Page 6 of Pucking Knox
Chapter 3
My father's campaign manager orders my eggs before I can even sit down.
"Egg whites only," Patricia says to the waitress, not looking up from her tablet. "No toast."
I want to order chocolate chip pancakes just to spite her, but my hangover won't let me think about food. Last night's confrontation with Knox has left me with a headache that even four Advil’s can't touch.
"Kennedy." My father's voice carries that particular tone – the one that means I've already disappointed him without even speaking. "That jersey is hardly appropriate for Sunday brunch."
I look down at my hockey jersey – technically Ace’s, but I stole it years ago. I'd paired it with a respectable skirt and heels, but apparently that's not enough for the weekly Walters Family Photo Op.
"Sorry, Daddy." The words taste like ash. "I had an early study group and didn't have time to change."
He sighs, clearly not believing me. Ace raises an eyebrow from across the table, probably thinking about where I really was last night. At least Knox kept his mouth shut about the last party.
"Actually," Patricia says as the waitress sets down our drinks, "we need to discuss some recent concerns."
My mother stirs her coffee quietly. She never intervenes in these conversations anymore.
"The polls came in yesterday." Patricia slides her tablet across the table. "Our message is resonating strongly with voters, particularly with families. Your father's stance on traditional values, education, and community leadership is exactly what we want to emphasize this quarter."
I stare at my egg whites, already knowing where this is going.
"However," she continues, "we've noticed some... concerning social media activity lately. You've been tagged in several party photos."
"I'm in college," I say carefully. "Everyone goes to parties."
"Not everyone is a senator's daughter." My father sets down his coffee cup. "Patricia has been monitoring mentions of our family online. The drinking, the parties, the... provocative clothing choices. It needs to stop."
"What your father means," Patricia interjects smoothly, "is that we need you to maintain a lower profile this semester. Focus on your studies. Avoid the party scene. No questionable entanglements that could surface later."
I push my eggs around my plate. "So basically stay home and study every weekend?"
"Is that so unreasonable?" My father's voice has an edge now. "We're not asking you to be a nun, Kennedy. Just to show some discretion. No more wild parties. No hookups that could come back to haunt us. You have a responsibility to this family."
"What about Ace?" I glance at my brother, annoyed that he’s the favorite and can get away with anything. I look back at my father. "What if I don't want that responsibility?"
"Then perhaps you don't need to attend such an expensive private university." He says it casually, like he's not threatening my entire future. "State schools have perfectly adequate programs."
The threat hits harder than expected. He knows this university is my dream – knows I chose it specifically to be close to Ace, to have some semblance of family that doesn't feel suffocating.
"You can't be serious."
"Deadly." He turns to Ace. "And you – the fighting at games needs to be reined in. We can't have videos of brawls going viral right now."
I tune out as Patricia lectures my brother about hockey violence. I lean back, relieved it’s not just me being told how to live my life. Yet my mind is spinning, anger simmering beneath my hangover. They want to control everything – where I go, what I wear, who I spend time with. All for the sake of some perfect political image.
My phone buzzes. It's Liam’s fifth text from his iPad email asking if I've seen his phone. He probably left it at our placeagain after brunch prep. Sure enough, when I get up to use the restroom, I find it wedged between the couch cushions.
I'm about to text him from my phone when a notification pops up on his screen. It's a video from one of his teammates with the caption:Knox’s parking lot throwdown from last weekend.
My fingers move before I can think better of it.
The video is dark but clear enough. Knox, illuminated by parking lot lights, squaring up against some huge guy outside Murphy's Bar. The fight is brutal, efficient – nothing like the controlled violence of his on-ice battles. This is pure rage, the kind that would terrify NHL scouts.
The kind that could ruin his draft chances if it got out.
I send the video to myself, then delete the evidence from Liam’s phone. An idea starts forming – probably stupid, definitely dangerous, but perfect.
