Page 77 of Checks & Bonds

My finger hovered over Minka's name. I took a sip of coffee, the last bit of warmth doing little to soothe the chill in my chest. I couldn't bring myself to click it. I wasn't ready to face anyone, not even those who might be supportive.

The weight of everything crashed down on me, and before I knew it, my hand moved on its own accord. The coffee cup flew from my grasp, smashing against the wall. The dark liquid splattered everywhere, staining the pristine white tiles and running down in messy rivulets.

I burst into tears, my shoulders shaking as sobs wracked my body. How had everything gone so wrong? How could I ever fix this?

I sank to the floor, my knees pulled to my chest as I cried uncontrollably. The room around me blurred through my tears, every sound amplified in the oppressive silence that followed my outburst.

I didn't know how long I sat there, feeling utterly lost and alone. But one thing was clear: I'd made a mess of everything, and I didn't know if I could ever come back from it.

24

Henry

Morning skate left me drenched in sweat, my legs burning, muscles screaming for mercy. I pushed myself until exhaustion crept in, but it wasn't enough to drown out the frustration boiling inside me. My uncle’s threats gnawed at my thoughts, his actions like a cancer. As I left the ice, the chill air hit my face, but it did nothing to cool my temper.

In the locker room, I peeled off my pads and jersey, letting them drop to the floor with a wet thud. My teammates laughed and joked around me, but their voices felt distant. I shoved my gear into the duffel bag, yanked on a fresh shirt, and jammed my feet into sneakers. The mirror above the sink reflected a face hard with anger and resolve. No time for reflection now; I had something to take care of.

I slung the duffel over my shoulder and headed down the narrow hallway to Morgan's office. His door was ajar, light spilling into the dim corridor.

"Can we speak?" I leaned against the doorframe, trying to keep my voice steady.

Morgan looked up from his desk, eyes narrowing as he saw me. "Come in," he said, closing a folder on his desk and motioning to the chair opposite him.

I dropped into the chair, setting my bag on the floor beside me. The room smelled of old books and fresh coffee—comforting in a way that nothing else seemed to be right now.

"You look like hell," Morgan observed. "What's going on?"

Morgan leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His presence filled the room, larger than life. His dark hair was slicked back, and a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw. He tapped a stick—yes, an actual hockey stick—against the side of his desk, his eyes narrowing as he took me in.

"I can't make the game tonight," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The bat stopped mid-tap. Morgan's eyes flashed. "Are you kidding me? You realize what's at stake here?"

"I know," I said, feeling the weight of the duffel pressing against my leg. "But my uncle's forcing me to attend a board meeting that’ll decide on the future of my inheritance."

Morgan’s eyes went wide. "Well, fuck."

I nodded once, feeling the strain in my neck. "My grandfather entrusted me with his legacy. I can't… I can't let him down. I have to fight for it."

His face hardened. "And what about fighting for the Championship? That’s something you've been working towards your whole life."

My chest tightened at his words. The ice rink had always been my sanctuary, but this was different. This was blood and family, a promise I couldn’t break.

"I can’t let him down," I repeated.

Morgan's eyes bored into mine, searching for any sign of hesitation. "This doesn't have to do with the pictures, does it?"

I frowned, confusion creasing my forehead. "Pictures?"

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Look," he said, rubbing his temples. "I overheard Sinclaire talking in the hallway earlier..."

His voice trailed off, and he huffed, frustration evident in his eyes.

"Should probably just show you."

He sat up straight and started typing furiously on his keyboard. I watched as he navigated through folders and files with practiced ease. Finally, he turned the monitor so I could see it.

"They broke today, apparently," he said, his tone flat.

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