Chapter 16
Mikey
The sound of a career ending isn't a bang. It's the quiet click of a door shutting.
I was sitting in Coach Cross’s office. My leg was propped up on a chair, the fiberglass cast stark white against the dark wood of the furniture. The office was suffocatingly hot, as always, but I was shivering.
Mac sat behind his desk. He looked ten years older than he had yesterday. The lines around his eyes were etched deep. His hands, usually animated when he talked hockey, were flat on the desk, still and heavy.
"The NCAA called," Mac said. His voice was devoid of emotion. "They're opening a formal inquiry. Academic fraud. Impermissible benefits."
He looked at me.
"Do you know what that means, Mikey?"
"It means I'm suspended," I said, my voice dead.
"It means you're erased," Mac corrected. "They'll wipe your stats. They'll vacate our wins. And you? You'll be declared ineligible for life. No degree. No draft. No Europe. You'll be lucky if you can get a job driving a Zamboni at a community rink."
I stared at the floor. The carpet was grey. Fitting.
"And Lydia?" I asked.
Mac flinched. The name was a physical blow to him.
"Lydia is facing expulsion," he said quietly. "The University has a zero-tolerance policy for academic dishonesty. If they prove she altered your grades or traded tutoring for... intimacy... she's out. Her degree, her future in PT... gone."
My stomach twisted. Gone.
"She didn't alter my grades," I said. "I learned the material. She taught me."
"Doesn't matter," Mac said. "Perception is reality. The photo exists. The timeline matches. And Davis... Davis gave a statement."
I clenched my fists. "That little rat."
"He said he saw you two together. He said Lydia pressured him onto the first line as a bribe to keep quiet."
Mac leaned forward. "Is that true, Mikey? Did she compromise my team to protect you?"
I couldn't lie. Not to him. Not now.
"Yes," I whispered.
Mac closed his eyes. He let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Then she's done," he said. "Unless..."
I looked up. "Unless what?"
"Unless you fix it."
"How?"
Mac opened a folder on his desk. He pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was a statement. Typed. Ready for a signature.
"You take the fall," Mac said. "You claim that you pressured her. You claim that you used your status as a star player to intimidate her into tutoring you. You say the relationship was one-sided. That you pursued her. That she rejected you, but you persisted."
I read the paper. It painted me as a predator. A bully. An Alpha throwing his weight around.
"If you sign this," Mac continued, his voice tight, "The University drops the investigation into Lydia. They frame her as a victim of harassment. She keeps her scholarship. She graduates. She stays."
"And me?"
"You're expelled," Mac said bluntly. "Immediate dismissal from the program and the University."
He looked at me with sad, tired eyes.
"But let's be honest, son. With the leg... and the rumors... Detroit is gone anyway. Your hockey career is over. You have nothing left to lose."
"I have my dignity," I said bitterely.
"Dignity doesn't pay tuition," Mac countered. "And dignity won't save Lydia."
He pushed the paper toward me.
"You love her, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Then save her. Because if you don't sign this... she goes down with you. And she will hate you for it. And I will hate you for it. And you will hate yourself."
I looked at the paper.
I, Michael Holt, admit to coercing Lydia Cross...
It was a lie. It was the opposite of the truth. We were partners. We were a team.
But Mac was right. My future was already dead. The leg, the debt, the madness... I was a sinking ship.
Lydia was a lifeboat. She could still float. She could still make it to shore.
But only if I cut the rope.
"If I sign this," I said, picking up the pen, "She stays?"
"She stays," Mac promised. "But you have to leave. Today. You pack your shit, and you get off my campus. You don't talk to her. You don't text her. You disappear, Holt."
"She won't believe it," I said. "She knows me. She'll know I'm lying to protect her."
"Then make her believe it," Mac said cruelly. "Break her heart so thoroughly that she never wants to see your face again. Be the monster everyone thinks you are."
I stared at the pen.
I thought about the cabin. I thought about the firelight. I thought about the way she looked when she talked about the Newfoundland dog.
I love you.
Because I loved her, I had to destroy us.
It was the only choice.
I signed the paper.
The scratch of the pen sounded like a scream.
The walk—or rather, the hobble—to her dorm was the longest journey of my life.
I was on crutches. Every step sent a jolt of pain up my leg, but the physical pain was a distraction. It was grounding.
I focused on the pain. I fed it to the Wolf. I needed the Wolf right now. I needed the cold, detached predator who could hurt without flinching.
I texted her.
Me: Courtyard. 10 minutes.
She was waiting on a bench when I arrived. It was snowing lightly. She was wearing my hoodie—the grey one with the bloodstains washed out but the memory still woven into the fibers.
When she saw me, she stood up. Hope flared in her eyes. It was agonizing to watch.
"Mikey," she breathed, taking a step toward me. "You came."
I stopped five feet away. I leaned on my crutches, keeping my face blank. Stone.
"Stay back," I said.
She froze. The hope faltered. "What? Why?"
"I just came from Mac's office," I said. My voice was flat. Monotone. "I signed a statement."
"A statement?" She frowned. "What kind of statement?"
"Admitting to harassment," I said. "Admitting that I pressured you. That I used you to pass my classes."
Her eyes went wide. "What? Why would you do that? That's a lie!"
"Is it?" I asked. "I needed to pass. You were the key. I did what I had to do."
"Mikey, stop," she shook her head, confusion clouding her features. "We love each other. You told me... at the cabin..."
"The cabin," I scoffed. I forced a cruel, dark chuckle from my throat. "Lydia, the cabin was a desperate move. I needed you to patch me up. I needed someone to hold my hand while I came down from the adrenaline."
