Page 53 of Pucking Knox
I turn on my heel and head to my bedroom. I grab whatever I can fit in my gym bag, trying not to look at the evidence of Kennedy everywhere – her textbooks on my desk, her favorite blanket on my bed, a half-empty bottle of her shampoo in my shower.
When I’m heading to the door, Ace says, "You were never good enough for her. Stay the fuck away from her, and I mean it."
"Not a problem."
My phone buzzes when I reach my truck.
Dad: Need money. Now. Or I tell everyone about Christmas 2019. About what you helped cover up.
I delete it without responding. His threats feel hollow now – what's one more scandal when I've already lost everything that matters?
The truck is cold but familiar. I've slept in it before, back when Dad's rages got too bad and mom was...
No.
But the memory comes anyway, brutal and unwanted.
I'm sixteen. Dad passed out on the couch, empty bottles everywhere. Nothing unusual.
Except mom's closet is empty.
Except there's a note on my pillow.
Except she left me here with him.
"She'll come back," Dad says when he wakes up. "They always come back."
But she didn't. She never did. And something in me learns: people leave. People break. Love isn't enough to save anyone.
I slam my fist into the steering wheel, then again, and again until pain shoots up my arm. The physical hurt is better than remembering. Better than thinking about Kennedy's face when I pushed her away. Better than admitting Ace is right.
My phone lights up with notifications. Not my father this time – Grey is sending me the news.
SENATOR'S DAUGHTER IN BAR FIGHT DRAMA
NHL PROSPECT'S VIOLENT MELTDOWN
The photos are everywhere. Kennedy reaching for me while I bleed and rage. Kennedy walking away while I self-destruct. Kennedy looking so strong and broken at the same time.
I throw my phone into the passenger seat and try to sleep. But every time I close my eyes, I see her – in my jersey at games, in bed at the beach house, in my heart where I never meant to let her stay.
Morning brings more consequences.
My head is throbbing. My face is fucked with bruises. My knuckles…won’t even go there.
Practice is a disaster. Ace is going extra hard on me. I'm slow, unfocused, missing passes I could make in my sleep. Coach pulls me aside.
"Last night at Murphys? You’re lucky you’re not sitting in a jail cell right now! Whatever's going on with you and the senator's daughter," he says carefully, "Fix it. Scouts are noticing."
As if on cue, Wilson appears.
"Thompson." His usual friendly tone is gone. "We need to talk about last night."
The talk is short, brutal. Words like "liability" and "character concerns" and "draft stock falling" wash over me like ice water.
"Fix this," Wilson says finally. "The combine is in four days. Show us you can handle pressure better than bar fights and public meltdowns."
But how do I fix any of it?
