CHAPTER 5

I stared at the open passenger door of the Lincoln Navigator, the warm, leather-scented air from the heater blowing out into the freezing street.

​Richard Callahan sat in the back seat, his hands resting casually on the silver head of his cane. He looked immaculate, wearing a tailored wool coat that cost more than my entire year of tuition. His grey hair was slicked back, his expression carrying the calm, terrifying poise of a man who owned everything he looked at.

​"I won't ask twice, Maya," Richard said, his voice smooth, completely devoid of the anger his son had just shown on the phone. "Get in. Before you catch pneumonia."

​My instinct screamed at me to turn and run. But where? My contract at State was suspended. My job at the Westbridge rink was gone. If I ran, I was running into a wall of debt and a ruined career.

​I swallowed my fear, stepped forward, and climbed into the back seat. The heavy door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the noise of the city, leaving only the quiet hum of the engine.

​"What do you want?" I asked, my voice cold as I pressed myself against the passenger door, keeping as much distance between us as possible.

​Richard didn't look at me. He tapped his cane against the floorboard, and the driver immediately pulled away from the curb, merging into the grey morning traffic.

​"I hear you're quite the analyst," Richard began, pulling a sleek, leather-bound folder from the pocket in front of him. "Daniel Vance was singing your praises to the athletic board. He said you have your father's eye for weak spots."

​"Is that why you threatened to sue them?" I demanded, my hands clenching into fists in my lap. "To prove you can ruin me?"

​"I don't need to prove anything, child," Richard said softly, finally turning his cold, grey eyes to mine. "I protect my investments. My son is about to be the number-one draft pick in the NHL. His profile must be flawless. And a disgruntled childhood friend whispering Westbridge playstyles to our fiercest rival is... a variable I cannot allow."

​"I wasn't selling secrets!" I snapped. "I did that analysis myself!"

​"It doesn't matter what you did," Richard murmured, leaning forward slightly. "It matters what I can prove in a court of law. And with my legal team, I can make sure you never step foot near an ice rink again. Your career in hockey will be over before it begins."

​The sheer coldness of his delivery made a shiver run down my spine. He wasn't angry. He was just cleaning a smudge off his shoe.

​"Why?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "Why do you care so much about keeping me away from Ryder?"

​Richard let out a soft, dry laugh. He opened the leather folder, revealing a crisp, white document covered in dense legal text.

​"Because of this," Richard said, pointing to the signature line at the bottom.

​My eyes locked onto the bold print at the top of the page: PRE-DRAFT ENDORSEMENT & MARITAL ALLIANCE AGREEMENT.

​"Bianca’s father owns the Chicago Bruins franchise," Richard explained, his voice dropping to a toxic whisper. "This contract guarantees Ryder’s draft position, a ten-million-dollar signing bonus, and securing a stake in the team. On one condition: Ryder remains tied to Bianca. Publicly, privately, and permanently."

​My heart stopped.

​"He signed it?" I breathed, the words tasting like ash. "Ryder signed this?"

​"Not yet," Richard smirked, his eyes gleaming with a sick, victorious light. "He's resisting. Because of his foolish, lingering guilt over you. He thinks he can protect you, keep you close, and still get his draft. But as long as you are near him, he is distracted."

​Richard slid the folder shut and slid it toward me.

​"I have a counter-offer for you, Maya. Sign a non-disclosure and non-association agreement. Leave Westbridge. I will pay off your student loans, fund a master's degree at any European university of your choice, and guarantee you a scouting position with the Munich team."

​He leaned back, his trap fully sprung.

​"Or, you can stay. And I will personally ensure your father's name is dragged through the mud, his coaching records audited, and your scholarship revoked by sunset."

​My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the leather folder resting between us on the seat. The sheer, suffocating weight of the choice pressed down on my chest until I couldn't breathe.

​Suddenly, the SUV’s tires screeched violently.

​The heavy vehicle lurched forward as the driver slammed on the brakes. I was thrown against the back of the front seat as the sound of a horn blared through the glass.

​Directly in front of our SUV, a heavy, beat-up black pickup truck had swerved across three lanes of traffic, cutting us off and forcing our driver to stop dead in the middle of the busy intersection.

​The driver's door of the pickup flew open.

​Ryder stepped out.

​He didn't have his skates on, but he still had his Westbridge practice jersey pulled over his chest, his face red with a terrifying, unbridled fury. He marched straight toward the passenger side of the SUV, his heavy boots slamming against the wet asphalt.

​He didn't hesitate. He grabbed the handle of the rear door and yanked it open, the freezing air rushing into the warm cabin.

​His dark eyes bypassed his father completely, locking onto my pale, terrified face.

​"Get out of the car, Maya," Ryder growled, his voice vibrating with a raw, dangerous command that made my heart leap.

​"Ryder, close the door," Richard said, his voice finally losing its calm, turning sharp and authoritative. "We are discussing her future."

​Ryder didn't even look at him. He reached into the back seat, his large, warm hand wrapping firmly around my wrist.

​"I said," Ryder whispered, his grip tightening protectively as he pulled me toward the open door, "get the hell out of my father's car."