Page 2 of Price of Victory
“What?”
“You know. You come from money. That Morrison name opens doors.”
I grimaced. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. Someone who’s interested in my trust fund.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” I pushed a fry around on my plate. “I just prefer doing things my own way. If someone’s going to beinterested in me, I want it to be because of me, not because of who my dad is.”
Lennox was quiet for a moment. “You know most people don’t even know who your dad is, right? You keep that pretty close to the vest.”
He was right. I’d worked hard to keep my family background separate from my college life. I lived in the dorms instead of getting my own place, and I’d never mentioned Morrison Media Group to anyone on the team. As far as most people knew, I was just another hockey player on scholarship.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Lennox continued. “You’re so determined to prove you can do everything yourself that you don’t let anyone get close enough to know the real you.”
“The real me?”
“Yeah. The guy who calls his mom every Sunday, who remembers everyone’s birthday, who spent his entire winter break volunteering at that youth hockey camp, even though you didn’t have to.”
I hadn’t realized he’d noticed that last part.
“I’m just saying,” Lennox went on, “you’re a good guy, Rhett. And you deserve to be happy. Look at Easton and Jace, Elio and Jaxon, Patrick and Shane. We’re all figuring it out.”
He was right about that, too. Somehow, over the past year, all my closest friends had found their people. Easton had been with Jace for a year, and they were solid in that quiet, steady way that made you believe in love. Elio and Jaxon had taken forever to get their shit together, but now they were inseparable. And Patrick—Patrick had surprised everyone by falling hard for Shane, not least because Patrick had been the straightest of us all.
Everyone except me.
“Maybe,” I said. “We’ll see what this semester brings.”
“That’s the spirit.” Lennox raised his beer. “To senior year. And to figuring our shit out.”
“To senior year,” I agreed, clinking my bottle against his.
We finished dinner and headed back across campus, walking slowly in the warm late-August evening. The conversation had shifted to hockey, predictions for the season, how the new recruits would be shaping up, and whether Coach was going to change up the lines. Safe territory.
But as we walked, my mind kept drifting back to what Lennox had said about family money and opening doors. It wasn’t that simple, and he knew it. The Morrison name came with baggage, especially in Chicago business circles. There were people who loved my dad and people who hated him, and very few in between.
I thought about the worst year, when I was seventeen and everything had almost fallen apart. Some media conglomerate had been making moves, buying up smaller companies and squeezing out the competition. They’d set their sights on Morrison Media Group, and for a few months, it had looked like we might lose everything my grandfather had built from a small, local newspaper he’d saved from bankruptcy.
Richard Whitmore. That had been the name on all the acquisition papers, the hostile takeover attempts, the late-night phone calls that had my dad pacing the house and my mom stress-eating ice cream. Richard fucking Whitmore, trying to destroy my family just because he could.
We’d fought back, of course. Dad had called in every favor, leveraged every relationship, and somehow, we survived. But those months had been hell, watching my parents try to hold everything together while some corporate shark circled our family like we were wounded prey.
I’d met Richard Whitmore’s son a few times over the years, at business events my parents had dragged me to when I was younger. Aiden Whitmore. Stuck-up little shit with perfect hair and designer clothes, who looked at everyone like they werebeneath him. He’d had this permanent scowl, like the world was disappointing him just by existing. It made his face extra punchable, honestly.
But that was years ago. Ancient history. The Whitmore family could rot in hell for all I cared, and their spoiled brat son could rot right alongside them.
“You okay?” Lennox asked as we reached our dorm. “You look like you’re thinking about something unpleasant.”
“Just remembering some family business stuff,” I said. “Nothing important.”
We took the stairs to our floor, and I followed Lennox to our room, even though I knew he’d probably be heading over to Oliver’s place within the hour.
“So,” he said, unlocking the door. “Practice starts Monday, right?”
“Yeah. Coach wants us all there at 6:00 a.m. sharp. You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” He grabbed a few things from his dresser and stuffed them into a backpack. “This is it, you know? Senior year. Last chance to make something happen.”
