Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (15 page)

C

M

“You got this, buddy.” Brian smacks the top of my helmet.

“Make the plays like we did the practicing,” Sergei says.

Coach Isaacs locks his gaze on me and gives me a steady nod. “Drakonov. Wright. You’re on first string, with Magnussen and Vaughn on defense.”

First string. Good for me. If only I didn’t feel seconds from vomiting into my helmet.

Fiona knows. She knows exactly the sort of monster I am; the awful potential for pain and damage that lurks within me. And as horrible as it is, I’m even more angry about the fact that she went behind my back to learn it.

If she would have just asked . . .

If she’d asked me . . .

What? What would I have done—honestly? Lied. Ducked the question with a goofy joke. Or called her jealous, insecure, catty, clingy, all those bad tags we slap on girls who care too much. Who want to pry into the past and see what ghosts still cling to us in the present.

Maybe I was too cruel. No, scratch that—I know I was. I’ve always been too cruel. I’ve always pushed too hard.

I clip my helmet into place and hop onto the ice for the first face-off.

*

Five minutes in, and Sergei and I are lined up for the perfect opportunity, flying down the ice toward the Miami Hurricanes’ goal. I glance at the Miami goalie, trying to get a quick read on him, though I don’t know his moves as well as I know Brian’s, of course. His eyes dart left, right, checking his defender’s positions as well as Sergei’s and my trajectory, plus our right winger.

There—he sees Sergei lining up, like he’s just waiting for me to pass him the puck. Sergei’s committing fully to the play. But I have to trust that the better move, here, is for me to shoot instead.

And I let the puck fly.

Too late, the goalie’s mitt flies up, and my puck sails neatly right over it and plinks into the net. The sirens wail and the crowd roars.

“This is the thing I am telling you to do.” Sergei slams me against the boards in a celebratory hug. “
Molodets!
”

But we’ve got a long way to go. I don’t get much play time in the second period; I try to pay attention to the action on the ice, but my mind keeps whirling with thoughts of Fiona and Rajani. Sitting together. Regarding one another. As they watch me. Rajani’s language processing centers are pretty out of whack, according to the neurologist, but she understands the language of sports pretty well. She can, with some effort, make her intentions known, even if she can’t vocalize them. If anyone can find a way to communicate with her, it’s Fiona.

God damned Fiona. That girl can find a way to break through anyone’s defenses and get her message across. I want to admire her tenacity in chasing down her story, but it stings too much.

The worst part is, I want so desperately to forgive her. To get rid of all this pain. Just wrap her up in my arms and let her tell me I’m not a bad person, that I’m not a monster. But I am. And she had no right to dig up my secrets on her own.

Third period rolls around, and I’m back on the ice, right out of the gate. Sergei and I fight hard and brutal, but the Hurricanes are hungry, trying to make up their one-goal deficit, and the puck keeps winding up on our side of the rink. Coach pulls me as soon as the Hurricanes land a power play, but he tells me and Sergei to attack the moment we hit the ice again.

Brian withstands the power play, and we’re up.

The puck glides from Erik Magnussen to me.

Sergei lines up for the shot.

I check the Hurricanes goalie—is he watching me, or Drakonov?

And then I remember Fiona’s face—the fear in her eyes as I told her what I’d done—

—And Rajani. Her lips gray. Cold.

I fling the puck away. The Hurricanes swoop in for it. Fortunately Magnussen is there to whisk it away and shuttle it over to Sergei. But that was close. So close.

And in that moment, everything Fiona’s told me, everything Victoria said, and everyone else—it all snaps into place.

This is too great for me to carry on my own.

*

“Nice work, Wright,” Coach Isaacs tells me, after Sergei scores the winning goal and everyone’s winding down in the locker room. I’m taking my time, undressing as slow as I can, not looking forward to heading home alone.

No texts awaiting me from Fiona.

