Chapter 65: Hit With A Curveball

Marcus's POV

The words sit heavy in my chest long before I say them out loud.

We’re in the small meeting room off the rink—the one that smells faintly of old coffee and sharpened skates. I’m seated, my brace propped carefully, Anna across from me, Damian leaning against the counter, Peter perched on the edge of the table like he’s pretending not to be anxious.

I clear my throat.

“The doctor called me back in,” I begin. “The follow-up wasn’t… routine.”

Anna’s eyes sharpen instantly, all warmth and focus. Damian straightens. Peter stops fidgeting.

“They found scarring around my kneecap,” I continue. “More than expected. Blood work came back yesterday.”

No one interrupts me. That somehow makes it worse.

“The results weren’t good,” I say quietly. “There’s early degenerative joint disease. Chronic inflammation. Surgery’s still on the table, but recovery won’t be simple. Long-term impact is… a concern.”

Silence crashes down hard.

Peter swears under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Damian’s jaw locks, his eyes fixed on some invisible point on the wall like if he stares long enough, he can undo what I’ve just said. Anna doesn’t look away from me. Not once.

“How are you feeling?” she asks softly.

The question nearly breaks me.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Scared. Angry. Relieved that at least I know why things feel off.”

Damian exhales sharply. “Dad’s going to lose his mind.”

Peter snorts without humor. “That’s putting it mildly.”

I nod. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. When he finds out, he’s going to push. Hard. Foreign specialists. Experimental procedures. Someone who’ll tell him what he wants to hear.”

Anna leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You don’t owe anyone a miracle recovery,” she says firmly. “You owe yourself honesty.”

Her words steady something in me.

“We rally,” she continues, looking at all three of us now. “This is when you don’t isolate. You don’t let fear or pressure decide things for you.”

Peter glances at her. “You ever consider motivational speaking as a backup career?”

She gives him a tight smile. “Only when necessary.”

Damian finally speaks. “Marcus, whatever you decide—surgery, recovery timeline, hockey, not hockey—we’re with you.”

I swallow hard. “I know.”

For a moment, it almost feels manageable. Like we’re braced together against a storm we can see coming. Then my phone vibrates.

Once. Twice. A sharp, insistent alert tone.

I frown, pulling it from my pocket. A news notification flashes across the screen.

BREAKING: McKay Industries Under Investigation Following Equipment Failure Linked to Athlete Injury.

My stomach drops. Before I can say anything, Damian’s phone buzzes. Peter’s too. They look at their screens—and the color drains from their faces.

Anna notices immediately. “What is it?”

I don’t answer right away. I’m scrolling now, pulse roaring in my ears.

Sources confirm faulty protective equipment supplied by McKay Industries may have contributed to a catastrophic on-field collision during last night’s professional match. Athlete remains comatose.

“Oh my God,” Peter mutters.

Damian’s hand curls into a fist. “This is bad.”

Anna stands. “Guys—what’s going on?”

I look up at her.

“Our father’s company,” I say slowly. “They’re under suspicion. Equipment failure. A player’s in a coma.”

Her hand flies to her mouth.

“The press is already circling,” Damian adds grimly. “This won’t stay quiet.”

“And your dad?” Anna asks.

Peter lets out a harsh laugh. “He’ll go nuclear.”

As if summoned by the thought, the door to the rink creaks open. We all turn. A woman steps inside—neatly dressed, tablet clutched to her chest, eyes darting nervously behind her. I recognize her immediately. Our father’s secretary.

She spots us and exhales in relief. “Thank God. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Damian steps forward. “What’s going on?”

She lowers her voice. “Mr. McKay sent me. He wants you home immediately.”

Peter crosses his arms. “Why?”

Her lips press together. “The press has been tipped off. They’re moving fast. Mr. McKay doesn’t want you seen or questioned.”

Anna stiffens. “Seen as what?”

“As McKay sons,” the secretary says gently. “Right now, that name is… volatile.”

I feel something cold settle in my gut.

“So this is it,” I murmur. “Damage control.”

“Marcus,” she says carefully, “your father was very clear. He wants you home before the media gets here.”

Damian glances toward the rink entrance. “They’re already outside, aren’t they?”

She nods.

Anna looks at me, worry etched deep into her face. “What do you want to do?”

For once, the choice feels heavy in a new way. Not just about my body. Not just about my future. But about truth.

“We go home,” I say finally. “But on our terms.”

Peter smirks faintly. “That’s my brother.”

Damian places a hand on my shoulder. “Stick together.”

Anna reaches for my hand, squeezing it once. “This doesn’t change who you are.”

I meet her gaze. “It’s about to change a lot.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But not the parts that matter.”

As we move toward the exit, the noise outside grows louder—voices, camera shutters, the low hum of something breaking open.

I take one last look at the rink. At the ice. At the place that has given me everything and now demands I reckon with what comes next. Whatever storm is about to hit our family, one thing is clear: This isn’t just about hockey anymore. It’s about accountability.

About legacy. And about whether the truth finally catches up to a man who’s spent his life outrunning it.