22. Grey

Grey

O wen Teasdale beckoned to me from behind his teak desk, offering his hand to shake. "Come in, come in. Have a seat."

I shook his proffered hand, unsure of what sat behind his genial smile and pleasant expression. Sitting where he indicated, I glanced around the office I'd never been in before. Enlarged photos of Vipers from varying years, including one of me sinking the puck into the opposing team's net, hung on the dark wood walls.

"Thank you for coming, Grey," he said, walking to a sideboard that held tumblers, carafes of alcohol. "Can I get you a drink?"

"No, sir. I'd better not," I politely declined. "I have to drive, and the streets are a mess."

He poured what looked like whiskey for himself. "They certainly are. I have a driver, so I'm safe in that regard."

He returned to his massive leather chair and pulled a large envelope from under a pile of others.

My walking papers. Maybe a check for my severance.

I breathed deeply in resignation as he slid the packet across his desk toward me. His mildly pleasant expression didn't change.

"So, am I sacked?" I asked, wanting to get this over with.

He looked startled. "What? Heavens, no. This is a new contract, should you wish to stay with the team for another season."

"Oh." I swallowed hard. "My contracts usually come through team attorneys. Not you yourself, sir."

"Yes, well, this time around I'm handling it personally. Take a look. Please."

He leaned back in his chair, his drink in his hand. "I'd be a proper idiot if I sacked you right before the playoffs." He took a sip. "You, my dear Grey, will take us to the Cup." He smiled widely. "I have faith in you."

"Well, thank you, sir."

"Open it, open it."

I obeyed him, sliding the thick bundle of pages from the envelope. I scanned past the legal jargon, all familiar as the same words were in every contract I'd signed with the Vipers. I felt Mr. Teasdale's eyes on me as I leafed through the contract.

My gaze fell on the offered salary nearly halfway through. Stunned, I felt my breath leave my lungs and not return. I heard his faint chuckle as I stared, transfixed, at the ridiculously large number with the multitude of zeros after it.

I swallowed hard. "Sir…"

"That's a true value I place on you, Grey," he murmured over the rim of his tumbler. "You're worth every penny."

Nearly strangling, I lowered the contract. "But―"

"No. If you need time to think it over, that's fine. I understand you may be getting close to retirement. That offer is to keep you one more season, if you will. I don't want to lose you. Not yet."

I grinned. "May I borrow a pen?"

Even as he passed one to me, he said, "You should consult with your attorney before you sign."

"Is there anything different in it I should know about?"

Smiling, Mr. Teasdale shook his head. "No. It's a duplicate of all the other contracts you've signed. Except for the remuneration, of course."

We made small talk as I went through the contract initialing where required, then signed my name at the end. I noticed he'd already signed his name to it, making me believe he had no doubt at all I'd stay on for another season.

"Please, let's have a drink," he said as he gathered the contract together. "As a celebration."

"All right."

He poured whiskey into a tumbler for me, and another for himself. Still standing, he lifted his. "To the Stanley Cup."

I stood to clink my glass to his, grinning. "To the Cup."

The whiskey burned like molten gold down my throat. We both sat, talking not as employer to employee, but as near to being friends as I'd ever come to a team's owner. I'd played for the Vipers for ten years, and until that evening, had only met him on formal occasions.

"What do you think of the new kid?" he asked. "Ratcliffe?"

"He has a ton of skill," I replied. "He's a natural on ice. In my opinion, he needs tempering. Experience. And he'll go far one day."

Mr. Teasdale smiled slyly. "Folks in the know say he'll one day replace you."

I grinned with a shrug. "Let's hope it's after next season."

My cell buzzed in my coat pocket. Embarrassed, I planned to ignore it. Mr. Teasdale gestured toward me with his glass.

"Go ahead, answer it."

"Sorry."

I pulled it from my coat and looked at the screen with a frown. "It's my son."

Why would Colton call me? He hated my guts, disowned me. Was he calling to apologize? My nerves grated like a steel edge on porcelain. He'd never apologize, not in a million years.

Still, he was my son. I clicked the answer icon.

"Colton?"

His voice choked. "Dad."

Instantly alarmed, I forgot where I was, and who I was with. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

"Dad."

I rose, meeting Mr. Teasdale's concerned gaze briefly. "Tell me what happened."

"It's Ellie, Dad. She was in an accident. She's in the hospital."

***

I charged through the ER's doors like an enraged bull. My dry mouth barely formed words. The questions. I directed at the receptionist behind the glass. I felt the curious stares from waiting room patients and family, half listened to their whispers.

The receptionist put her phone down. "Ms. March is still in the trauma bay. If you'll just take a seat―"

Spinning, I jogged through the rows of chairs and curious eyes, seeking not just Ellie, but also Colton. Perhaps recognizing me, or simply recognizing the panic I was sure was clear on my face, two uniformed cops intercepted me.

"Mr. Aldine?" one spoke up.

"Yeah, is she okay? Is Ellie okay? How badly was she hurt? When can I see her? Where's Colton, where's my son?"

"Slow down," one of them said quietly. "Please stay calm. Okay? You gonna be calm now?"

Under both sets of watchful police eyes, I sucked in a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm calm. Will you tell me what happened?"

The cop, his name tag reading J. Stanforth, jerked his head at someone behind him. "You really should ask your kid."

