Chapter 15
Imogen
The apartment didn't look like a cage anymore. It looked like a promise.
I spent the afternoon turning the stark, grey industrial space into something that actually resembled a home.
I had bought flowers—white lilies, because peonies were out of season—and placed them on the granite island.
I had dragged the leather armchair closer to the window so the light hit it just right.
I had even lit a candle that smelled like cedar and rain, trying to mask the lingering scent of bachelorhood and bleach.
I was sitting on the floor in the living room, my sketchbook propped on my knees, a piece of charcoal in my hand.
I wasn't drawing hands today.
I was drawing a house.
It was the one Max had described in the motel room three weeks ago. Modern. Huge windows. Space to breathe.
I sketched the lines of the roof, the way the glass would reflect the pines of a New Hampshire forest—or maybe the skyline of Montreal. I added a porch. I added a studio in the back, detached, just messy enough to be mine.
I smiled down at the paper.
It was crazy. I knew it was crazy. We had been "real" for less than a month. He was leaving in May. My father held the strings to his future like a puppeteer with a grudge.
But I didn't care.
I felt... settled. For the first time in twenty-one years, the restless, clawing need to scream or dance on a table or set something on fire was gone. It had been replaced by a quiet, steady warmth.
I checked the time. 4:30 PM.
Max should have been home by now. Practice ended at 3:30. Even with a shower and the drive, he should have walked through that door ten minutes ago.
My phone sat silent on the floor beside me.
I picked it up. No texts.
Imogen: Hey, Star Player. I ordered Thai food. If you're late, I'm eating all the spring rolls. This is a threat.
I waited. No bubbles. No "Read" receipt.
A tiny prick of anxiety poked at my chest, a needle deflating my balloon. I pushed it away. He was probably watching film. Or maybe Coach was yelling at him about the YikYak photo again.
We could handle it. We were a team. Us against the world.
I went back to my drawing, shading the windows of our imaginary house.
At 5:15 PM, the lock clicked.
I scrambled up, tossing the sketchbook onto the sofa. I smoothed my oversized sweater—one of his, naturally—and ran a hand through my hair.
The door opened.
Max walked in.
He looked... stripped.
That was the only word for it. He was wearing his team track jacket and jeans, but he looked like he had been hollowed out.
His face was pale, the scar on his brow standing out in stark relief.
His eyes were dark, devoid of the light that had been there for the last few weeks.
He was carrying his gym bag like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"Max?" I stepped forward, the smile faltering on my lips. "Hey. You're late. I almost called the National Guard."
He didn't smile back. He didn't drop the bag. He just stood in the entryway, staring at me.
He looked at the flowers on the counter. He looked at the candle flickering on the table. He looked at me, wearing his clothes, barefoot and happy.
A muscle in his jaw jumped.
"Hey," he rasped. His voice sounded wrecked. Like he’d been screaming.
"What happened?" I asked, closing the distance between us. I reached out to touch his arm. "Was it Coach? Did he see the photo?"
Max flinched when I touched him. A microscopic movement, but I felt it.
"Yeah," he said, stepping around me. He walked to the kitchen and put his bag on the floor. He kept his back to me. "He saw it."
"And?" I followed him. "What did he say? Did he bench you?"
"No," Max said. He braced his hands on the counter, hanging his head. "He didn't bench me."
"Okay," I let out a breath. "That's good. That's... manageable. We can work with that."
I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against the broad expanse of his back. He was tense. vibrating with tension.
"We just have to be ghosts, right?" I whispered into his jacket. "Like we said. No public touches. No photos. We can do that. I'll be invisible, Max. I promise."
He didn't relax into my touch. He stood there, rigid as a statue.
"Imogen," he said.
"Shh," I squeezed him tighter. "Don't spiral. You're doing the hoarding thing in your head. You're piling up the catastrophes. Just breathe."
I moved my hands down to his stomach, flat and hard under the fabric.
