Page 97 of Xander

The game was during the day, and it crushed my spirit to play without my girl cheering me on. For the first time since I started playing professional hockey, I finally got to share my passion with her. It was what I had always wanted. Watching her chant my name was the most exhilarating experience of my life, and games would never be the same again without her rooting for me.

After I settled things with Henry, she would be at every game with me whether she liked it or not. For now, I had set up the bedroom television so she could be with me from afar. The TV only had one available channel—my hockey game. It was set to turn on at the specific time the game started and would shut off promptly after.

I knew she’d be mad about being locked up in our room. But even if she was angry, she’d end up watching the game and cheering me on. She had always been my cheerleader, doing things I liked without realizing it, taking notes of what I ate, and finding small ways to make me happy. She couldn’t help herself.

The game began with ferocious intensity as both teams fought for the puck. Once again, anger toward Henry spiked my adrenaline. I seized every opportunity until finally sending the puck flying into the net.

Our limited fans exploded with excitement, and the rest of the boys from the team were patting my back, but I was only concerned about one thing. When I knew the camera was zoomed in on me, I threw a thumb toward the goal and then pointed my index finger at the camera. It was the same gesture I had made when I dedicated my hat trick to Jordan. I wanted to send her a clear message that, like every goal of my professional career, this one was also dedicated to her.

When we won, the rest of the guys pumped each other up while I found another cameraman to repeat the same motion so she’d know that the game, like my goals, was also dedicated to her. Everything in my life was for her.

I didn’t have the time or the interest to savor our win. Without Jordan to share this with, I was back to feeling hollow the moment the adrenaline wore off. That was why what I needed to do next was crucial, so Henry could never again stop her from being by my side.

After the game, it was an hour-long cab ride to my father’s house. As I’d expected, his car—an ostentatious McLaren—wasn’t in the drive. Henry was away on business. Or fucking one of his mistresses, I thought darkly. Neither option mattered, as long as he wasn’t here.

I let myself in with my key, tossing out a greeting to Jenna, who looked surprised to see me. “Xander? Mr. Maxwell didn’t say to expect you. He isn’t in right now. Should I set up your old room?”

“No. This is just a quick visit. I’m here to pick up some of my old things.” I paused. “Actually, would you mind putting together a light dinner? My father mentioned that he might be home early.”

I felt bad lying to her, but I didn’t want her snooping around upstairs and catching me where I wasn’t supposed to be. From the look on her face, she wasn’t surprised, aptly familiar with both my father’s temper and his last-minute plans. Point for me.

With a brisk nod, she headed in the direction of the kitchen to do as I asked.

Good. That’d keep her busy.

My goal was my father’s office. He kept it locked, but I knew where he kept the spares: they were all kept on hooks behind a painting that swung out to reveal a recessed nook.

Taking the key I wanted, I headed up the stairs, making sure to step heavily as I walked to what had been my old room. I kicked off my shoes and then doubled back down the hall, now in bare feet. Just in case Jenna could hear me moving around my father’s office from downstairs and tried to intervene. The key was stuck in the lock, but a shake of my wrist loosened the mechanism, and then I was in.

I closed the door behind me and surveyed the room with a shake of my head. The heavy furniture and tacky furnishings stood in stark contrast to Jordan’s subtler hand. All the paintings had heavy frames and the drapes looked like they belonged in a whorehouse.

I checked the fire safe first, rooting through the same documents that I’d looked through before when I’d gotten Jordan’s passport. It was the same—title deeds, insurance documents, birth certificates, and his marriage certificate to my mother.

I checked his desk next, which was also locked. But I knew he kept the key under the paperweight on his desk. I’d seen him rooting for it once, drunk. He’d been playing poker and needed to get some cash to front a bet. The noise had woken me and I’d crept down the hall, just in time to see him reach for it.

Jordan’s marriage certificate was inside his desk drawer. I felt a sinking disappointment until I scanned it with a frown. Then I went to the safe and got out my mother’s, comparing the two.

Yup. Jordan’s was missing a signature and didn’t have a seal.

Jordan didn’t know, but dragging her to Canada didn’t transpire on a whim. The day before the infamous party, when my father hit Jordan, I had snagged her passport intending to convince her to leave with me. After our time together, I knew I’d never get over her, and she’d never be happy without me. The party merely gave me the perfect excuse to “whisk her away” while she was too shaken to realize what was happening.

I couldn’t have snuck her into Canada without a passport, which was still in my possession. I’d gone through Henry’s fire safe when I was grabbing Jordan’s passport, and there were stacks of international currency and various title deeds, but I hadn’t seen anything that looked like a marriage certificate. Not to Jordan, anyway. Just my mother’s.

At the time, I’d been in such a rush that I hadn’t been able to think about the strangeness of the situation too deeply beyond a “Hmm, that’s fucking odd.” But later, that observation was sticking in my brain like a thorn and wouldn’t leave. It felt important. Maybe my father was just keeping the two certificates in different places, but I doubted that. My father held on tightly to what he considered his, and what he couldn’t hold on to, he locked up.

Now, I wondered if his possessiveness was more sinister than I’d previously thought. Maybe he had good reason to think she could be stolen away.

I tucked the certificate in my jacket pocket and the conservatorship forms—conveniently, they had all been bundled together.

The lawyer I had spoken to about transferring Jordan’s guardianship told me it was odd that my father married Jordan after becoming her conservator.

While a spouse could apply for conservatorship, it was rare for a pre-existing guardian to be allowed to marry their conservatee. Something about a conflict of interest because it would allow them to take advantage of someone too vulnerable to make their own decisions.

Or in their words: “I would strongly advise against it.”

That was what made me want to return to this house and dig.

My father had appointed himself Jordan’s guardian before the wedding. Their whole wedding had been a farce. She signed papers that were never sent in to be filed because Henry knew it might cause legal trouble for him.