Page 40 of Game Misconduct
But even in his reassurance, there’s something else—an edge he can’t hide.
Like he suspects more is brewing under the surface than I’ll ever admit.
And the worst part?
He’s not wrong.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice lighter. “Enough about my goalie. How didyourmedia day go?”
He groans. “Don’t remind me. Half the questions were about last season, the other half about whether I plan to shave my beard. Riveting stuff.”
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “Better you than me.”
“Debatable,” he mutters. Then his voice softens. “Mom asked about you today. She worries, you know.”
My chest tightens in a different way. Aunt Sara—always carrying more than her share, always steady when the rest of us splintered. “Tell her I’m fine,” I say. “And that I’ll call soon.”
“You’d better.” Griffin’s tone carries the weight of both a tease and a warning. “Mom’s been on my ass about you calling her.”
“Why doesn’t she just call me herself?”
He scoffs, “Two reasons, Lo. One, we’re talking about Sara Ashford here. She doesn’t do the calling. And two, if you do her like you do me, it’d take eleven billion times to call before you answer.”
Griffin’s use of the nickname he gave me when we were kids and he couldn’t say my whole name causes a thickness in my throat.
I miss those times.
“Geez, drama much? How do you get any hockey played if you’re calling me eleven billion times?”
He chuckles. “Smartass.”
“Learned from the best.”
“Damn right you did.”
I sigh. “But okay, you have a point. And I will call her. I promise.”
We say our love yous and goodbyes and when the call ends, silence swallows the office again.
I straighten in my chair and pull the keyboard closer to me. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the ping of my inbox stops me from typing.
Subject line: Debrief: Media Day Performance – Tomorrow 9AM.
Dean.
Of course.
The wording is clinical, polite on the surface, but I know better.
It’s a power play. His way of reminding me he’s still in the game, still watching for cracks.
My stomach knots. My jaw locks. “Predictable,” I mutter, voice sharp in the quiet.
He’ll frame it as strategy, as accountability. But what it is—what it always is—is a test.
And tomorrow morning, I’ll have to walk into his office and remind him who actually runs this team.
And that in spite of the leash my father put on me from the grave, I’m the one making the decisions here.
