Page 146 of Brutal Obsession

Fuck.

Now I look at my coach with a new lens… of distrust. And the last thing I want to do is lose faith in him. But maybe he’s been talking to my father behind my back, reporting on me. It would certainly explain why Dad took such a dislike to Violet.

I clear my throat. “Trust me, Coach, I’d never ask him to do that. He and I haven’t discussed this.”

“This is the biggest fucking game of the season, so he’s nuts if he thinks I’m pulling one of my best skaters.” Under his breath, he adds, “Fucking senators.”

“Um… did he say anything else?”

Roake pauses. “Nothing that concerns skating. Get back out there.”

So he did figure out I moved my trust fund out of the joint account. I wonder if he knows why, or if he thinks I’m trying to finally separate myself from him. It would be an accurate assumption—but he couldn’t possibly understand my motivation.

I shove that thought away and get back to business.

I skate to the back of the line, gripping my stick tightly in both hands. We’re doing a simple puck-control drill, navigating through a pattern of cones before shooting at the goal. There’s another line on the other end of the ice doing something similar, with the replacement goalie in the net.

As soon as our short practice is over, I grab my phone from my locker and call my father.

This is ridiculous.

He answers on the fourth ring, right before I would’ve probably been dumped into his voicemail. “Greyson,” he greets me.

“Hey, Dad. Why are you telling Coach to pull me?” May as well just get it right out there.

There’s silence. Then, “What?”

“He got a phone call from you.” I growl my frustration. “Said you wanted me off the team. After our conversation the other night, it seemed to have come out of the blue.”

“That’s bullshit.” He sounds pissed. “I know what this means to you—in fact, this is exactly why I didn’t want you to have any distractions. We just talked about this.”

“I’ll be there tonight,” he adds. “I think it’ll be good for the scouts to see a united family unit.”

Right. Better to tell him to fuck off to his face. That was my plan all along.

“Coach wants us there early,” I tell him. “So, we’ll chat after?”

“Yes. I’ve got to go. I have an appointment.” There’s a click, and he’s gone.

I scowl at my phone for a second, then stash it. Luckily, Coach already said he isn’t going to listen to my father—so whether he was just trying to mess with me or he really didn’t interfere…

Was it Violet’s stalker?

I don’t know how familiar Roake is with my father’s voice. How much of a stretch would it be to call and say you’re Senator Devereux? That type of power forces people to accept what you say, no questions asked.

I throw my helmet into my locker and swear.

Knox pokes his head around the corner. “You good?”

“Fucking peachy,” I growl. “Where are the girls?”

He shrugs. “Class, probably.”

I pull my phone out. Violet doesn’t have class on Fridays. Her little dot on the map shows her at the large Crown Point Ballet building. It’s a few blocks from the dance studio she’s been using to practice.

Why would she go there?

Is she trying to find her stalker? Lure him out?

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