The Legacy (Off-Campus Book 5)

by Elle Kennedy

  “What do you mean, for ‘some’ reason? Of course I’m stalling and I know exactly why.” Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. “I mean, gee, it’s not like this is going to completely change our lives forever or anything. Why would that be scary?”

  Garrett and I haven’t even discussed kids in any serious way. Getting pregnant and springing it on him seems like a hell of a way to broach the subject. How could it not feel like a trap?

  “Can I ask?” she says hesitantly. “Do you want to keep it?”

  My teeth dig into my bottom lip. That’s the thing. The big question. The one that keeps me up at night staring at Garrett while he sleeps and trying to imagine what our life would look like a year from now.

  “In a perfect world, at the right time? Sure,” I admit, a slight trembling to my voice. “I always thought having a couple of kids would be nice. A boy and a girl.” Growing up as an only child, I envied my friends who had siblings. It seemed like so much fun having another kid around.

  “But?” Allie prompts when I don’t go on.

  “But the realities of being a hockey family don’t make it easy. He’s on the road for months out of the year, which basically means I’d be taking care of a baby by myself. That’s not exactly ideal.”

  Even without a kid, it’s a tough lifestyle. Between pre- and post-season, the hockey life is travel, long hours, and exhaustion. By the time Garrett walks through the door, he barely has the energy to put down a meal before he collapses into bed. There’s hardly enough time for us, much less a child. A crying newborn on top of that?

  Panic starts crawling up my throat. I swallow hard, and my voice shakes when I speak again. “I can’t do this by myself, Allie.”

  “Aw, babe.” Her sigh echoes over the line. “It sucks your family doesn’t live closer. Give you some help, at least.”

  “That’d be great, but there’s no way.”

  My parents are stuck in a second mortgage in the crappy small town in Indiana where I grew up. Buried under a mountain of debt that’ll probably keep them in that miserable place for the rest of their lives.

  “Look. Whatever happens,” Allie tells me, “I’m here for you. Anything you need. All you have to do is call, and I’ll be on the next flight or train to Boston. I’ll hitchhike if I need to.”

  “I know and I love you for it. Thank you.” I blink through my stinging eyes. “I have to go back to work now.”

  After I end the call, I walk back to the mirror to make sure I don’t look like I’ve been crying. In my reflection I see tired green eyes and pale cheeks and a look of pure terror.

  When it comes down to it, I’m scared. Of raising this kid by myself. Of the overwhelming responsibility. Of what Garrett will say when I finally find the right way to tell him. Because I am going to tell him. I just have to find the words.

  For the time being, though, there are more pressing issues. Like the exorbitant rate Nice is paying for studio time that is like setting money on fire every minute I’m having an existential meltdown in the bathroom.

  We spend the next several hours in the studio banging out a few more songs. When Nice and I get into a rhythm, we work quick. The flow is there, that free creative energy that makes the time pass in a blink. Until suddenly we do blink, and discover that his friends are all passed out on the couch and the night janitor is wandering in to empty the trash cans.

  We finally call it quits for the night. I gather up my things and accept Patch’s offer to walk me to my car. Can’t be too safe these days.

  “G’nite, Hannah baby. Lock your door.” Patch taps the window frame of my SUV before lumbering back to the building.

  I’m just pulling out of the lot when I get a call from my agent. Elise usually calls about this time every evening to check on our progress. She’s got the record label calling her every ten minutes wanting to make sure their money isn’t being wasted in the studio.

  “Are you holding anything hot?” she asks instead of a hello.

  “Huh? Like did we write anything good tonight?”

  “No, are you literally holding something hot in your hands right now? Coffee? Tea? If so, put it down,” she orders.

  I experience a jolt of alarm. “I’m driving home. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, if you like money.” Elise sounds too pleased with herself, which makes me nervous.

  “I like money,” I say, albeit warily.

  “Good. Because the song you wrote for Delilah took a sledgehammer to the charts last quarter and I’ve just sent you an obscene check. You’re welcome.”

  “How obscene is obscene?”

  “It’s a surprise. Congratulations, Hannah. This is what making it feels like.”

  I’m hesitant to guess at the number. The pop star I’d written the song for had been all over my social media for months, and I knew the streams and downloads of the single had done well. Which meant the royalty would be pretty nice. But I make it a habit not to pay too much attention to those things. Better to concentrate on the work ahead than obsess about the last gig. The second we get too far up our own asses, the music suffers.

  The truth is, this industry is fickle. What’s hot today is hot garbage tomorrow. You just have to rack up the credits and enjoy the ride while it lasts.

  At home, I can’t wait to share the news with Garrett—and then find a way to slip a baby into the conversation—but when I walk in the door, there are already open beer bottles on the kitchen counter and he’s angrily playing video games in the den.

  “Fuck,” he growls, and throws the controller at the coffee table where it lands with a stinging crack.

  “Hey, there.” I lean against the doorframe and offer a cautious smile.

  Garrett just sighs. He’s still in the pajamas he was wearing this morning. Which is never a good sign.

  “What’s up?” I take a seat on the arm of the sofa to kiss him hello, but our lips barely meet before he’s pulling back with an irritated curse.

