new job and they seemed to forget about him.

THE BOTTLE OF WHISKYon the coffee table announced that this was a serious conversation. Kallen nearly turned tail and walked out right then and there. But that would have been ridiculous, and even if he was tired and sad and all he wanted was to hide, he couldn’t bear to do that in front of his dad.

Not when he’d already disappointed him.

There were two tumblers on the table and with a glance of acknowledgement, his dad leaned over to pour. He pushed one of the glasses across the glass top. But instead of taking that seat, Kallen chose his mother’s favourite armchair to the side. He ignored the whisky, rubbing at his knees instead. He didn’t know why but all he could think was that his dad hadn’t even asked him if he wanted any.

It'd always been that way. The first time he’d drank hard liquor had been in celebration of being accepted to Gresham,and it’d felt like a reward. Then, of course, he’d almost spat it right out because whisky was averyacquired taste. One Kallen hadn’t in fact ever acquired; he only voluntarily drank it when he wanted to be intoxicated.

“Your mother told me about what happened. With your legs.”

Kallen glanced his way, swallowing. He still didn’t know what to say.

It wasn’t a problem, his dad did. “Your team should have been there for you. Your mother said all they did was send over anurse?” The way the last word dripped with disdain made Kallen want to speak up for Brad, who’d been integral to getting him out of his slump and out of the wheelchair both.

But his dad seemed to be on his side for once, and he was under no illusions Management had known Bradcouldhelp him beyond making sure his muscles didn’t atrophy.

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