Page 226 of Cross Checked
Just my name, clipped and alert, like I’d interrupted something expensive.
“I need your help.”
Silence.
The words felt foreign in my mouth. Wrong. Weak in a way that made my shoulders lock even though no one was there to see it. I stared at the row of skates and sticks against the wall while cold air pressed faintly through the back door and reminded myself this was not about me. Pride did not protect Bliss. Resentment did not lock the doors. History did not put security outside the house.
My father’s voice changed. Not much, but enough. “What happened?”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
“My girlfriend was assaulted.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Then, sharper, “Is she alive?”
The question hit harder than I expected because there was no distance in it. No immediate pivot to liability or reputation or whether this affected my season. Just a clean,brutal question from a man who suddenly sounded like he had stood up wherever he was.
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Hockey House.”
“Is the man in custody?”
“No. Warrant’s out. He’s running.”
“What do you need?”
I leaned my shoulder against the wall, the pressure in my chest shifting because I had been ready to fight him for this. Ready to explain. Ready to turn need into negotiation because that was the only language we usually shared.
But he was already there.
“I need private security here tonight,” I said. “Not campus security. Real security. Discreet, but visible enough to make anyone think twice. I need an attorney retained before he is arrested, someone who understands assault cases, victim protection, evidence, media exposure, all of it. She needs to know her options before the police interview goes any deeper. Her brother is a cop, but he can’t touch the case directly. Her family is blue-collar. They’ll fight like hell, but this part—” My throat tightened. “This part is going to get ugly. The kind with a hefty price tag.”
“What’s her name?”
“Bliss Bennett.”
He repeated it once, quietly, like he was committing it to memory. “And the assailant?”
“Luke Dempsey.”
Keys clicked in the background. Not an assistant. Not someone else. Harrison typing himself.
“Spell it.”
I did.
More typing.
Then he asked, “Does he have money?”
“No.”
