Chapter 81 Luke

Chapter 81 Luke
Luke 

⛸️

Bev was out like a light, her breathing slow and even beside me. 

But my own mind was racing, a frantic, buzzing energy keeping me wide awake. 

The wine, the sex, the day—it should have exhausted me, but instead, I was wired. I carefully slid out from under the covers, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. I needed to move. I needed to think.

Downstairs, the house was dark and quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator. I found the remote for the massive flatscreen and flicked it on, immediately lowering the volume. A hockey game, West Coast matchup, flickered to life. 

I sank into the plush couch, the soft leather enveloping me. It was nice, just sitting here, watching the game. No phone to check, no notifications to answer. 

When I'd first arrived, Bev had collected our phones, locking them in some drawer in her office. "A true detox," she'd called it. At first, it felt weird, like missing a limb. Now, a few days in, it was kind of a relief. The constant noise in my pocket was gone.

But as I watched the players skate, a different kind of noise started up in my head. A quiet, persistent curiosity. I'd been in her house for days, but I'd only seen what she wanted me to see. The perfect kitchen, the immaculate living room, the master bedroom. 

What about the rest of it? What was behind the other closed doors?

I muted the TV, the silence suddenly feeling more important than the game. I got up and started to wander. 

The house was a maze of perfect, empty rooms. A formal dining room with a table that looked like it had never been used. A home gym with equipment so pristine it might as well have been plastic. And then, at the end of a hallway, I found a door that was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

The room inside was different. Warmer. It wasn't a bedroom or an office; it felt more like a personal museum. 

The walls were covered in old photographs, not the sleek, modern kind I was used to seeing, but actual printed pictures in frames. 

There was a little girl with pigtails and a toothy grin, holding a tiny hockey stick. It was Bev. She was an only child, like me. There were pictures of her with her parents, her dad's arm slung proudly around her shoulders at a rink. 

There were shelves lined with old trophies and dusty trinkets—a snow globe, a porcelain doll, a collection of colorful rocks. It was... cute. It made her seem real, not just this perfect, controlled coach.

My eyes drifted to a small closet in the corner of the room. The door was slightly open, and on top of a stack of boxes was one that looked different. It was made of dark wood, with a small, ornate lock on the front. Something about it called to me.

I walked over and pulled the box down. It was heavier than it looked. A lock. Of course. I started scanning the room, my eyes searching for anything that looked like a key. 

I checked the desk drawers, the shelves, behind the picture frames. Nothing. Then, my eyes landed on a small ceramic jar on the top shelf of the bookshelf, filled with old, mismatched keys. I grabbed it and started sifting through them. 

One of them, a small, brass one, felt right. I carried it back to the box, my heart thumping a nervous rhythm against my ribs. It slid into the lock with a soft click.

I lifted the lid.

My eyes went wide.

It wasn't old mementos or childhood keepsakes. It was a collection. And I was the latest exhibit.

On top were neat stacks of photographs. They were all couples pictures. Bev, looking a few years younger in each one, her arm around a different guy. And all of them looked my age or younger. 

High school age, wearing letterman jackets or hoodies from schools I'd never heard of. 

One was labeled in neat, cursive handwriting: "Bev + Josh, Ohio." Another: "Bev + Tyler, Michigan." Another: "Bev + Ryan, Colorado." Dozens of them. From all over the country.

My hands were shaking as I dug deeper. Beneath the innocent-looking photos were more explicit ones. Posed shots, intimate moments, things that were never meant for anyone else to see. And then, nestled in a small, velvet bag, were a handful of SIM cards, each one labeled with a different boy's name. Josh. Tyler. Ryan. A cold, sick feeling started to spread through my chest.

And then I saw it. A single newer photograph, printed on glossy paper, just like the others. 

It was me. 

I was asleep in a hotel bed, my face peaceful, the morning light streaming through the window. And beside me, her head propped on her hand, smiling at the camera like a predator, was Bev. 

