Puking My Hockey Rival

Chapter 14

LUCA'S POV

The sunnyside-up eggs on my plate were cooling, the golden, slightly runny yolks staring back at me like two eyes while the crisp edges of the bacon looked almost too good in the thin film of butter.

“Thank you, Janine,” I murmured pleasantly. I felt really good that morning, and I hoped it would last all day.

I sliced through a piece of toast, listening to the quiet, muted hum of the morning news playing softly on the built-in kitchen display across the room.

Most athletes aren't morning people, but I liked to consider myself as one. This was my favourite part of each day.

It was supposed to be my moment of peace, thirty minutes to one hour of pure peace before everyone and everything around me began to demand that I become Luca Devereaux, Captain of the Chicago Phantoms, the unshakeable, perfect face of professional hockey.

My phone vibrated against the marble island. I paused, chewing slowly on a piece of bacon as I stared at the strange number.

Usually, I never answered numbers that weren't saved on my phone, but for some reason, that personal rule flew out the window as I picked up the buzzing cellphone.

My frown deepening, I swiped and pressed it to my ear, taking a slow bite of my toast. “Devereaux.”

“Hey you,” a voice rasped through the speaker. It was heavily distorted, chopped up by a voice-altering filter that made it sound hollow and metallic, like someone speaking through a drainpipe.

“Who's this?” I asked, pausing mid-chew.

“We will get to that part soon,” he replied. “I hope you're enjoying your breakfast. Though you won't have much of an appetite once you find out what I've got sitting on my hard drive. And if you mess things up, I'll have no option but to expose it all.”

A cold, razor-thin line of ice slid straight down my spine, but I forced my breathing to stay even. I chewed the toast slowly, swallowing before I let out a dry, dismissive huff.

“Well, I don't remember ordering a side of blackmail with my breakfast, but I guess I'll have it then.”

“Don't be smart with me, Mr. Devereux,” the blackmailer snapped, the artificial distortion cracking harshly in my ear.

“Hold on,” I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm, “is this the janitor guy from the locker room that night?” I asked, lacing my tone with deliberate, biting condescension.

“I know what you think you saw, but that's not it.”

I shrugged, “and look, you're basically so inconsequential that I don't even remember your name. That's how much I don't care about you or the stupid stunt you're trying to pull right now.”

“It's not a stunt,” the distorted voice replied, dropping lower, the malice in it evident even with the deliberate malfunction.

“And this isn't who you think it is.”

“Don't care,” I said, my voice deadpan, even though every single instinct I possessed was screaming in silent panic.

“You keep saying that, but we both know the truth,” the voice replied, a rough, sickening chuckle humming through the line.

“You wouldn't be parading that pathetic PR relationship around if you didn't care about keeping your dirty little secrets in the dark.” He paused.

“Or maybe it's your team that cares, but whatever. I'm going to give you forty-eight hours, Mr. Devereux. forty-eight hours to tighten up your act, and if you don't…then I'll show you exactly how far I can go when I don't get my way.”

The line clicked dead with a sharp tone before I could form a single word of retaliation.

I lowered the phone slowly to the fancy marble island, staring down at my breakfast as I felt the last shreds of my appetite vanish completely.

I pushed myself up from the counter, shifting my weight, and the moment I straightened, my right shoulder protested with a fierce, blinding jolt of agony that nearly knocked the wind straight out of my lungs.

“Oh God,” I hissed through my teeth, gripping the edge of the marble until my knuckles strained with the effort. Then I released my muscles, gently rubbing the throbbing shoulder as I exhaled deeply.

“That's certainly a way to handle a blackmail call,” a smooth, heavily accented voice murmured from the doorway behind me.

I turned my head slowly, finding Janine standing there, a soft grey cardigan draped over her shoulders and a mild, unimpressed look etched across her round face. Janine had been the one responsible for keeping the penthouse, and me, running for two years.

She was the closest thing to a mother I had, and I do believe it's because she used to be my nanny as a kid.

Yes, I had specifically sought out my childhood nanny just so she could live with me again.

“How much of that phone call did you hear?” I asked, my voice tight as I tried to mask the lingering tremor in my shoulder.

She shrugged, shuffling forward across the hardwood floor with slow, deliberate steps until she reached my abandoned plate. Without missing a beat, she picked up my fork and forked a piece of bacon into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.