Page 1 of Full Tilt
PROLOGUE
TOMMY
There’s nothing more dangerous than misplaced faith in other human beings.
Take this doorman, for example. With a phone to one ear, he speaks with a guy I’ve recently learned might be my dad, wearing an expression like I just rolled in dog shit before I entered this fancy building.
I can actually see my face in the white floor tiles.
I already know how this is going to go down—I’ll be turned away in the next thirty seconds and told never to come back. It’s not just my face that doesn’t fit around these parts of New York; my clothes don’t either. Not a designer label in sight. I mean, my white sneakers are Nike, if you can look past three years’ worth of grime, which makes them more of a gray color.
Truthfully, I don’t know why the fuck I thought this was a good idea. I used a whole month’s wages from the burger joint to fund my flight here, and I can already tell I’ll be kicking my heels for twenty-four hours while I wait for my return flight home.
Alex Schneider doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s had seventeen years to reach out to his estranged son—if I am, in fact, his blood.
Helen, my mom, might’ve spun me a ton of lies about my father being in the special forces and killed in action after they had a one-night thing. But that story would only carry her so far, and she knew it. I’ve been asking questions for a while about the NHL player who looks like me and shares the same skating style.
All I want is answers from someone. Anyone at this point. Is the former Blades defenseman my dad, or am I just grasping at straws, hoping he wasn’t blown up in a military operation?
You know what? Fuck this. I’ll see myself out. The pretentious brow floating around in the doorman’s hairline tells me everything I need to know.
“Excuse me. Mr. Williams?”
I spin a full one-eighty on my heel and lock eyes with the doorman as he replaces the handset and points toward the elevator on the far side of the pristine lobby.
“Mr. Schneider has approved your visit. You can head up to the fourth floor and take a right. His apartment—number 41—is at the end of the hallway.”
It’s a full three minutes later when I hit the smart doorbell and take a step back from the glossy black double doors, swallowing down my nerves and ignoring the latest phone call from Mom. I’ve got an inbox full of apologies and pleas—begging me to come back home and not jump to conclusions based on the fact that we look alike. But just like the messages in my voicemail, I don’t want to hear what she has to say. I know she’s been lying to me for seventeen years; I can feel it in my gut. Why should today be any different?
Perhaps I shouldn’t be shocked when the first face I see is some random blonde as she flies out the apartment and pushespast me, half-dressed and red-faced, carrying the rest of her clothes in one hand and a purse in the other.
You’d need to be living under a rock not to know the reputation Alex Schneider carries both on and off the ice—he’s the one warming the penalty box during games and women’s beds straight afterward. At least, he was, until he nearly killed Scorpions defenseman, Zach Evans, last season in a brutal hit that left him a free agent.
“You just gonna stand in the doorway and stare or actually cross the threshold?”
An aggravated voice that I know belongs to my potential dad has me stepping inside and closing the door behind me.
“Leave your sneakers on.”
I pause my right hand, hovering it above my lace as I look up.
Alex comes into view, adjusting himself on the large gray corner couch set in the center of his sleek living space. When I see him in the flesh, I might as well be looking into a mirror.
At first, I think he’s going to switch off the flat-screen TV set on the wall opposite him. Instead, he snatches the PlayStation controller from the coffee table and resumes the game of GTA he previously had on pause.
“Take a seat.” He points to the far end of the couch, swiping a bottle of Bud from the side table next to him. He takes two large pulls before setting it back down.
I perch on the corner of the couch while his GTA character loots a store and holds up the owner.
A nervous twitch pulls at my throat as I watch Alex play without giving me a second glance.
Does this guy even know who I am? Surely, he can see the resemblance as clearly as I can.
“The store owner has a ton of cash in his safe. It’s kept behind a shelving unit in the back room.” I don’t recognize my own voice when I finally speak.
The side-eye he offers is the first time he’s looked at me since I arrived. “I know. I’ve played this map more times than years you’ve been on this earth. I was bored and needed something to do.”
I try not to let the fact that he’s still gaming despite my presence affect my confidence and push on with what I came to say.
