Page 3 of Broken Blades

"Kane signed a puck for me. Personalized." Pride colored his voice. "I sponsor their youth training program—inner-city kids, equipment grants, ice time. The outreach director says we've enrolled two hundred kids this year alone."

I'd never seen him like this. Even when he'd closed the hospital deal last spring—the one that made the Times—he'd remained composed. Satisfied, but measured.

This was different. This was passion.

"They're hosting a masquerade next weekend," he continued. "Annual charity event. Black tie. The entire roster attends, plus major donors, media, potential investors." He met my eyes. "You should come with me."

"To a hockey event?"

"To a networking opportunity." The business tone slipped back in, but the enthusiasm remained. "Good for your visibility. Time people see you as part of the company, part of the community. The Serpents organization does incredible philanthropy work. These are the connections that matter."

He wanted me there. Not just for appearances—he genuinely wanted to share this with me.

"Okay." I nodded. "I'll go."

His smile widened. "Excellent. I'll have Marissa add you to the RSVP list."

Mother reached for her water glass again. Her hand was steady, her expression pleasant.

"You'll look stunning," she said.

But she was looking at her plate when she said it.

I pushed the thought away. This was important to Father. That was what mattered. I could network, make connections, show him I belonged in the world he'd built for me.

Father swirled the wine in his glass, studying the legs as they slid down the crystal. "When we're there, I'd caution you to avoid Wyatt Garrison."

I paused mid-reach for my water. "I thought he was your favorite player."

"Was." The word came sharp. "Trouble on the ice now. Temper. Used to be better before—" He stopped. Set the glass down with precision. "Before things fell apart."

But his jaw had tightened. That muscle near his ear, the one that only flexed during difficult negotiations.

"What happened to him?"

"He made poor choices."

The answer came too fast. Too flat. Like a door slamming shut.

Mother's fork clinked against her plate. She didn't look up, just pushed an asparagus spear from one side to the other, then back again.

The silence stretched. One breath. Two.

Father cleared his throat. "Anyway. The event will be excellent networking. I've invited several board members⁠—"

"Is there dessert?" Mother stood, already gathering plates even though Father hadn't finished. "I made that chocolate torte you used to love."

"Mom, I can help⁠—"

"No, no. You sit." Her smile was radiant. Perfect. "You just got home."

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Father and the weight of whatever had just passed between them.

Sports drama, I thought. Ego. Men being men.

I laughed—light, dismissive. "Sounds like every athlete I've ever met. Big talent, bigger head."

Father picked up his wine again but didn't drink. "Something like that."