Page 101 of Break the Ice
That’s a shared fault of ours—the hardheadedness we’ve inherited in the Golding gene pool. Nobody ever wants to back down; they damn sure don’t want to admit when they’re wrong.
In this moment, Colt represents Dad. He’s the vessel in which Dad’s manipulating me, seeking to control me like he’s always tried. Colt might think his intentions are noble, but if he’s a participant in Dad’s scheme to rein me in, then he’s culpable. He’s just as much an enemy as Dad.
We’re about ten miles out, the sky starting to golden with signs of dusk, when I lose the last of my patience.
“You going to tell me what’s so damn important Dad sent you?”
“Who says it’s important?”
“Cut the shit. Dad wouldn’t have you come fetch me if it wasn’t.”
Colt hesitates first, like he’s weighing positives and negatives. “He’s been concerned.”
“That sounds a lot like his problem, not mine.”
“Then tell him that to his face. I’m not in the middle of the feud you two have.”
“You wouldn’t be if you had a backbone. I can’t say that’s the case.”
Colt bites on his jaw and refrains from saying another word for the rest of the drive. He walks far ahead when we’ve arrived at the estate. We travel down the stone runway that winds along the thicket of trees and shrubbery.
Dad’s estate is regularly crowned the biggest in the state of Washington. Sixty-thousand square feet with a built-in ice rink, seven car garages, a private library larger than most family homes, and nobody else around for miles.
All by design, located on a huge chunk of land, surrounded by the green beauty Washington state’s known for. Dad had the ranch-style mansion built the year he’d retired from the NHL. Colt was entering jr. high school. I was a moody, dissatisfied kid still not over mom’s absence.
Dad’s betrayal for treating her so poorly, she chose herself above all else and left.
With her gone, he turned his poor treatment on Colt and me.
…onto me most of all.
Even walking up the front steps feel loaded with bad memories and childhood trauma I hate dwelling on. Stuff I’ve never let myself drudge up because there’s no use.
But I’m also acutely aware that it’s the reason I’m the way I am today—why I’m such an asshole, a woman like Marisse would never give me a real chance. Can I blame her?
As many games as I play, as manipulative as I’ve been with our deal, I’m aware she’d want nothing to do with me otherwise.
…and I’d prefer for that not to be the case.
Marisse is erased from my thoughts the second we step into the wood-paneled den where Dad displays his prized hunting trophies—a dozen different heads of deer and elk. The rest of the room’s no less stereotypical. He’s got a pile of freshly cut wood next to the flickering fireplace and a flannel throw blanket folded over the leather sofa.
It’s a dedication to his love for the outdoors. Even if he’s spent years building his business empire.
Last but my least, his hockey tributes, like his famed pair of lucky hockey skates he was wearing the night he won the Stanley Cup. The pair’s enshrined in a glass case nailed to the wall as if it’s his own version of a museum.
Dad turns away from the fireplace. The lines crinkle around his eyes when he spots me with Colt. “I’m glad you’ve shown up. It’s been too long. How about we have a drink?”
“I’m not staying,” I answer.
“Well, why not?” Dad glances at Colt and then back at me. “This was supposed to be a family dinner.”
“Not interested.”
The humor vanishes from Dad’s face. The crease in his brow deepens. “Get your head out of your ass for one night, Rafe. We’re family and family bonds trump everything. But time and time again you try to separate yourself. Don’t you see we’re the only ones who’ve got your back?”
“I don’t need anybody to have my back. That includes you, Dad.” I gesture to Colt who’s fallen quiet and lingers in the background as a spectator. “He said you’ve been concerned about me. Which is why you brought me here tonight. Is this because you’re worried your current cash cow’s going to say fuck off when my contract ends?”
“How dare you imply this is about money!”