  “He’s fucking with me,” he spits out.

  “Who? That same kid with the lisp? Oh no. He’s back?”

  For weeks after last Christmas, Garrett had a ten-year-old nemesis taunting him on one of his games. I thought I was going to have to get rid of the console, legitimately worried Garrett would find a way to track the kid down and show up at his house carrying his hockey stick. But then the kid and his lisp just up and disappeared in the spring and I thought the ordeal was over.

  “My father,” he says darkly. “Nothing satisfies him, so now he’s got to rub it in.”

  My brain is beginning to hurt. “Start from the beginning. What happened?”

  “Landon calls me this morning. Says a producer from ESPN wants me to do an episode of The Legacy. Only it’s not one of their usual career snapshots type of episodes—it’s some bullshit father-son feel-good story. So my dad can get on there and talk about raising a prodigy while they throw my baby pictures up behind his head.” Garrett’s eyes flash a stormy gray. “He’s seriously just being sadistic at this point.”

  “You think Phil set this up?”

  “Like it’s something novel, going behind my back and trying to interfere in my life?” Garrett tosses over a knowing look. “Doesn’t sound familiar?”

  He has a point. When we were still in college, Phil Graham all but blackmailed me to break up with Garrett, threatening to cut him off financially if I didn’t.

  “You’re right. It’s exactly what he’d do.”

  “I’m being punished for something. Or maybe he’s gone mad with power. Whatever it is, I’m not biting.”

  “Good,” I say, rubbing his shoulders. Nothing takes a toll on Garrett like his dad. “Screw him. Whatever attention he’s hoping for, don’t give it to him.”

  But my boyfriend is too agitated to sit still. I trail after his broad, muscular body as he goes to the kitchen to grab the last remaining beer bottle from the fridge. He drinks nearly half of it in one gulp, then rummages around for something to eat.
/>   “It’s shit like this that makes me not want to have kids, you know?”

  The bitter reflection comes so far out of left field, I’m totally and completely blindsided by it.

  It smacks me right in the face, a sharp pang radiating through my chest as I absorb what he just said.

  “You’re lucky,” he says gruffly, turning to face me. He leans against the fridge door. “Your folks are decent people. You’ve got the good parent genes in your DNA, you know? But what about me? Like, what happens if I turn out just like my dad one day and screw up my kids? Make them grow up to hate me?”

  I gulp down the lump of anxiety choking off my airways. “You’re not your dad. You’re nothing like him.”

  But Garrett tends to disappear into himself when Phil gets under his skin. He becomes quiet and withdrawn. And I’ve learned the only cure is time and space. Let him work through the thoughts in his head without pushing him or adding extra pressure.

  Which means that once again, we don’t quite make it around to the subject of, hey, I’ve got a kid you most definitely won’t screw up brewing in my belly.

  36

  Garrett

  Saturday morning, I step off the plane in Palm Springs with the other half dozen of my teammates who got roped into playing this two-day tournament. The charity people set us up at a nice hotel, to which we’re ushered by two private cars. Room service brings up some breakfast, while Logan texts me from the room next door to say that Happy Gilmore is on TV, if I want to glean a few pointers before we hit the first tee. I’m about to reply when my agent calls.

  “I knew nothing about this,” Landon warns before I can say a word.

  “What?”

  I step onto the balcony where several stories below people are starting to gather for the tournament. The press is setting up. Staff running around, corralling spectators. It’s a sunny day. Not too hot and a slight breeze. Good weather for golf. Well, for people who are good at golf.

  “When I got to the office, there was a voicemail from that producer,” Landon explains.

  Christ. These people are incessant.

  “The answer’s still no.”

  “Right. I was very clear on that with them.” There’s a long and disconcerting pause. “Except apparently they’re under the impression Phil agreed for both of you.”

  I damn near chuck my phone off the balcony. I rear back and barely stop myself from releasing, only finding the self-control when I realize there’s a good chance it’d knock someone below out cold.

  “Fuck no, Landon. You get me?” My grip tightens around the phone, and I feel the plastic case start to crunch. “Tell them to piss off. He doesn’t speak for me. Ever.”

  “Absolutely. I hear you.”

  “They couldn’t get me on that set beside him with a gun to my head.”

  “I get that, Garrett. I do.” Another unnerving pause. “I’ll make the call. Whatever you want.” He clears his throat. “Here’s the thing, though: As far as they understand, you’ve committed to this. If I go back and tell them you’re out, it doesn’t look good.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “No, I know. These are special circumstances. Only, they don’t know that. So they might start wondering if there’s something more to it.”

  “Maybe they won’t,” I mutter through gritted teeth. I’m rubbing my molars down to nubs.

  “I promise, it will raise questions. The kind that have a way of snowballing. Are you prepared for what happens when people start wondering if there’s bad blood there? Why you’d refuse to do an interview with your father? Because I’ll tell you what that looks like. They start calling your teammates and coaches and old college friends and some kid from your third-grade class to ask about your family and relationship with your dad. Can you be sure what they’ll say?”

  I draw a shallow, ragged breath.

  Screw. This.

