Page 344 of The Lies We Play

He looks at me through the cage. “It’s always personal when my woman is watching—and my in-laws are judging.” The asshole smirks.

The linesman skates between us before I can say more.

I get it with thirty-eight seconds left, on a play that starts at the blue line and turns into a scramble low. Their D overloaded on the wall, our winger throwing it toward the slot because sometimes the ugliest play is the one that saves you.

The rebound kicks out.

Nobody sees it.

I do.

I’m alone in the slot with a puck the Orcas’ D hasn’t located.

For half a breath, there is no crowd.

No family.

No last season.

No future waiting for me to make a case.

Only puck, net, goalie.

I shoot.

Monty has located it.

Of course, he has.

His glove comes across his body without his head moving, which is the thing he does that has been getting him on highlight reels since he was twenty-three years old. The puck disappears into leather.

The whistle blows.

The building roars.

Monty stands out of his crouch with the puck in his glove and looks at me for one full second across the crease.

He says, “Tough luck.”

I say, “I hate you.”

“You don’t.” He laughs, and the Orcas win one-nothing.

Vesper’s home is in Lake Oswego, tucked behind trees and a gate that looks more private than pretentious, though Callaway Winthrop money has never met a boundary it couldn't improve with glass, security cameras, and a view of the water. The house sits low and wide against the rain, all warm wood and tall windows, the lake beyond it dark enough to make the lights inside feel softer. It’s beautiful in the way homes become beautiful when people have already started surviving in them.

We head over right after the interviews so we can have dinner with the family.

I tell myself that, like it’s simple.

Interviews. Dinner. Family.

Normal words.

Except Halston has been quiet in the car, his hand resting over Liv’s on the seat between us, and Liv has been pretending not to watch every house we pass as if she’s building an emergency exit map in her head. They’re both trying. I know they are. They said yes to this because I asked, because I told them my family isn’t like the Saint Claires. Because I told them my father would love them.

Still, telling someone they’re safe is different from watching them decide whether to believe you.

Vesper opens the door before I ring the bell.