12. Keaton
Chapter 12
Keaton
I leaned against the lockers, watching her fumble with the cleaning supplies. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about her. Just another scholarship kid in that hideous uniform. But something kept pulling my gaze back to her. Her hair fell in loose waves, a few strands escaping her messy ponytail. She moved with a quiet determination, ignoring the rank smell of sweat and mildew.
"What's your name?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence.
"Um, Elodie," she replied, not looking up from her task.
Elodie. The name rolled around in my mind, unsettling me. I knew I’d seen her before. It wasn’t just the other day when she walked in on me getting my dick sucked by some girl, turning so red I thought she might faint. That had been amusing, sure. But there was something more.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
She finally looked up, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second before darting away. "I don't think so."
But she was lying. I could tell by the way she bit her lip, a nervous habit that hinted at familiarity. My lips curved into a smirk as I remembered her flushed face from Friday.
"I know I've seen you before," I said, taking a step closer. "You walked in on me last week."
Her face reddened again, confirming my suspicion. "I was just doing my job," she mumbled.
"Sure you were." My smirk widened as she squirmed under my gaze.
But it wasn’t just that moment that bothered me—it was something deeper. A feeling gnawed at me like I should know more about this girl than just a fleeting encounter in a locker room.
Why did it feel like we were connected somehow?
"Was there anything else?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I really need to go."
She turned to leave, but something inside me didn't want her to leave. I reached out, grabbing her wrist. She froze, turning to look at me, and suddenly, a wave of déjà vu hit me hard.
Her scent—vanilla with a hint of roses—filled the air between us. It was so familiar it nearly knocked the breath out of me.
"Did you go to the masquerade over the weekend?" I asked, my grip tightening involuntarily.
"W-what? No, of course not," she stammered, trying to pull her wrist away.
"Why not?" I pressed. "Everyone was allowed."
She tugged harder, but I didn’t let go. "Just because the invitation says everyone doesn't mean I'm allowed."
There was an edge to her voice that struck a chord deep within me. That tone—it wasn’t just familiar; it was like an echo from another time or place.
"It's really starting to bother me," I muttered, more to myself than to her.
"What is?" she asked, her eyes wide.
"This... feeling," I said, loosening my grip slightly but not letting go entirely. "Like I know you from somewhere else. Not just from here."
She blinked rapidly, clearly taken aback by my words. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The locker room's usual clatter seemed distant, as if we were in a bubble of our own making.
"Look," she finally said, her voice softer now but still firm. "I need to go. I have class."
I stared at her, the sense of familiarity gnawing at my insides. "I'm looking for someone," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I need... Are you sure you didn't go?"
She shook her head, her eyes wide and uncertain. "What would I even wear?" she asked, her tone tinged with exasperation.
"The girl I'm looking for wasn't wearing anything special, but..." I let my voice trail off, studying her reaction. "I have a mask. Do you think?—"
"No," she cut me off, shaking her head more vehemently. "I... I need... Look, if she forgot her mask, maybe, I don't know, make a post about it on social and see who responds? But I didn't forget anything there because I didn't go."
My eyes narrowed as her words sunk in. "I never said she forgot her mask," I said slowly. "Or that it was a she."
The realization hit me like a slap in the face.
"It's you," I said, the words escaping before I could stop them. "Holy fuck, it's you."
Her eyes widened with panic, and in that moment, I knew I was right. She was the girl from the masquerade—the one who had slipped through my fingers.
"Please," she whispered, taking a step back as if to escape the truth that now hung between us.
"Elodie," I replied, my voice softening despite myself. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"I —" she said, looking down at the floor, the walls, everywhere but me. "I have class."
But her words were weak.
"You should have told me," I insisted, stepping closer to her.
"And what good would it have done?" she snapped back, finally meeting my gaze again. Her eyes were filled with anger and something else—something raw and vulnerable.
"It would have changed everything," I insisted, frustration bubbling up inside me. "I need to know why you didn't say anything."
She crossed her arms, a defensive stance that only fueled my irritation. "Because it wouldn't have mattered, Keaton. You're you. I'm me. We're from two different worlds."
"That's bullshit," I shot back, feeling my temper rise. "I already told you I'd marry you?—"
She shook her head, her expression hardening. "And you think I actually believe you? You're Keaton Douglas. If you're not playing hockey, you're getting drunk. You don't even know me."
"Then help me know you!" My voice echoed in the empty locker room, the frustration clear in every word. "You can't just pretend that night didn't happen."
"I can and I will," she said through gritted teeth. "Because it doesn't change anything about our lives."
"You're scared," I accused, stepping closer until there was barely any space between us. "You're scared of what this could mean."
"I'm not scared," she retorted, but the quiver in her voice betrayed her words. "I'm realistic. You live in a world of privilege and power, and I?—"
"Stop using that as an excuse," I interrupted, my voice harsh. "You think I don't know what it's like to be trapped by expectations? To feel like you're suffocating under someone else's control?"
Her eyes widened slightly at my words, but she quickly masked it with anger. "Oh please," she scoffed. "Your problems are nothing compared to mine."
"Don't you dare minimize what I've been through," I growled, my fists clenching at my sides. "You think it's easy living under my father's thumb? Being pushed into a marriage I don't want?"
"You have choices," she argued, her voice rising in intensity. "You can walk away from all of it if you really wanted to."
"And lose everything?" I countered, the desperation creeping into my tone. "My inheritance, my future—everything I've ever known? Everything my mother?—"
"Then maybe you don't want it badly enough," she said quietly, but the words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I stared at her, breathing heavily as the weight of our argument settled over us. This girl—this infuriatingly stubborn girl—was challenging everything I thought I knew about myself and my life.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't know what to do next.