"We have the bye week," I murmured. "We have tonight. The Thai food is coming. We can turn off the phones. We can just be... us."
Max turned around in my arms.
He looked down at me. His eyes were so sad it scared me. It was a deep, ancient sadness, like the rocks he used to collect.
"You're amazing," he whispered. It sounded like an apology.
He reached up and cupped my face. His hands were cold.
"Max?"
"Don't talk," he said roughly. "Just... don't talk."
He kissed me.
It wasn't a sweet kiss. It wasn't the domestic peck I had been expecting.
It was devastating.
He kissed me like the world was ending. He kissed me with a desperation that bordered on violence. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me, tasting me. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me so hard against him that the air left my lungs.
I melted instantly. I always did.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, standing on my tiptoes to meet his intensity.
"Max," I gasped when he pulled back to breathe. "Bedroom?"
"No," he growled. "Here. Now."
He lifted me onto the counter, knocking over the vase of lilies. It shattered. Water and glass spilled everywhere.
Neither of us cared.
He stepped between my legs, pushing my sweater up. He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't bother with gentleness. He needed this. He needed to be inside me like he needed oxygen.
"Max, the glass," I warned, looking at the shards near his hand.
"Focus on me," he commanded, grabbing my chin and forcing my gaze back to his. "Only me."
He unzipped his jeans. He pulled my panties aside.
He thrust into me.
I cried out, clutching his shoulders. It was deep and hard and overwhelming.
We moved together in a frantic, disjointed rhythm. It felt different tonight. Usually, our sex was a conversation—a give and take of pleasure and power. Tonight, it felt like a war. It felt like he was trying to imprint himself onto my soul, to leave a mark that would never fade.
He buried his face in my neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle.
"You're mine," he groaned against my skin. "You're fucking mine."
"I am," I sobbed, wrapping my legs around his waist. "I'm yours. Always."
"Always," he repeated. The word sounded like a curse.
He drove into me harder, faster. I could feel his heart hammering against his chest, a frantic bird trying to escape a cage.
I came first, shattering around him, my vision blurring with tears.
He followed seconds later, groaning my name—"Imogen, Imogen, Imogen"—like a prayer he was afraid wouldn't be answered.
He collapsed against me, his heavy weight pinning me to the counter, amidst the spilled water and broken flowers.
We stayed there for a long time. The only sound was our harsh breathing and the hum of the refrigerator.
I stroked his hair, my hand shaking slightly.
"See?" I whispered, kissing his sweaty temple. "We're okay. We're still here."
Max pulled back.
He didn't look okay. He looked broken.
He zipped up his jeans. He adjusted his jacket. He didn't help me down. He didn't fix my sweater.
He walked to the other side of the island, putting distance between us.
I frowned, sliding off the counter, careful of the glass. I pulled my sweater down, suddenly feeling very naked.
"Max?"
He picked up a glass of water from the drying rack. He drank it in one swallow. He gripped the sink.
"We need to talk," he said.
The tone of his voice made my blood run cold. It was the Warden's voice. Flat. Detached. Clinical.
"Okay," I said slowly. "About what?"
"About the future."
I smiled, relief washing over me. "Oh. The future. Good. Because I was drawing the house today, and I think we need a skylight in the bedroom. For the stars."
I ran to the sofa and grabbed my sketchbook. I held it up, showing him the drawing of the glass house.
"Look," I said, walking toward him. "It’s Montreal. Or Boston. Wherever you go. I figured I could freelance, maybe work with a firm in the city..."
Max didn't look at the drawing. He looked at the wall behind me.
"Imogen," he cut me off. "Stop."
I froze. "Stop what?"
"Stop planning," he said. "Stop drawing houses we're never going to live in."
I lowered the sketchbook. "What do you mean?"
He turned to face me. His face was a mask of stone. The slate eyes were impenetrable.
"There is no Montreal," he said. "Not for us."
