Chapter 95 Let's get the draft started
Chapter 95 Let's get the draft started
“Three teams called.” Beck tossed his phone on the couch, still in his practice gear, sweat dripping down his temples. “They want to fly me out. Interviews. Physicals. The whole thing.”
“That's huge.”
“That's terrifying.”
I pulled him down next to me. “You've been waiting for this your whole life.”
“I've been waiting to play. Not to be inspected.”
The scouts weren't subtle anymore. They sat in the front row at every game, clipboards out, eyes tracking Beck's every move. The local sports blog posted a mock draft with his name in the first round. Comments poured in. Some supportive. Some skeptical.
“He's got the talent, but does he have the head for it?”
“His father's baggage is gonna drag him down.”
“The girlfriend is a distraction.”
I stopped reading after that one. Beck didn't need to see it.
We made dinner together. It was the first time in weeks we'd done something normal. Beck chopped vegetables. I stirred the sauce.
“What if I don't get drafted?”
“Then you play another year. Or you go overseas. Or you do something else entirely.”
“That's not comforting.”
“It's honest.”
He set down the knife. “Ivy, I'm scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of leaving. Of staying. Of making the wrong choice.”
“There is no wrong choice.”
“There's always a wrong choice.”
I turned off the stove and faced him. “Then make one and deal with the consequences. That's what you've always done.”
He kissed me. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just his lips on mine, warm and certain. “When did you get so wise?”
“I've always been wise. You were just too busy being a hockey star to notice.”
He laughed. It was the first real laugh I'd heard from him in days.
My publisher scheduled a signing in the city. Bigger than the last one. More press. A reporter from a national website wanted to interview me.
“They'll ask about your weight,” my publicist warned. “They always do.”
“Let them.”
“You don't have to answer.”
“I know.”
The interview was over video call. The reporter was young, nervous, her questions careful. Then: “How do you respond to critics who say your book promotes obesity?”
I looked directly into the camera. “I don't respond. They're not asking in good faith. They're not looking for a conversation. They're looking for a fight.”
“But your book—"
“My book is about surviving. About taking up space. About refusing to shrink.” I paused. “If that makes people uncomfortable, they're not my audience.”
The reporter nodded. The interview ended.
My publicist texted: “That was fierce. They're going to clip that soundbite.”
I didn't care.
Playoffs started. The arena was packed, the energy electric. Beck scored in the first period. The crowd roared. A group of girls behind me whispered loud enough for me to hear.
“She's not even that pretty.”
“He could do so much better.”
“It's obviously PR. No way he actually likes her.”
I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes on the ice. Beck scored again. He looked up at me and tapped his chest. I tapped mine back.
The girls went quiet.
After the game, a reporter stopped Beck in the tunnel. “Beckett, your girlfriend's been getting a lot of online hate. How do you handle that?”
He didn't hesitate. “I don't. She handles it herself. She's the strongest person I know.”
The reporter pressed. “Does her image affect your draft stock?”
“Her image is her business. My game is mine.” He walked away.
I watched from behind the cameras. He found me in the crowd and pulled me into a hug.
“You didn't have to say that.”
“I said the truth.”
We sat on the roof of his apartment building, looking at the stars. The city hummed below us.
“Ivy.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm not going to say it.”
“Say what?”
“You know.”
I smiled. “Good. You say it too much anyway.”
“I mean it every time.”
“I know.”
He leaned over and kissed my shoulder. “I'm glad you're here.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep meaning it.”
An envelope arrived the next morning. Cream colored, no return address. I opened it with shaking hands.
Inside, a card. Gold lettering. “You're invited to the NHL Draft. VIP seating. Guest of Beckett Harrington.”
Beck read it over my shoulder. “You're coming?”
“Try to stop me.”
He kissed my forehead. “I wouldn't dare.”
Beck's coach doubled his workouts. Scouts watched every practice. The team's PR person scheduled interviews, photo shoots, meet-and-greets. Beck came home exhausted, barely eating, barely talking.
“You need to rest.”
“I need to be ready.”
“You're already ready.”
He collapsed on the couch. “What if I'm not?”
“Then you'll be ready next year.”
“I don't want next year.”
“Then stop worrying and play.”
He pulled me onto his lap. “You're bossy.”
“You're anxious.”
“Same thing.”
He kissed me. I let him.
The last game of the regular season. Beck's team had already clinched a playoff spot, but the scouts were still there. He scored a hat trick. The crowd gave him a standing ovation.
After the game, a little girl ran up to him. “My brother says you're the best player ever.”
“Your brother is very smart.”
She handed him a drawing. Him, lifting a trophy, a crown on his head.
Beck knelt down. “This is going on my fridge.”
She smiled and ran back to her parents.
I stood in the tunnel, watching. He walked over to me.
“You're good with kids.”
“I have practice.” He nodded toward the stands. “Leo.”
“Leo isn't a kid. He's a person who happens to be young.”
“Same thing.”
He took my hand. “Let's go home.”
We walked to the car. The parking lot was nearly empty. A black sedan sat near the exit, engine running. The windows were tinted. I couldn't see inside.
Beck put his arm around me. “Ignore it.”
“I'm trying.”
“Try harder.”
We got in the car. He started the engine. The sedan's headlights flashed once, twice.
Then it drove away.
My phone didn't buzz. No unknown number. No text.
But the photograph from last night was still on the kitchen table. “Family watches family. Always.”
I didn't tell Beck. I just stared out the window.
The sedan was gone.
But someone was still watching.
And they wanted me to know it.