There’s nothing anymore.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“You’re almost there. You’ve made huge improvements in the past few weeks.” He glances over her shoulder as the rest of the guys shuffle out. “If you can keep your head in the game, we’ll be set.”

“If,” I echo.

He nods. “You’re distracted. Undo the distraction, and everything else will work as it ought. Your fundamentals are there now. I can see them, just below the surface. But that surface?” He shakes his head. “Whatever it is, I need you to clear it up.”

C

F

They call it “flow,” when you hit this perfect balance between ability and challenge, and you can get locked onto a task for hours and hours on end. I call it denial, but the end result is the same. My fingers are flying across the keyboard, my notes are perfectly embedded in my brain, and the martini on the desk beside me (extra dirty) goes largely untouched.

I ruined the best thing I had in my life—Marcus—to get this story. I’d better do it some flipping justice.

It only takes one day to get the whole story out. Another day to edit it. And then I pound a martini and send out three copies before I can stop myself.

One to Mum and Gunther Bernhardt at Insight.

One to the head of Astro News.

And one to Marcus Wright.

Then I sleep for what feels like days, until only the incessant buzzing of my phone pulls me back awake.

*

m

It takes all my willpower not to delete Fiona’s email unread. But I have to know just what sort of story she’s decided to tell.

She’s tucked away in the mountains of central Virginia like a secret. A beautiful girl, shrewd-eyed, determined, maybe even a little stubborn. We’ll call her R. She cannot speak for herself. She suffers from the aftereffects of severe brain hypoxia, the result of prolonged oxygen deprivation, an injury she sustained in college.

Injury. Like it was an accident. Like I didn’t do this to her.

R was a member of a sexual fetish community called BDSM, short for bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism. She enjoyed playing the role of the” dominant” and the “submissive” both. But like many newcomers to the scene, who were just starting to explore their own inner inclinations—ones usually long-hidden from lovers and family members alike—she and her boyfriend let eagerness, for each other and for their newfound passion for kink, eclipse the crucial need for safety.

I swallow back a cry. Fucking Fiona. Of course she would find a way to strike the perfect balance—blaming me, but not vilifying me. It’s more than I deserve. Far more.

I keep reading, transfixed by her words. She manages to stay detached from the story, almost, but does let her emotions slip in the rawest moments of the tale. She’s been very careful to remove anything that might identify the story’s players, but I know how to find myself in her words. I’m not painted wholly sympathetically, I suppose, but rather as a kid who didn’t know any better. Overeager and desperate to please. Welcoming whatever punishment came my way.

Because she knows me. She knows me far better than I even know myself.

The article continues, describing further research Fi must have done into the BDSM scenes. She’s very careful not to condemn people for their kinks, while still highlighting the many dangers that kinksters face—psychopaths, dangerous play, unsafe practices, and the perils of trying too long to adopt a role that doesn’t actually suit you.

She culminates with the story of David and Andy—again, no names, but I recognize them immediately. Against the backdrop of David’s controlling and abusive nature, she paints the story of what happened to Rajani as a tragedy. Nothing less, and nothing more.

Absolution.

At least, the start of it.

I sink down on my couch—apparently, I read the whole article on my phone, standing up—and stare out at the early dawn kissing the icy Potomac River. Fiona wants to tell my story to the world, but she doesn’t want to make me a villain. But if I’m not wholly to blame, then who am I? She can’t possibly be doing this out of kindness—that certainly isn’t her style. And it’s why I—

—It’s why I love her.

Fuck.

I type out a hasty reply.

This is perfect.

You are perfect.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be perfect for you.

And hit send before I have a chance to think better of it.

I call up my car service and gather my gym bag for morning practice. But I think I’ll show up early today. Burn off this restless energy on the treadmill.

And maybe, just maybe, stop by the sports therapist’s office, too.

*

f

I’m puzzling over just how to respond to Marcus’s email when the incoming Skype call arrives.