"I don't understand," I shook my head, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "Did the scout call? Did they pass? Max, it's okay if you don't get drafted immediately. We can go to Europe. You can play in the KHL. I love travel."
"It's not about the draft," he said. "It's about the scholarship."
He took a breath.
"I had a meeting with your father today."
The air left the room.
"My father?" I whispered. "But... he cancelled lunch with me. He said he had an emergency."
"I was the emergency," Max said. "He saw the photo. He saw the YikYak thread. He brought the conduct board."
"Oh god," I covered my mouth. "Max, I'm so sorry. I... we can explain. We can tell him—"
"I already told him," Max interrupted. "I told him exactly what he wanted to hear."
"What did you tell him?"
Max looked at me. He looked at the sketchbook in my hand. He looked at the mess on the counter where we had just made love.
"I told him it was a mistake," Max said. His voice was steady, but his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. "I told him I was distracted. I told him that I let things get out of hand, but that it's over."
"Over?" I repeated. The word didn't make sense. "What do you mean, it's over? Like... the mentorship?"
"No," Max said. "Us. The relationship. The... whatever this is."
I stared at him. The room started to spin.
"You're breaking up with me?"
"I have to," he said. "It was part of the deal. If I end it—publicly, permanently—he keeps my scholarship. He keeps the funding. He writes the letter to Montreal."
"So you made a deal," I said, my voice rising. "You traded me for a letter?"
"I traded a distraction for my life," Max snapped. The cruelty was back, sharper than before. "Imogen, look at the last month. My stats are down. My focus is gone. I'm missing practice to sleep in. I'm fighting with teammates. I'm losing."
"You're happy!" I screamed. "For the first time in your miserable life, you're happy!"
"Happiness doesn't pay the bills!" he roared back. "Happiness doesn't get me out of Grafton! Happiness doesn't stop my mother from drowning in garbage!"
He paced the kitchen, running a hand through his hair.
"I can't afford you, Imogen. I can't afford the drama. I can't afford the risk. You're... you're too much. You've always been too much."
I flinched as if he had slapped me.
"Too much," I whispered. "That's what you think?"
"Yes," he lied. I could see it in his eyes. He was lying to save me. He was lying to save himself. "You're chaos. I need order. I need the wall. And you... you just smash right through it."
He walked over to the counter. He picked up his keys.
"I'm moving back to the dorms," he said. "Tonight. Your father is sending a car for you. You're going back to the sorority house."
"You're kicking me out?"
"It's over, Imogen."
"After what we just did?" I pointed at the counter. "After you told me you loved me in that storage unit? You're just going to turn it off?"
"I have to," he said.
He walked toward the door.
"Max, please," I begged. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't stop. I ran to him, grabbing his arm. "Don't do this. We can figure it out. We can fight him. I have money—"
"I don't want your money!" he shouted, ripping his arm away. "I don't want your charity! I want to earn it myself!"
He looked down at me. His eyes were cold, dead things.
"I don't love you," he said.
The lie hung in the air, thick and poisonous.
"Don't," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "Don't say that."
"I don't," he repeated, forcing the words out. "I thought I did. But I just loved the escape. I loved that you made me forget the pressure for a while. But the pressure is back, Imogen. And I need to work."
He opened the door.
"The car is downstairs," he said. "Pack your things. Leave the key."
"Max..."
"Goodbye, Imogen."
He walked out.
He closed the door.
The sound of the latch clicking into place was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
I stood there in the entryway, shivering in his oversized sweater.
I looked down at the floor. My sketchbook was lying there, open to the page with the glass house.
I picked it up.
I walked over to the shattered vase on the floor.
I ripped the page out of the book. I crumpled it into a ball. And I dropped it into the puddle of water and broken glass.
The ink started to bleed. The lines of the roof dissolved. The future washed away.
I didn't scream. I didn't throw anything.
I just slid down the wall until I hit the floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and waited for the car to take me back to the life where I was nothing but a decoration.
The Warden had won.
And I was just another casualty of the game.