  For the sake of my career, I’ve been obliged to put on a front for years. There was no getting around it—Phil Graham is one of the biggest names in American hockey. It was either air all our trauma for the world to see or fake the happy family. I’d chosen the latter, because the former is too…Christ, it’s too humiliating.

  The idea of the entire world viewing me as some sort of victim makes me want to throw up. Hannah has brought it up before, asking if maybe it’s time to let my father’s actions come to light, to let everyone know what kind of man they’ve been deifying. But at what cost? Suddenly I go from being “hockey player” to “the hockey player whose daddy used to beat him up.” I want to be judged for my skills on the ice, not dissected and pitied. I don’t want strangers knowing my business. I feel sick just thinking about it.

  These past few years, I’d been fine playing along, putting on that front. Now, for some inexplicable reason, my dad seems intent on making my life especially difficult.

  The last thing I want, however, is some nosy sports reporter snooping around in my life. If they track down Coach Jensen at Briar University, I have no doubt my old coach would have my back. Chad Jensen is tight-lipped on a good day. If someone showed up in his arena asking for gossip about a former player, he’d rip them a new one. But I can’t say the same for everyone in my life. I played with a lot of guys at Briar who knew I had a violent history with my father.

  So despite the acid rising in the back of my throat, I have no choice but to do exactly what that asshole expected when he concocted this farce.

  “Fine,” I tell Landon. Hating every word as it comes off my tongue. “I’ll do it.”

  After we get off the phone, I pull up my father’s name on my contacts list. I can’t remember the last time I actually called him. But if he’s roping me into this, I’m not going quietly.

  “Garrett. Good to hear from you. Ready to hit some balls?” he says, so goddamn unbothered, it spikes my already-heightened anger. He isn’t even involved in the tournament, but he makes it his business to always know what I’m up to.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” My voice is low. The rage barely restrained.

  “I’m sorry?”

  He seriously has the nerve to play dumb? “This interview nonsense. Why?”

  “They came to me,” he replies with feigned innocence. “Didn’t see a good reason to say no.”

  “So you make that decision for me?” My hands are legit shaking. I hate this man so much, it causes a physical disturbance in my body.

  “It’s the right one. You don’t turn down an opportunity like this.”

  “I decide. Not you. Just because you can’t stand not being the center of attention anymore—”

  “Garrett.” He sighs. So bored with my concerns. “I’d hoped you’d matured over the last year, but I see now I overestimated you.”

  “Fuck you, old man. I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t pull this shit with me.”

  There was a time the disappointed dad routine worked. Back when I was five years old, six, seven. A little kid desperate to impress his unimpressible father. It drove me into spirals of depression and self-doubt. I would do anything to gain his approval. Until I got older and understood the vicious manipulation at play. On a child. And realized what a bastard he is.

  “I won’t entertain your tantrums, boy. One day you’ll understand everything I’ve done to give you a career in this sport.” Condescension drips from his tone. “Maybe then you’ll appreciate how lucky you are to have been born my son.”

  I’d sooner eat my own foot.

  “In any case,” he says, with that smug drone that makes my eye twitch. “You will do this interview. You’ll sit for the cameras, be charming and personable, and just maybe be smart enough to reach for that next level to become one of the greats. It’s what a professional does.”

  I hang up on him, because if allowed, he’d keep talking to jerk off to the sound of his own voice. Anyway, I’ve heard this speech before. Be the Michael Jordan of hockey. Fame that transcends the sport.

  Which is all well and goo
d, but if Phil Graham is standing beside me when it happens, I can’t see myself ever enjoying any of it.

  As it is, I can’t shake the conversation or the dread of the interview during the tournament and our team finishes the day dead last. I’m double-digits over par and spent most of the afternoon up to my knees in the rough. Logan didn’t fare much better, setting up shop in numerous sand traps while the spectators had a good laugh. Which is a bummer for our teammates who paid to play with us, but they were good sports about the whole thing. Keeping them plied with drinks helped, as well as the ribeyes we inhale at a nearby award-winning restaurant after the tournament wraps for the day. The two men are brothers from Texas and own a cattle ranch together, so I trust they know their meat when they tell us this is the best steakhouse in the entire state.

  By the time we return to the hotel after dinner, it’s quarter past nine and all I want is to shower and get out of these sweaty clothes. I don’t bother turning on the light as I stride into my room, tugging my shirt over my head before the door even closes behind me. I’m about half undressed when something suddenly moves in the mirror.

  On instinct, I grab a glass water bottle from the desk and spin around, ready to chuck it at whatever is behind me.

  “Don’t shoot,” a female voice drawls in response.

  I lower the bottle. Quickly stick an arm out to slap the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light. My heart’s pounding and the adrenaline is still pumping hot through my veins, so it takes me a second to comprehend the naked woman lying in my bed, only partially under the covers.

  With an unbothered smirk, she raises her hands in surrender. “I’m unarmed.”

  I draw a calming breath. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Your present,” she teases before shimmying the rest of the blanket off her to reveal the two red bows stuck to her nipples. “You’re welcome.” Then she rolls over and flashes me her bare ass, which has my name written across it in black Sharpie.