Chapter 8
Imogen
A hockey arena is a cathedral built for violence.
It smells of ozone, stale popcorn, and that specific, metallic tang of ice that’s been chewed up by steel blades. The air is cold enough to make your lungs ache, but the atmosphere is hot—feverish with the collective screaming of five thousand people who want to see blood.
I stood in the VIP box, clutching the railing until my knuckles turned white.
I was wearing his jersey. Number 30. VANE across the back in bold white letters. It was huge on me, swallowing my torso, the hem hitting mid-thigh over my leggings. It smelled like him—clean laundry detergent and something darker, muskier. Wearing it felt like a claim. It felt like a target.
"You look like a puck bunny," Chloe said, appearing at my elbow with a box of nachos. She crunched loudly. "A very expensive, very angsty puck bunny."
"I am supporting the team," I said, not taking my eyes off the ice below. "My brother is the Captain. It’s familial duty."
"Uh-huh," Chloe dipped a chip in plastic cheese. "And is it familial duty that has you staring at the goalie’s ass like you want to mount it on a wall?"
"He's stretching," I defended weakly. "It's... biomechanically interesting."
Down on the ice, the Blackwood Kodiaks were warming up. They looked like giants in their black and gold armor. They moved with terrifying speed, carving sharp lines into the fresh ice.
And there, in the crease, was Max.
He was different on the ice. In the apartment, he was controlled stillness. Here, he was a predator.
He was massive in his goalie pads, taking up nearly the entire net. He moved with a fluidity that shouldn't have been possible for a man of his size. He would drop into a butterfly, legs splayed, pads sealing the ice, then explode upward in a blur of motion.
He tapped his stick against the goal posts. Clang. Clang. A ritual. Checking the boundaries of his cage.
I shivered.
It had been three days since the dinner at The Ironwood. Three days since I passed my Art History midterm with a B+ (a miracle achieved through flashcards and fear). Three days of simmering, unreleased tension.
We hadn't crossed the line again. Max was holding firm on his "no distractions until graduation" rule, but the air in the apartment was thick enough to chew. Every accidental touch felt like a branding iron. Every shared look was a conversation about what we wanted to do to each other in the dark.
Max skated to the bench for water. He lifted his mask, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Then, he looked up.
He didn't search the crowd. He didn't scan the student section. His eyes went straight to the VIP box, straight to me.
Even from this distance, I felt the impact of his gaze. It was heavy. Possessive.
He saw the jersey.
He stopped drinking. He stared for a full three seconds—an eternity in game time. A slow, dark smile spread across his face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf seeing a lamb wearing a collar with his name on it.
He tapped his stick on the ice—once, twice—pointed at me, then pulled his mask back down.
"Oh my god," Chloe whispered. "Did you see that? I think I just got pregnant by proxy."
"Shut up," I breathed, my face burning.
The buzzer sounded. The lights dimmed. The crowd roared.
The game was on.
The first period was a blur of noise and violence.
Blackwood was playing their arch-rivals, the Dartmouth Big Green. It wasn't just a game; it was a turf war. The hits were harder. The checking was nastier.
I watched with a knot of dread in my stomach. I had grown up watching hockey. I knew the rules. I knew the risks. But I had never watched it like this.
Every time a player crashed into the boards, I flinched. Every time a puck went flying at ninety miles an hour, my breath hitched.
But Max was a wall.
He was magnificent. He shut down shot after shot. A glove save that looked impossible. A kick save that sent the puck flying into the corner. He was in the zone—that scary, hyper-focused state where he ceased to be human and became pure reaction.
Dartmouth was getting frustrated. You could see it. They started taking cheap shots. A slash to the back of the leg. A late hit after the whistle.
With five minutes left in the second period, the score was 0-0.
A Dartmouth forward—a guy built like a refrigerator named Kowalski—broke away from the pack. He had the puck. It was a breakaway. Just him and Max.
The crowd stood up. The noise was deafening.
Kowalski deked left. Max didn't bite. Kowalski deked right. Max shifted, covering the angle.
Kowalski realized he had no shot. So he made a choice.
Instead of shooting, he drove hard to the net. He didn't stop. He lowered his shoulder and plowed directly into Max.
CRACK.
The sound was sickening. It wasn't the sound of pads hitting pads. It was the sound of bodies hitting immovable objects.
Max went down. Hard. His helmet snapped back, hitting the crossbar with a metallic clang before he crumpled to the ice.
The net dislodged, sliding backward.
The whistle blew.
The crowd gasped, then went silent.
