Chapter 12

I walked through our front door with the same miserable loop playing in my head: Do I take Michael's deal and walk straight back into a lion den of bullies just to keep my secret safe? Or do I try to save whatever tiny shred of dignity I have left and let Nathan leak the video to the whole school?

It was a stupid choice. It should have been easy. Walk away, keep your peace. But instead I was standing in the hallway, paralyzed by the realization that I was trapped between acting like a complete puppet or letting my entire life blow up.

"Hey, you are finally home. Did you eat yet?"

I stopped at the edge of the kitchen, blinking against the sudden brightness. Hudson was sitting alone at the marble counter, presiding over a mountain of food. Platters of steak, roasted potatoes, and takeout boxes covered every square inch of the surface. The rich smell of grilled meat and butter hit my nose, but it only made my stomach twist in knots.

Was he planning to feed an entire hockey team by himself?

"What is all this?" I asked, dropping my backpack onto the nearest chair with a heavy thud.

Hudson pushed himself up from the stool with a grin so wide it looked painful. He practically bounced over to me. "The NHA just invited me to play in Washington! And that is not even the best part. The NHL sent an inquiry! They want to talk about locking me into their development league right out of high school!"

He was practically glowing, his chest puffed out with the kind of untouchable pride that only elite athletes get to wear. Despite everything, despite the exhaustion dragging me down to my bones, a small, genuine smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. I loved my stepbrother. I really did.

"Damn, Hudson. That is huge. I am happy for you."

"It is not just for me," he said, his voice dropping into that serious, reverent tone he always used when he tried to sound like a mature team captain. "It is for our family. Dad would be so proud of where we are taking this name."

The moment he said Dad, the air in the kitchen went dead.

A cold, heavy weight dropped straight into my stomach. I missed him. God, I missed him so much it physically ached. I missed the sound of his heavy boots echoing in the mudroom, the bitter smell of cold ice mixed with fresh sweat, and the rough, calloused grip of his hands on my shoulders when he used to teach me how to lift a puck top-shelf.

But remembering him always came with a bitter, burning poison. Because the second Dad died out there on the ice, my real life ended. And the family had to bring in an adopted son, somebody with the raw, aggressive drive they needed, to carry on the sacred Monette legacy because the actual blood-related son locked his skates in a dusty box and refused to ever look at them again.

"That is why we are celebrating tonight," Hudson kept going, completely missing the dark spiral happening inside my head as he grabbed my shoulder and steered me toward the counter. "Once I sign that official contract, our lives change forever. No limits."

I pulled out a chair and sat down, rolling my eyes so hard it hurt. "You mean your life."

Hudson sat across from me and let out a smug little chuckle. "Yours too, Niel. Think about it. The brand deals, the money, the massive legacy. Everyone in this house rides the wave of what I do on that rink. As my brother, you get a blank check. After graduation, you can pick whatever Ivy League school you want. You will never have to work a day in your life."

He said it like he was handing me a golden ticket. Like I was supposed to drop to my knees and thank him for securing my future just because he knew how to slap a piece of vulcanized rubber into a net.

"Good for you, then," I muttered, grabbing a fork and stabbing a piece of potato.

Hudson leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, narrowing his eyes at me with that irritating big brother concern. "Are you honestly sure you do not want to play? Dad taught you everything. I have seen you mess around in the private rink when you thought nobody was watching. You are genuinely great, Niel. If you just stopped hiding, you would not have to play the pathetic invisible nerd at school, and..."

"Stop right there."

My voice cut through the kitchen like a sharp knife. I dropped my fork against the ceramic plate with a loud, ringing sound.

I did not want to hear it. I did not want him anywhere near the heavy locks I had put over my past.

"You have your career," I said, staring straight into his eyes until his smile faltered. "Leave me out of it. Keep hockey out of my life. Completely."

It was a sacred promise I made to myself the exact day they lowered my father into the ground. Hockey took him from me. It ate him alive and spat him out in a box. I swore on his memory that it would never take me, too.

Hudson held up both hands in defense, though his jaw was tight. "Fine. Have it your way. I was just trying to throw you a lifeline."

He turned back to his plate, and the kitchen fell back into a heavy, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of his silverware against the china.

I stared down at my food, my appetite completely gone. I chewed slowly, but the food tasted like dry dirt in my mouth. As Hudson kept eating across from me, his mind already living in a future of packed stadiums and lights, my own mind began to spin into a dark, terrifying trail of what ifs.

What if I had actually stayed on the ice? What if I had never given up my skates after Dad died?

If I had embraced my bloodline instead of hiding behind these oversized glasses, I would not be sitting here as the invisible, quiet stepbrother eating leftovers in the dark. I would be standing right next to Hudson under the blinding stadium lights. I would be the crown jewel of Fiat Locke Academy, the legendary son of Hillary Monette whose name every single scout whispered in awe.

If I really played hockey, what kind of life would I be facing right now?

I would not be Nathan's target. A blackmailer like him would never dare touch me, because I would have the power to destroy his entire athletic career with a single word. Michael would not look at me with cold disgust or talk down to me like I was scum on his shoe. He would look at me with raw respect, maybe even fear, as his greatest rival on the ice. I would walk into the locker room, and everyone would clear a path for me. I would not be a water boy carrying heavy buckets for people who hated me. I would be the king of the rink.

The thought was intoxicating, but it hit me with a sharp wave of fear that made my chest feel tight.

Because being that guy meant stepping into the blinding spotlight. It meant living under the crushing weight of my father's memory every single day, with thousands of eyes waiting for me to make one mistake, waiting for me to fail just like he did. Hiding as a nerd was miserable, but at least nobody expected anything from a ghost.

A sharp, sudden buzz against my thigh pulled me right out of my head.

My phone was vibrating in my pocket. A single, vicious vibration that felt like a shock to my skin.

I slipped my hand under the edge of the table and pulled it out. The screen lit up in the dim light underneath the counter. No contact name. Just a text from a number I had memorized like a curse.

Decision time, water boy. Practice starts at 5 AM. Don't be late, or the video goes live.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird, a hot, suffocating pulse beating right in my throat. I stared at the glowing letters until the screen faded to black, leaving behind only the dim reflection of my own wide, terrified eyes.

Hudson was sitting right across from me, talking about national glory, billionaire contracts, and bright futures, completely blind to the fact that my entire world was collapsing two feet away from him.

I slid the phone back into my pocket, my knuckles turning bone white where I gripped the edge of the table. I looked up at my stepbrother, who was already back to happily eating his steak, completely wrapped up in his own perfect world.

I hated being pushed around. I hated the thought of bowing down to Michael or letting Nathan treat me like a piece of dirt under his shoe. But looking at the brutal reality of what would happen if that video hit the student forum tomorrow morning, I realized I did not have the luxury of choice. 

I hate this damn life I have.