Page 89 of The Charlie Method

“I’m going to leave now,” Shane says, and then he brazenly just…leaves.

Ryder, Beck, and I remain, somehow locked into this conversation despite the precedent Shane just set. We could hurry up and throw our pads on, but nobody does.

“Uh, I can text him later if you want,” Ryder tells our new assistant coach.

“Do it now. I’ll wait.”

“Um. Yeah. Okay, bro. Sure.” Ryder gives us a look, then reaches for his phone.

After practice, I shower and change into my street clothes and drive back to Hastings. I chose Della’s as the venue for our interview because I don’t want some random DC journalist over at my house.

The bell above the door dings when I enter. I stop, scanning the brightly lit diner until my gaze lands on the likeliest candidate for out-of-towner. The woman in the back booth has that city feel to her. Glossy, perfectly styled hair, impeccable makeup, and a white silk blouse that looks tailored to her slight frame.

She notices me at the door and lifts her hand in a brisk wave.

I unzip my coat as I walk toward the booth, nodding hello on my approach. “Ms. Diaz?”

“Call me Tessa,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Will.”

I don’t think it’s meant as a jab, but it’s definitely a reminder that I’ve been putting this off for weeks now.

The last thing I want to do is sit down for an interview, but this is my lot in life. To be jerked around like a marionette on a stage, my father peering down at me as he pulls my strings.

Tessa Diaz seems like a nice enough woman. Closer to my age than I expected—she can’t be a day older than twenty-five. But she’s still a political operative. A fixture in the DC media.

In other words, she can’t be trusted.

I settle in the seat across from her, running a hand through my hair to smooth it out after the November wind just had its way with it. I order a coffee when the waitress pops over, then make small talk with Tessa until my cup is filled.

Tessa places her phone face up on the table, open to a recording app. “Do you mind if I tape this?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Great. Thank you.” She hits the Record button. “So. Will. Tell me about your mother.”

I give her a rueful smile. “I thought this was supposed to be about hockey. Because that prompt feels dangerously close to a therapy session with a stranger.”

She flashes a perfect, white smile. “Only if you have deep-seated issues about your mother.”

“No,” I say, chuckling. “I don’t. To be honest, I remember very little about her.”

“You were young when she died. Five?”

“Four.”

“That must have been tough.”

“Again, I don’t remember much. After she died, Dad hired a few nannies. I only really remember one—Jodie. She was nice.” I shrug. “And then about a year later, he met Kelsey. A year after that, he married her.”

“Yes. Your stepmother, Kelsey Lowen. She has an impressive résumé. Well-respected in the law circles. How do you feel about her?”

“Seriously, aren’t we supposed to be talking about hockey?”

“We’re talking about everything. I like to form a complete picture of the person I’m profiling.”

“Remind me again why I’m being profiled?”

“Well, technically, your father is being profiled.”

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