"Max!" I screamed. I didn't mean to. The sound tore out of my throat, raw and terrified.
He didn't move. He was lying face down on the ice, motionless.
My brother, Leo, was on Kowalski in a second. He tackled him, fists flying. A brawl erupted. Gloves were dropped. Refs were shouting.
I didn't watch the fight. I couldn't take my eyes off Max.
"Get up," I whispered, pressing my hands against the glass of the VIP box. "Please, get up. Max, get up."
The trainer ran out onto the ice.
"He's fine," Chloe said, grabbing my arm. Her grip was tight. "He's built like a tank, Im. He's fine."
"He hit his head," I said, my voice shaking. "He hit the bar."
I felt sick. Nausea rolled through me in a cold wave. I remembered the conversation in the kitchen—the pressure, the need for the scholarship, the fragile house of cards his future was built on. One concussion. One bad injury. It could all be gone.
Down on the ice, Max stirred.
He rolled onto his back. The trainer was talking to him. Max shook his head—a bad sign. The trainer tried to help him up. Max shoved him away.
He stood up.
He swayed for a second, then planted his skates. He looked furious. Even through the mask, I could see the tension in his shoulders.
He skated a small circle. He nodded to the ref.
He wasn't leaving the game.
"Idiot," I hissed, tears pricking my eyes. "Stubborn, arrogant idiot."
The crowd erupted into cheers. VANE! VANE! VANE! They loved it. They loved the grit. They didn't care that his brain was probably rattling around in his skull. They just wanted the win.
I hated them. I hated the sport.
But mostly, I hated how helpless I felt.
The rest of the game was torture.
Max was slower. I could see it. He was shaking his head every few minutes, trying to clear the cobwebs.
But he didn't let anything past him. He played on pure instinct and spite.
The game ended 1-0. Blackwood won. Max got the shutout.
The buzzer sounded, and the team mobbed him. They were celebrating, hitting his helmet, hugging him.
I didn't wait.
"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.
"To the locker room," I said, grabbing my purse. "I'm going to kill him."
I ran out of the box, ignoring the VIP guests, ignoring my parents who were schmoozing in the corner. I sprinted down the stairs, dodging drunk students, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I flashed my "Family Pass" at the security guard near the tunnel. He nodded and let me through.
The hallway outside the locker room was chaotic. Reporters, family members, team staff. The air smelled of sweat and deep heat.
I waited by the door where the players exited.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Most of the team had come out, showered and dressed. Leo came out, a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
"Imogen?" He stopped, surprised. "What are you doing down here?"
"Where is he?" I demanded.
Leo winced. "He's in the trainer's room. Checking protocol. He's... he's got a headache, Im. But he's okay."
"Move," I said, pushing past my brother.
"You can't go in there!" Leo called after me. "It's a naked zone!"
I didn't care. I marched down the hallway to the door marked TRAINING ROOM. I didn't knock. I shoved it open.
The room was bright and sterile. It smelled of antiseptic.
Max was sitting on a metal table. He was shirtless. He was still wearing his hockey pants, but his skates were off. He was holding an ice pack to the back of his neck. His eyes were closed.
The trainer looked up, startled. "Miss Sterling, you can't be in here."
"Out," I said.
The trainer blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said get out," I snapped. "Give us a minute. Now."
The trainer looked at Max. Max opened his eyes. They were glassy, but focused.
"It's fine, Dave," Max rasped. "Give us a minute."
Dave hesitated, then grabbed his clipboard and scurried out, closing the door behind him.
Silence.
Max looked at me. He took in the jersey. He took in my flushed face, my wild hair, the way my chest was heaving.
"You're wearing my name," he said softly. A slow smirk touched his lips. "Looks good on you."
"Don't you dare flirt with me right now," I marched over to him, stopping between his spread knees. "You idiot. You masochist."
I reached out, my hands shaking, and touched his face. I checked his pupils. Equal size. Good. I checked the back of his head. There was a lump the size of a golf ball.
"Ow," he flinched when I touched it.
"Does it hurt?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Like a bitch," he admitted. He dropped the ice pack and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. He buried his face in my stomach, right against the jersey. "Everything hurts, Imogen. My head. My back. My knees."
"Why didn't you come out?" I demanded, running my fingers through his damp hair. "You could have been seriously hurt."
"We needed the win," he mumbled into the fabric. "Scout was watching. Couldn't look weak."
"So you'd rather be dead than weak?"
He pulled back to look at me. His eyes were dark, dilated with pain and adrenaline.
"I'd rather win," he said simply.
"You're terrifying," I whispered.
