Page 124 of Slapshot Bride

My jaw tightens.

Oh, he’s done his research quite well. Maybe even had a drink and become friends with Donovan, if he knows so much.

He smirks, and I see the twitch in his eyes. He continues.

“But what’s happening right now, the photos, the fan attention, her posting your games on her page like she’s your partner, it’s creating a story that neither of us benefits from. I mean, considering you orchestrated your parents divorce. Think of what your fans will say. When they realize you’re a professional homewrecker, and that Riley is just another pawn in your little sick games? Going after vulnerable women, and breaking loving homes?”

My fingers twitch, but I don’t ball them into fists. I hold the straps of my bags tightly instead, and he sees it. The smirk is there again.

He’s hoping for a reaction. A hit.

If he got his way in, then I don’t doubt this conversation is being filmed. He’s playing the victim card. Goading me for a story.

“You and I know you’re not the messiah you claim to be, Easton Blake.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You think you’re doing the right thing? But we both know you’re controlling these women. First, your mother. Now, poor Riley. And the world doesn’t see it, but soon, they will.”

He drags in a deep breath and steps forward until we’re only an inch apart.

He says it calmly, his voice barely above a whisper, but every word carries the same hardened edge he's been wielding since he walked in. “I have relationships with people who decide what stories look like. You know Diane Mercer. I assume she's told you something similar.”

He holds my gaze. “I'm not threatening you, Easton. I'm being honest with you. Man to man.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “The Sinclair name carries weight in this city, and right now it's attached to a narrative about a woman who left me for a hockey player. That narrative has a shelf life. When it expires, what comes next will be a lot less flattering for your side of the story.”

His smile disappears. “You'll be the manipulator. The poorly behaved sports star who isolated a vulnerable woman from the people who love her. The man who tore a family apart. The guy who craves control.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He smiles fully this time.

I look at him.

He’s good. He really is. I can see exactly how six years happened. He doesn’t raise his voice. He makes every single thing sound like reason.

“End this arrangement with Riley,” he says. “Let her come home. She’ll be taken care of, she’ll be fine, and you can go back to being Easton Blake without any of this attached to you. That’s a clean outcome for everyone.”

He waits.

I look at him for a long moment.

“Thanks for stopping by,” I say and walk out of the locker room.

He doesn’t call after me.

I stop in the corridor, back against the wall, and stop the recording. Then I stand there for a minute with the noise of the rink above me and think about the fact that he bought his way into my locker room, sat on a bench, and waited for me to come out of the shower.

He’s gone far. Too far to be let off the hook.

Riley is on the couch when I get home, her camera on the coffee table and her laptop open beside it, editing photographs from the weekend. She’s in my sweatshirt, and her hair is up. She doesn’t look up when I come in, just says hey and keeps working.

I sit down on the other end of the couch.

She looks up then.

She reads me fast. She always does. “What happened?”

“Preston came to see me.” I watch her face. “At the rink. After skate. He was in the locker room when I came out of the shower.”