Chapter 4 — Heir of Ice

The will was one page.

Sienna had expected something heavy — clauses, subclauses and paragraphs that needed a lawyer to translate. Instead Peterson slid a single sheet across the desk, and it read like a man who had made up his mind a long time ago and saw no point in decorating it.

To my granddaughter, Sienna Bennett, I leave fifty-one percent of the Denver Renegades Hockey Club. I leave her also the house at the lake, the land it sits on, and every letter I ever wrote her mother that her mother never received.

One condition. She must keep the team for one full season before she may sell it. Not because I don’t trust her judgment. Because I want her to know where she comes from before she decides what to do with it.

If she chooses to walk away before the season is complete, Richard Cole holds the right to purchase her share at the assessed value at time of acquisition.

Peterson cleared his throat. “The assessed value at acquisition is significantly below current market—”

“I understood,” Sienna said.

“The condition is unconventional—”

“He wanted me to stay long enough to understand the family I came from.” Sienna looked up. “I understood that too.”

Peterson folded his hands. “Miss Bennett, I want to be clear. Richard Cole has forty-nine percent of this team. He has been running day-to-day operations since Mr. Whitlock’s health declined. He is… not going to be pleased.”

“No,” Sienna said. “I imagine he won’t be.”

Sienna called Tessa from the parking lot.

Tessa Moore had been Sienna’s best friend since the second week of college, when Sienna found her crying in a bathroom stall over a boy who wasn’t worth the tears and slid a granola bar under the door. Seventeen years of friendship had taught Sienna that Tessa processed shock in three stages — silence, swearing, and then clarity.

Right now they were deep in stage two.

“Say it again,” Tessa said.

“I own fifty-one percent of a professional hockey team.”

“Say the other part.”

“My grandfather was Henry Whitlock.”

“Sienna.”

“I know.”

“He built the Renegades.”

“I know.”

“Your ex-husband is the general manager of the Renegades.”

“Tessa, I am aware—”

“Grant Sinclair works for you.”

The parking lot was cold. Sienna’s breath came out in small white clouds.

“Yes,” Sienna said. “He does.”

A long pause.

“I need you to say that one more time,” Tessa said. “Slowly.”

“Grant Sinclair. My ex-husband. The man who called me a starter wife in front of a hundred plus people a few hours ago—”

“He works. For you.”

“As of tonight.”

Then Tessa laughed.

“Oh,” Tessa said. “That man has no idea.”

They met at Tessa’s kitchen table at two in the morning with the paperwork spread between the mugs.

Tessa had put on coffee and reading glasses, her mouth slightly pressed, head tilted.

“Walk me through the condition again,” Tessa said.

“One full season. I have to keep the team for one complete season before I can sell. If I leave before the season ends, Cole can buy me out cheap.”

“So Cole’s whole play is to make you quit,” Tessa said, half to herself. “He doesn’t have to win. He just has to make you want to lose.”

“That’s how I read it.”

Tessa tapped her pen on the table. “So every bad thing that’s going to happen — every rumor, every headache, every reason to walk away — that’s him. Not to destroy you. To exhaust you.”

“Probably.”

“And the mystery donor who paid for your scholarship was your grandfather, who knew who you were the whole time and never said anything.”

“Yes.”

“And the photos in that folder—”

“Two years, Tess.”

The table went quiet. Tessa took her glasses off and set them down carefully.

“Come here,” Tessa said.

“I’m fine—”

“I didn’t ask.” Tessa pushed her chair out, stood up, and put her arms around Sienna from behind, her chin on Sienna’s shoulder, and held on the way you hold someone when the right words haven’t been invented yet.

Sienna sat very still.

“Two years,” Sienna repeated.

“I know, baby.”

“I practiced this speech. About wanting to try again. I actually practiced it.”

“I know.”

“In the mirror.”

“Sienna—”

“Four words. I want us to try again. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror like a—”

“Stop.” Tessa squeezed tighter. “Stop. He’s done. He’s gone. He’s somebody who works for you now, and you don’t owe him a single more word — not even in your own head.”

Sienna let herself be held for a minute. The kitchen clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed.

“Sign it,” Tessa said eventually. “Sign the papers. One season. You give it one season and then you decide.”

“I don’t know anything about hockey.”

“You don’t know anything about hockey yet.”

“Tessa, the team is probably last in the standings—”

“Are you a Whitlock or not?”

A long pause.

“Apparently,” Sienna said.

“Then act like it. Sign the papers. Show up Monday. And let every single person in that building figure out what Hank Whitlock already knew — that his granddaughter did not come to lose.”

Sienna signed at nine the next morning.

Peterson shook Sienna’s hand with two hands.

By that afternoon someone had talked. Not Marty — Marty was a vault. Someone at the law office, probably, because the news broke before dinner.

MYSTERY HEIR INHERITS CONTROLLING STAKE IN DENVER RENEGADES

Sienna watched the alert cross her phone at her kitchen table, still in her pajamas, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.

Then a voicemail notification appeared.

Grant. His name on her screen.

Sienna thought of deleting it. But decided to go through it.

“Sienna, it’s me.” The voice of a man who didn’t know he was nothing to her anymore. “I know things are tense right now, and I don’t want that between us. I heard about this Whitlock situation — whoever this mystery heir is, they’re going to need guidance. I’ve been running this team’s front office for three years, and I know every room in that building. If you have any connections to whoever inherited—” A pause. “Just have them call me. I can help. I will love to help.”

Grant didn’t know yet.

He had called his starter wife to ask her to connect him to his new boss, and he did not know those were the same person.

Sienna set the phone down on the table.

Then Sienna smiled.

It started small and kept going, and by the end of it Sienna was shaking her head at the ceiling and laughing in the particular way of a woman who has just watched the universe pick up a tab she’d been dreading.

Sienna picked up her phone and opened her contacts, scrolled to Peterson’s number, and typed a text.

“I’ll be in the boardroom Monday morning. Nine a.m. Please make sure Mr. Sinclair is there. Don’t inform him about my arrival.”

Sienna pressed send.

Then she went to find her red lipstick.

  She was going to need it on Monday.