"And you're shaking," he noted. He ran his large hands up and down my back, soothing me. "I'm okay. I promise. Hard head."
"I was scared," I admitted. "When you didn't get up... I couldn't breathe, Max."
Something shifted in his face. The cocky glint vanished, replaced by something raw.
"You were scared for me?"
"Of course I was scared for you!" I hit his shoulder lightly. "I... I care about you, you dumb jock."
The words hung in the air.
Max stared at me. The adrenaline in the room spiked, twisting from fear into something else. Lust. Desperate, life-affirming lust.
"Say that again," he whispered.
"I care about you," I said.
He groaned. He grabbed my hips and pulled me flush against him. His mouth crashed onto mine.
It wasn't gentle. It tasted of blood (he had a split lip) and Gatorade. It was fierce. He kissed me like he needed to prove he was still alive. He kissed me like he wanted to consume me.
I kissed him back just as hard. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing the contact. I needed to feel his heart beating. I needed the heat of his skin.
His hands roamed over my body, gripping my ass through the leggings, pulling me into the cradle of his hips.
"God, you wearing this jersey," he growled against my mouth. "It's been driving me crazy since warmups. I wanted to skate into the stands and drag you out of there."
"I'm here now," I panted.
"Yeah," he bit my lower lip. "You're here."
He started to lift the jersey. His rough hands slid up my bare skin, scorching me.
"Max," I gasped. "We're in the training room. Anyone could walk in."
"Door's locked," he lied. I knew he hadn't locked it. "Let them watch."
He kissed down my throat, sucking a mark right over my pulse point. A claim.
"You're mine," he murmured. "Everyone saw it. You wearing my number. You screaming for me."
"Yours," I agreed, my head falling back. "I'm yours."
He moved his hand to the waistband of my leggings.
Then, the door handle rattled.
We froze.
"Max? You in there? Scout wants a word."
It was Coach.
Max squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a long, frustrated breath that ruffled my hair. He rested his forehead against mine.
"Saved by the bell," he whispered.
He pulled my jersey down, smoothing it out. He kissed me one last time, quick and hard.
"Go," he said. "Meet me at the truck. I'll be ten minutes."
"Are you okay?" I asked, hesitating.
"I'm better now," he smirked, winking. "Go."
I slipped out the door just as Coach was opening it. I ducked past him with a mumbled apology, head down, cheeks burning.
I waited by his truck in the players' lot. The snow had started again, light flurries dusting the black paint.
Fifteen minutes later, Max walked out.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't walking with that swagger he had in the training room. He was walking slowly, his head down, shoulders hunched.
My stomach dropped.
"Max?" I pushed off the truck. "What happened? Did the scout...?"
He stopped in front of me. He looked exhausted. The adrenaline crash had hit him. He looked pale, the bruises under his eyes standing out starkly against his skin.
"He liked the game," Max said, his voice flat. "He liked the grit."
"But?" I prompted. I knew there was a but.
"But he saw the hit," Max said. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a quiet devastation. "He said they're worried about durability. Said 'glass cannons don't last in the NHL.' He wants to see medical clearance. An MRI."
"An MRI?"
"If I have a concussion," Max said quietly, "I'm out for two weeks. I miss the playoffs. I miss the showcase."
"And if you miss the showcase?"
"Then the offer goes to the guy from Boston University."
He leaned back against the truck, looking up at the snowy sky.
"I can't fail the physical, Imogen. I can't have a concussion."
"But you might have one," I said gently. "Max, your health is more important than—"
"No," he cut me off. He looked at me with a terrifying intensity. "It's not. This is my ticket out. This is the only thing I have."
He reached out and took my hand. His grip was desperate.
"I need you to help me," he whispered.
"Help you how?"
"Help me pass the cognitive test tomorrow," he said. "Help me hide the symptoms. If I'm dizzy, you hold me up. If I forget something, you remind me. You have to be my brain, Imogen. Just for a few days."
I stared at him. He was asking me to conspire in medical fraud. He was asking me to risk his health for his career.
But looking at his face—the fear, the desperation, the absolute need—I knew I couldn't say no.
I was the only one who saw him. Not the goalie. Not the Warden. Just Max.
"Okay," I whispered, squeezing his hand. "Okay. I've got you."
He let out a breath, pulling me into his side.
"Let's go home," he said.
We got into the truck.
As we drove away, I watched the stadium lights fade in the rearview mirror. The cathedral of violence was behind us, but the battle was coming home with us.
And I had a terrible feeling that the hardest hits were yet to come.