(Victor Harlow)
I arrived at the Wolves’ practice facility unannounced, the cold weight of my expectations trailing behind me like a shadow. The championship series was reaching its critical point, and my son — the captain I had molded — was showing dangerous signs of weakness.
Kane stood at center ice when I entered the stands, watching his team run drills. The moment he saw me, his posture stiffened. Good. He still remembered who set the standard.
I descended the stairs and met him at the boards after waving off the coaching staff. “Walk with me, son.”
We moved along the tunnel, away from prying ears. Kane’s jaw was set, the same stubborn line his mother used to wear when she disagreed with me.
“I watched the film,” I said without preamble. “You’re no longer targeting the Jones girl
