Round tables covered in cream-colored tablecloths are scattered throughout the main space. Most guests have already found their seats, while some still linger at the open bar along the back wall. I don’t blame them. I could also use another stiff drink, especially when my attention catches on my father at the edge of the room.
He is beside my mother, sipping a drink and appearing bored. Sports have never quite held him captive as they do with most men. Unless it involves golf.
But hockey?
The sport is far beneath him. It was beneath me until I began teaching at LAU and saw the potential. If only I could convince my father to see it too.
Approaching the bar, I order a stiff drink and throw it back. The familiar burn slides down my throat, and I savor it while striding toward my parents.
“Henry!” my mother gushes when she sees me. She grabs my cheek and kisses it.
“Hello, Mom,” I return as she lets me go. “Dad,” I acknowledge my father beside her.
“Henry,” he grunts.
“Glad you could make it.”
“Your sister insisted we come and celebrate your latest venture,” my mom replies. “Where is Scarlett? I’ve yet to see her.”
“She’s running late,” I lie, checking my watch.
“Oh, of course,” my mother replies. “It’s a lot of hard work getting all dolled up for our men and coming to these events.” She winks at my father. “How is everything going? Are you ready for the season?”
“Not yet, but we will be,” I tell her. “Coach Dawson is confident we filled our roster with the best players, and I think he’s right.”
“Doesn’t matter who you choose,” my dad interrupts. “What matters is whether or not you can fill the seats. We stopped by the new arena––”
“Which is lovely, by the way,” my mom adds, threading her arm around my father’s bicep.
“It’s big,” my father notes. “How are ticket sales?”
It’s an excellent question. One I've been keeping a close eye on for weeks. Unfortunately, they are a little lower than we initially calculated due to some recent bad publicity. However, my sales team assures me they will pick up soon.
But explaining this to my father sounds about as pleasant as receiving a root canal. Instead, I say, “They’re fine.”
“Fine won’t replenish your trust,” he counters.
“Money is meant to be invested,” I reply. “You taught me that.”
“Only on ideas worth investing.”
My eyes thin, and I scan the banquet hall filled to the brim with Lions personnel, knowing each and every one of them depends on me. My gut. My decisions. My experience.
“And hockey?” A mocking laugh slips out of my father, and he takes a sip of his drink. “I’m yet to be convinced.”
“Then, I guess it’s a good thing it’s not your money tied to the Lions' success.”
“But yours is.” His hand is heavy as he grabs my shoulder and squeezes. It isn’t rough. But the weight is considerable, reminding me how quickly things can turn sour if this season doesn’t go according to plan.
With a slight shake of his head, he lets me go. “What is going on inside your head, son? When you stepped back from B-Tech Enterprises, I supported your decision because you earned your Ph.D. and became a professor. But this? Hockey? It’s hardly a reputable investment. Ever since Troy’s arrest, you––”’
“Christopher,” my mother warns. “Now is not the time––”
“Your success is important to me, Henry,” my father continues. “But I can’t believe you drained your trust and sold most of your stock at B-Tech Enterprises for…”––he looks around the crowded room––“this.”
Unfortunately, this conversation is not new. It’s one we have repeated more times than I can count, not only regarding the Lions but also most of my life choices. After my best friend’s arrest, I took a step back from everything. I questioned every decision I had ever made. How couldn’t I, when I had spent the majority of my time with a person I judged so poorly? My best friend––my brother––helped cover up a murder, and I had no idea.
It doesn’t matter how many years have passed or how much time I spent learning to trust my gut again. Hearing my father’s lack of respect regarding my decisions never gets easier.
But Buchanan men aren’t weak. And they sure as shit are not impatient.
I am a Buchanan, even when it means it’s necessary to double down on a situation until it pays off.
The Lions will pay off.
I know it.
“If you care about my success,” I reply, “I suggest you buy season tickets while they are still available.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, scanning the screen. I don’t give my personal number to many people. Only a handful have it. The caller is unknown. My mouth lifts, realizing it must be Mia. She wasn’t very patient. I only gave it to her an hour ago. Two, tops. She must be having a tough shift.
Against my better judgment, I glance at my parents and murmur, “One minute.” I answer the call and bring the device to my ear. “Surprised you gave in so easily.”
“Wait, who’s this?” a low voice asks.
I cock my head but stay quiet.
“Mia?” the voice prods. “Mia, are you there?”
Avoiding my father’s astute gaze, I shift my phone to my other ear and growl, “Who is this?”
“This is Joey. You said you was lookin’ for a sugar daddy and gave me your number when you was closin’ out my tab.”
“You have the wrong number, Joey,” I tell him through gritted teeth.
“But you was––”
“Mia was playing with you,” I inform him. “Have a good night.” I hang up and block the number, but another follows a second later.
Well aware it’s a mistake, I answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mia. What’s up, sugar baby?”
“Wrong number.” I hang up again, blocking the number the same way I did the last one.
“Who’s Mia?” my father asks. The man might be old, but his mind is still as sharp as a tack.
“No one.” I reach for a flute of champagne on an errant serving tray and finish it. I don’t know why. I hate champagne. But I need the buzz it provides to drown out my annoyance.
She gave my number away when I specifically told her not to. The brat needs a spanking. If only she could refrain from pissing someone off long enough to allow them to slip into her bed and discipline her firsthand.
“Mia Rutherford?” my father prods.
The image of Mia’s round ass propped in the air with a handprint evaporates as I register his words.
Of course, he remembers her.
The entire family does.
It’s what happens when the Buchanan name is tied to a stranger’s in an irrevocable way. After Troy was arrested, my father hired a bodyguard to sit outside Mia’s house for a few weeks until things calmed down, though I doubt she noticed. It still doesn’t erase what happened or how quickly an innocent girl’s life unraveled in front of everyone, leaving a shell of the girl she used to be.