It was from the hotel room we'd gotten after the NHL game in Boston. The night everything changed. On the back, in that same neat, perfect handwriting, were two words: "Bev + Luke. Massachusetts." 

I felt like I couldn't breathe. The room started to spin. I slammed the lid back on the box, my hands fumbling with the lock. It took me three tries to get it to click shut. I shoved the box back on top of the others in the closet, exactly as I'd found it. I backed out of the room, my feet moving on their own, a desperate need to get away propelling me forward.

I didn't know what to think. What to feel. The words from our conversations echoed in my head. 

You're mature for your age. You're a man. They don't see you like I do.

It had all felt so real. So true. But now... now it just sounded like a script. A line she'd used on Josh, and Tyler, and Ryan, and God knows how many others before me.

I stumbled back to the living room and collapsed onto the couch, my head in my hands. The hockey game was still playing on the screen, but it was just meaningless noise. 

The perfect house, the perfect life, the perfect woman—it was all a facade. A carefully constructed stage. 

And I was just the latest actor in her play. 

I wasn't special. I wasn't seen. I was just next.

⛸️

The glow from the TV screen painted the living room in shifting shades of blue and white, the announcer's voice a distant, meaningless drone. 

I sat there on the couch, frozen, my body rigid. The shock had settled deep in my bones, a cold, heavy weight I couldn't shake. 

My mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the image in that box. Bev + Luke. Just like Bev + Josh, Bev + Tyler, Bev + Ryan. A collection. A pattern. A fucking factory line.

I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes. An hour. Time had lost its meaning. The only thing that felt real was the frantic, chaotic storm raging in my head.

A thought, sharp and desperate, cut through the fog. She is my only chance to get drafted into the NHL.

The words were a lifeline, a piece of solid ground in the middle of a swirling ocean. She was my coach. She had connections. She knew what scouts were looking for. She was already pulling strings, getting me and Mitch through the drug test. 

Without her, what was I? 

Just another talented kid with a bad attitude and a history of partying. 

With her... I was a prospect. A sure thing. 

The draft was everything. It was the dream I'd been chasing since I was three years old. Was I supposed to just throw that away because of a box of old photos?

Maybe I just ignore it. Pretend I never saw it. Go back upstairs, crawl into bed next to her, and play my part. It would be easy, wouldn't it? To just... forget. To let her keep guiding me. 

She made me feel powerful, desired. She saw the man I wanted to be. Maybe that was enough. Maybe the "why" didn't matter as much as the "what." What she was giving me was a future.

But then another thought, a colder, more insidious one, slithered into my brain. What if I bring it up to her? Have a conversation?

I could do it. I could be calm. Mature. Just ask her. "Hey, I found this box. Can you explain it?" Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. Maybe they were all just friends. Maybe I got the whole wrong impression. Maybe the explicit photos were... art projects? 

The thought was ridiculous, and I knew it, but my mind was scrambling, searching for any excuse not to shatter this perfect world I'd built in my head. 

If I talked to her, I could gauge her reaction. I could see the truth in her eyes. If she lied, I'd know. If she told the truth... well, then I'd have to deal with that. But at least I'd know.

I stood up, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. I paced the length of the living room, the plush carpet silent under my feet. The two options warred inside me, a vicious, brutal battle. Ignore it, secure my future, live a beautiful, comfortable lie. Or confront it, risk everything, and face the ugly, devastating truth.

I stopped in front of the big window, looking out at the perfectly manicured backyard. The moonlight glinted off the surface of the pool. It was all so perfect. So controlled. Just like her. Was that what my life would be? A series of perfect, controlled rooms, with a secret box locked away in the closet?

I sank back onto the couch, my head in my hands. I really had no fucking idea what to do. Every path forward led to a cliff. One led to the NHL, but it was a lie. The other led to the truth, but it might mean losing everything. 

The pressure in my chest was immense, a crushing weight that made it hard to breathe. 

I was trapped. And for the first time since I'd walked into her house, I was completely, terrifyingly alone.