I groan and try frantically to smoothe down my hair. I look an absolute disaster—I’ve hardly slept in the past two days. I’ve been researching, interviewing, reviewing, writing, editing in a whirlwind of activity. As much as the good, long sleep did me some good, I’m in desperate need of a shower and a good half-hour with a blow dryer and curling iron.

But then I remember Mum is probably peeing in a chamber pot and bathing with a sponge in some bombed-out husk of a building, where the power’s been off for months, and I don’t feel so bad.

“Hi, Mum.” I force cheer into my groggy voice as I accept the call.

“Fiona Agatha Callahan.” Her face fills the entire screen as her lips curl back in a snarl. “What in the bloody hell is the matter with you?”

“Sorry, I just woke up, and I—oh.” Fear spikes through me, stronger than a double shot of coffee. Now I’m awake. “Oh. I, uh, guess you read my story.”

“I read that bloody
travesty
of clickbait provocative rubbish you deigned to deposit in my inbox. What the devil has gotten into you?”

Mum is radiant in her anger, glowing orange on my screen in whatever late afternoon sun is caressing her face. Her eyes are sharp, focused. Mum lives for outrage. She thrives on it. It’s always been this way with her, and always shall it be.

And you know what?

I don’t care anymore.

My mother is going to be angry with me no matter what I do. Whether I’m trying (and, inevitably, failing) to please her and live up to her exacting standards. Or if I’m doing what makes me happiest. It’s always going to come up short. She’s always going to be angry.

So I might as well do what’s going to make me happiest.

“I wrote the story I wanted to write,” I reply, coolly as I can.

Too late, I realize it’s the same tone I would adopt with Marcus in our ‘scenes.’ Cold, detached, ruthless, and in control. My favorite persona to wear. But why not turn it on Mum? She’s the one who taught me to be this way.

“Gunther is appalled.
Appalled
by this, Fiona. He wanted a brutal examination of the existing—”

“Existing power structures, blah blah, global inequality. But you know what, Mum? The world isn’t zero sum.”

“Excuse me, but I wasn’t finished speaking, Fiona—”

“Yes, Mum, but I already know what you’re going to say.”

She sits back, eyes narrowed to knife slits.

“You want me to be like you. You want me to write like you, think like you, and follow you. You don’t want a daughter to be proud of—you want a clone, so Brigid Callahan can accomplish twice as much in the same time.”

“That’s nonsense,” Mum snaps. “I’ve always encouraged you to pursue your own passions—”

“But only as hobbies. Diversions. Never as anything more.” I shake my head. “I have to find my own path, Mum. Yours is already taken.”

She blinks, flustered, lips working to try to build up a retort. But I just smile at her.

“If Gunther doesn’t like my story, then I understand. I have other options I’m pursuing. I’m going to write about whatever makes me passionate. Even if it is sensationalist clickbait.” I shrug. “Keep writing your stories, Mum. You do it best. And I’ll do mine.”

“This discussion is
not
over, Fiona. Don’t you dare hang up on me—”

“Good luck with your rebel leader, Mum.”

I hit End Call.

And sink back into bed to sleep for another three hours.

*

“Yes, my name is Nina, calling for Miss Callahan?”

I sit bolt upright. “This is she.”

“Hi, Fiona. I’m Nina, the executive assistant for Ryan down at Insight Media’s headquarters in Washington. Is this a good time to talk?”

I scrub the sleep out of my eyes, cover the phone speaker, and yawn. “Yes, now is fine.”

“Excellent. I just wanted to let you know that Ryan loved your human interest piece. He thinks it’s exactly the sort of balanced and nuanced examination of modern life that Insight Media wants to be known for. Would you be free this afternoon to come by and speak with him?”

“—Ryan? He wants to speak with me?”

I suddenly feel the urge to throw up.

“Yes, that’s correct. Is two o’clock okay?”

I check the clock on my phone. Twelve-thirty. If I grab a quick shower, stuff my face—“Yes, two is perfectly fine.”

“Excellent. We’ll see you then.”