"Look," I said, my voice firm. "I'm being serious. About all of it. I'll marry you right the fuck now. And it has to be now."
Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she laughed—a bitter, incredulous sound that grated on my nerves.
"You considered it," I pressed on. "That night?—"
"I got… I got swept up," she interrupted, shaking her head as if trying to dispel the memory.
"Are you telling me you want to marry whomever the fuck they're going to make you marry?" I demanded, frustration boiling over. "That's what you want in your life?"
"And you're better?" she shot back, her voice dripping with skepticism.
"I know I am," I said with conviction. "Look, meet me at the River Styx after your class. We'll—fuck—we'll come up with rules if that's what'll make you feel better."
"Rules?" she echoed doubtfully, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
"What do you want from this?" I asked, my tone softening as I searched her face for any hint of what she was feeling. "Besides an escape."
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment, it felt like she was seeing right through all the bullshit layers I'd built up around myself. It made me feel exposed in a way that both terrified and exhilarated me.
"I have to go," she finally said, breaking eye contact and taking a step back.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, my heart pounding in my chest as I watched her walk away. Every instinct screamed at me to stop her, to make her stay and talk this out. But instead, I let her go, knowing that pushing too hard now would only drive her further away.
As she disappeared around the corner, I clenched my fists and leaned back against the lockers, trying to steady my racing thoughts. This girl—Elodie—she was my ticket out of this mess. But more than that, she was different from anyone I'd ever met. She didn't buy into my bullshit or fall at my feet because of my last name.
And that scared the hell out of me.
I knew what needed to be done next. The River Styx wasn't just a place—it was where we could make this work or watch it all fall apart.
I just hoped she'd show up.
I laced up my skates and adjusted my helmet, the familiar routine bringing a sense of calm. Stepping onto the ice, I felt the coolness seep through my gear. With each push of my blades, I carved out a path, letting the rhythm of skating soothe my restless mind.
Marriage. The word hung in the air like a bad odor. My father’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me of duty, of expectations. The bastard loved my mother, as much as someone like him could love anyone. And she adored him back, even though he didn't deserve it.
Would that ever happen for me? Would I find someone who could look past the Douglas name and see the real me? Did it even matter?
Right now, I didn’t care. Love was a luxury I couldn’t afford. What I needed was an escape route, a way to dodge the bullet named Lola.
As I skated around the rink, I tried to piece together a plan. If I married Elodie—an impulsive move, sure—would it be enough to throw off my father’s plans? Would it make him reconsider this insane arrangement with Lola?
A voice in the back of my mind piped up: Isn't running off and getting hitched to some other broad going to give up your inheritance too?
I didn't know. But maybe if I was already married, my father wouldn’t be so rash as to cut me off entirely. Maybe he'd see it as a strategic move rather than outright rebellion.
Then again, who knew with him? He was unpredictable at best, tyrannical at worst.
I increased my speed, pushing harder against the ice as if that would somehow bring clarity. Marrying Elodie wasn’t just about escaping Lola; it was about reclaiming control over my life. It was about proving that I could make decisions for myself.
But would Elodie even agree? And if she did, what then? Could we navigate this mess together?
I skated faster, trying to outrun the questions swirling in my head. The cold air stung my face, but it was nothing compared to the uncertainty gnawing at me from within.
I didn’t need love. Not now. What I needed was a solid plan to ensure everything fell into place—so that marrying Lola would become impossible.
And Elodie... She was key to that plan.
Would she meet me at the River Styx? Would she take this insane leap with me?
I didn’t have all the answers yet. But for now, skating helped clear some of the fog.
It had to work.
And even then, would Elodie be willing to leave Autumn Brook with me? If I accepted an offer, if I was actually drafted…
I scoffed at the thought.
Teams could be interested all they wanted, but that didn’t guarantee shit.
And my father wasn’t wrong. There were better players, younger. It didn’t matter what Morgan said. I should probably just tie up the damn skates and get ready to fucking work for my father. Inherit the company. Give up playing hockey now before I got too caught up in this.
The ice under my blades felt solid, dependable. Unlike everything else in my life. I circled around, picking up speed, feeling the wind whip against my face. The cold air did nothing to cool the anger simmering inside me.
Could I really walk away from it all? The team, the sport that had been my escape for so long? The idea of sitting behind a desk, wearing a suit and tie every day made my skin crawl. Yet it seemed inevitable.
My father’s voice echoed in my head, as persistent as ever: Keaton, you have responsibilities. You need to think about your future.
My future. What future was that? One dictated by someone else’s expectations? Living out a plan I had no say in?
The puck slid across the ice, and I lunged for it, channeling my frustration into a perfect slap shot that echoed through the empty rink. The sound was satisfying but short-lived.
I slowed down, catching my breath, my thoughts drifting back to Elodie. Would she even consider leaving with me? She had her own struggles, her own battles to fight. Was it fair to drag her into mine?
The memory of her scent—vanilla and roses—lingered in my mind. There was something about her that made me believe things could be different.
But believing didn’t make it true.
I came to a stop near the boards, resting my stick against them as I leaned forward, trying to catch my breath and clear my head.
If I walked away from hockey now, if I accepted my fate as heir to the Douglas empire... would that be enough? Would it satisfy my father and free me from this engagement with Lola?
Or was that just what was expected of me?
The answers eluded me as much as Elodie did.
With a final glance around the rink, I knew what needed to be done next: meet Elodie at the River Styx and figure out if she’d take this leap with me.
It had to work.
I would fucking make it.