Colton sat miserably on a waiting room chair, his back to me. I glanced askance at J. Stanforth, then at his partner, T. Robertson. Both nodded, and J. Stanforth put his hand on my shoulder.

"Don't blow up," he said, his tone a warning. "Don't make us arrest you too."

"Arrest? What?"

Colton looked up as I stepped around the row of chairs.

First, I saw the deep lines, gashes really, that crossed his face and forehead.

What the hell did that? Was he in the accident too? His blue eyes glimmered with unshed tears, his skin pale where it wasn't lined with scarlet.

In addition to the weird cuts, he had scrapes across his cheeks, similar to a road rash. Shards of broken glass glittered in his hair. Dried blood trailed down his right cheek from a hidden cut like a small black river.

I glanced down.

A pair of handcuffs encircled his wrists.

I gulped back the urge to swear. "Colton. What happened?"

My son looked away, swallowing convulsively. The cop, T. Robertson, knocked him lightly on his shoulder.

"Go on," he said. "Tell your old man you chased the girl into the intersection where she skidded out of control. Then you slammed your truck into her car because you couldn't stop either."

Colton chasing Ellie? Ellie fleeing? Was she in fear for her life? Colton has never been violent in his life.

My knees buckled. My blood ran so cold that if my temperature was taken right then, it would have a negative reading. I sat down hard, unable to think, to comprehend what I'd just been told. Colton chased Ellie, in their cars, until Ellie lost control. Colton put her in the hospital.

"Oh, my God."

I rested my face into my hands. "He's under arrest for assault, attempted kidnapping, and reckless driving," J. Stanforth said dryly. "He told us everything."

I looked at Colton's face, recognized his misery, his guilt. "What happened to your face?"

Colton turned away without answering.

"Ms. March, in defending herself, slashed him with her keys," T. Robertson replied. "She also kicked him in the family jewels before fleeing. The rest is from the crash."

My rage swelled, pulsing in my temples, igniting a fire so terrible my entire body shook. I dared not look at him. If I met his unhappy gaze, his feeling sorry for himself attitude, I knew I'd lose all possible control. Clenching my fists helped to keep that fire, that fury, under some semblance of my own power.

I nearly lashed out when T. Robertson pulled me to my feet and urged me to stand away from Colton.

"You said you'd be calm now," he said. "I mean it. Chill, man. Stay cool."

I turned my back, sucking air into my lungs, shoving my fists into my coat pockets. At length, I managed a tight nod of acquiescence. Both cops relaxed, and only then did I realize how close I'd come to being taken down and handcuffed alongside my son.

"Will she be okay?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"We haven't heard much about her condition," J. Stanforth replied. "We got most of what happened from her before the EMTs loaded her into the ambulance. The rest from him."

I suddenly spun on both cops, forcing them to recoil and reach for their Tasers.

"Where's her doctor?" I demanded, terrified again. "I need to talk to them. It's urgent."

"You can't go into the trauma room," T. Robertson explained. "But, maybe I can get a nurse's attention. Stay here, all right?"

I nodded, rubbing my mouth with fingers that still shook uncontrollably.

J. Stanforth watched me closely. "What's your relation to the lady?"

I sank back to a chair, but away from Colton. "We're friends. She… she…Colton dumped her. Bad scene. I helped her out."

I caught Colton staring at me as though he'd begun to suspect Ellie and I were more than friends. My rage surged.

He saw it, and quickly turned away again.

I dared not speak. I knew that if I did, I'd reveal my love for Ellie. We have to keep it a secret for a long while yet. I just signed a huge contract that will enable me―us―to retire in luxury after next year.

At last, a nurse in scrubs, her stethoscope looped around her neck, came toward us. T. Robertson followed just behind.

"Mr. Aldine, what can I do for you?" she asked as I met her halfway between the trauma rooms and where Colton sat.

I lowered my voice, conscious of T. Robertson's closeness. "Ms. March is pregnant."

The nurse nodded. "Yes, we know. Ms. March informed us. Are you the father?"

"No, I…" I half-turned, involuntarily, and looked at Colton.

He watched us closely, surely understanding that something important was going on, and that it involved him. Unfortunately, the nurse didn't bother to keep her voice down as I had.

"The baby's fine," she said briskly. "There's no problem there. Now if you'll excuse me―"

Just as she turned to go back the way she'd come, Colton burst from his chair. His handcuffs, linked to his belt, kept his hands from rising as he lunged at me. Taken off guard, J. Stanforth reacted quickly and seized his shoulders.

"Ellie's pregnant ?" he screeched. "She's gonna have my kid? Why would she tell you and not me? Why, Dad? Why?"

"Maybe because you're an asshole," T. Robertson muttered, pushing Colton back to his chair. "If I was her, I wouldn't tell you, either."

The cop's response enabled me to keep my mouth shut. Turning my back on him again, I paced as close to the trauma rooms as I dared. Staring down the short hallway, I stood, setting myself to wait. All night if I had to.

T. Robertson stood in front of me. "You gonna be cool?"

I nodded. "Yeah. No worries."

"Okay, we're gonna take the kid to jail. He'll be booked. You can get him a lawyer tomorrow."

Cold again, I half turned to stare as J. Stanforth lifted Colton by his arm. "Do me a favor. Lock him up and lose the fucking key."