I looked her in the eye. I channeled every ounce of acting ability I possessed. I channeled my father’s coldness.
"You were convenient," I said. "You were the Coach's niece. A safe harbor. A warm body."
She flinched as if I had slapped her. Tears welled up instantly.
"You don't mean that," she whispered. "I know you. I saw you. You fought for your dad. You cried in my arms."
"I was high on pain meds and trauma," I dismissed. "People say stupid things when they're bleeding."
"So the future?" she demanded, her voice rising. "The house? The dog? Corktown? Was that all a lie too?"
This was the hardest part. The part where I had to kill the dream.
"It was a fantasy, Lydia," I said. "A bedtime story. Look at me."
I gestured to my cast. To my scars. To the jagged reality of my face.
"I'm a Holt. I'm a genetic dead end. I don't get houses and dogs. I get cages and debt. And frankly? I never really wanted the domestic bliss. I wanted the contract. I wanted the money."
I leaned forward on my crutches, looming over her.
"And now thanks to you... thanks to your sloppy handling of Davis... the money is gone. Detroit is gone. So what use are you to me now?"
The color drained from her face completely. She looked like a ghost.
"You're blaming me?" she whispered.
"Who else?" I said. "You put him on the ice. You broke my leg, Lydia. You ruined my life."
I spat the words out. They were weapons. And they hit their mark.
She crumbled. Her shoulders slumped. Her hands dropped to her sides.
"I tried to save you," she choked out.
"You failed," I said coldley. "And now I'm expelled. I'm leaving. Today."
"Where will you go?"
"Doesn't matter. Anywhere but here. Anywhere away from you."
I turned awkwardly on my crutches.
"Mikey," she called out. One last, desperate plea. "Please. Tell me you loved me. Just once. Tell me it was real."
I stopped. I didn't turn around. I stared at the snow-covered brick of the dormitory.
I wanted to turn back. I wanted to drop the crutches and crawl to her. I wanted to tell her that she was the only real thing I had ever known.
But if I did that, she would follow me. She would fight for me. And she would lose her scholarship. She would lose her future.
I had to sever the limb to save the body.
"It was a game, Mouse," I said to the air. "And we both lost."
I started walking. Thump. Drag. Thump. Drag.
I heard her sob behind me. A ragged, broken sound that tore through my chest.
I kept walking.
I walked until I was around the corner. I walked until I was out of sight.
And then, my strength gave out.
I collapsed against the brick wall of the library. I slid down until I was sitting in the snow, my broken leg throbbing, my crutches clattering to the ground.
I put my head in my hands.
I didn't cry. I couldn't. I was too empty.
I just sat there, freezing, while the snow piled up on my shoulders.
I had saved her.
But god, it felt like dying.
Lydia
I stood in the courtyard for a long time.
The snow was falling heavier now, covering his footprints. Erasing him.
It was a game.
The words echoed in my head, bouncing around like a loose puck.
He had looked so cold. So detached. The golden light in his eyes was gone, replaced by a flat, yellow hunger. Just like he had described his father.
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was genetics. Maybe the monster always won in the end.
But my heart... my stupid, stubborn, scientific heart... it refused to believe him.
I replayed the moments. The way he had held me in the hydro tub. The way he had let me draw on his skin. The way he had looked at me when he knotted me—like I was the only water in a desert.
You can't fake that. Not even a Holt could fake that level of desperation.
But he had signed the paper. He had taken the blame. He had saved my scholarship at the cost of his own.
Why?
If he hated me... if he blamed me... why save me?
Unless...
A tiny, fragile realization bloomed in my chest.
He was protecting me.
He was doing the thing he always did. Being the Enforcer. Taking the hit so the scorer could skate free.
"You idiot," I whispered to the empty air. "You noble, self-sacrificing idiot."
I wiped my tears. My hands were freezing, but my blood was heating up.
He thought he could push me away. He thought he could lie to me and I would just accept it.
He clearly didn't know me as well as he thought.
I wasn't a damsel. I wasn't a victim.
I was a scientist. And I knew how to spot a variable that didn't fit the data.
I turned and walked back into the dorm.
I wasn't going to chase him. Not today. He needed space. He needed to lick his wounds.
But I wasn't letting him go.
He had three months to heal. Three months to rehab that leg.
And I had three months to figure out how to fix this mess.
I walked into my room. Becca was there, looking at me with wide, worried eyes.
"Lyd?" she asked. "I saw the news. Are you okay?"
I walked to my desk. I picked up my anatomy textbook. I picked up my clipboard.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice steady.
"What are you going to do?"
I looked at the map of Michigan taped to my wall. I looked at the pin in Detroit.
"I'm going to graduate," I said. "I'm going to get my degree."
I turned to Becca.
"And then," I said, a dangerous glint in my eye, "I'm going to go get my dog."
Mikey
The bus station was grim.
I sat on a plastic bench, my duffel bag at my feet, my crutches leaning against the wall. I had sold the truck to a junkyard for cash. It was enough for a ticket to Chicago and maybe a month of rent in a dive motel.
I was going back to the city. Back to the shadows.
I checked my phone one last time before tossing the SIM card in the trash.
One new message. From Mac.
Mac: She's safe. The University accepted your statement. She keeps her scholarship. You did the right thing, son. I'm sorry.
I deleted it.
"Bus to Chicago, boarding lane 4," the intercom crackled.
I stood up. I grabbed my bag.
I limped toward the bus.
I didn't look back at the campus. I didn't look back at the town.
I boarded the bus, found a seat in the back, and rested my head against the cold window.
As the engine roared to life and we pulled away, I closed my eyes.
I imagined Corktown. I imagined the trees. I imagined her.
And then I let the darkness take me.
Game over.