Page 51 of Price of Victory
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“And Rhett? Take care of yourself. You look like hell.”
I managed a weak smile. “I’ll work on it.”
That evening, I sat in my room, staring at my phone and trying to work up the courage to call my parents. I’d been putting it off all week, not wanting to deal with their questions about school and hockey and whether I was eating enough vegetables. But I missed their voices, missed the easy comfort of talking to people who loved me unconditionally.
My father answered on the second ring, his voice warm with pleasure at hearing from me.
“Rhett! How’s my favorite son?”
“I’m your only son, Dad.”
“Details. How are things? How’s the season going?”
We fell into our usual rhythm of conversation, him asking about practice and upcoming games while I gave him updates on my classes and teammates. It felt good to focus on normal things, to talk about hockey strategy and academic deadlines instead of the mess I’d made of my personal life.
“You sound tired,” Dad said after I’d finished telling him about our last game. “Everything okay?”
“Just the usual senior-year stress. Lots of pressure to perform well for scouts.”
“You’ve been performing well your entire career. Don’t let the pressure get to you now.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Good. Remember, hockey is supposed to be fun. Don’t lose sight of that in all the intensity.”
We talked for a few more minutes about lighter topics, but I could feel the weight of unasked questions building between us. Finally, Dad cleared his throat in the way that meant he was about to bring up something serious.
“I suppose you’ve seen the news about the Whitmore situation?”
My heart clenched, but I kept my voice carefully neutral. “Yeah, I saw the headlines.”
I braced myself for what I knew was coming. The family meeting where they’d discuss stock prices and acquisition opportunities. The strategic planning sessions about how to capitalize on a competitor’s moment of weakness. The carefully calculated moves that would turn Richard Whitmore’s health crisis into Morrison Media Group’s advantage.
The nausea hit me like a wave as I imagined the conversation about to unfold. Dad would lay out the plan, probably something elegant and ruthless that would leave the Whitmore empire in ruins. He’d explain how this was the perfect opportunity for revenge, how Richard Whitmore’s own aggressive tactics were finally coming back to haunt him.
And I’d have to sit there and listen, knowing that every share we purchased, every strategic move we made, would drive another nail into the coffin of any possibility that Aiden and I could ever find our way back to each other.
Not that there was anything to find our way back to. I’d ended things. I’d walked away because I couldn’t build a relationship on shifting sand, couldn’t trust someone who saw me as a threat instead of a partner.
But still. The thought of my family actively working to destroy his made my stomach turn.
I sucked in a breath, ready to beg him not to do it, to plead for mercy for reasons I couldn’t fully explain. But before I could speak, Dad’s voice continued.
“The Whitmore boy is on your team, isn’t he?”
I hesitated, not sure where this was going. “Yeah, he is.”
“What a disaster.” Dad’s voice was heavy with something that sounded almost like sympathy. “The vultures aren’t letting the man recover his strength. It’s a nasty business, son.”
I blinked, confused by his tone. Where was the satisfaction? Where was the gleeful anticipation of finally getting revenge on a longtime rival?
“See if you can…” Dad paused, seeming to search for the right words. “I don’t know, be kind to him.”
My heart cracked like ice in spring, sudden and complete. “I think he’s gone to be with his family. I haven’t seen him around.”
“Of course he has. There isn’t much you could do to make things better anyway. Only it crossed my mind that he might be scared, stressed-out by all this. And I thought, if it were you and me instead of them, I would want you to have friends to help you through it all.”
