Chapter 18
Max
The train station was empty now. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of a vending machine and the ragged sound of our breathing.
We stood there, a tableau of wreckage and redemption. Imogen, with her suitcases and her tear-streaked face. Me, in a ruined suit, my knees stained with platform dirt, clutching a crumpled charcoal drawing like it was a holy text.
"You're insane," Imogen whispered. She was trembling. Whether from the cold or the shock, I didn't know. "You literally just missed the biggest meeting of your life to chase a train."
"I missed a meeting," I corrected, standing up slowly. My joints popped. "I caught the train. Or rather, the passenger."
"This doesn't fix it," she said, shaking her head. She took a step back, putting distance between us again. "You hurt me, Max. You looked me in the eye and you gutted me. You can't just... kneel on a floor and fix that."
"I know," I said. "I'm not trying to fix it. I'm trying to start over."
"We can't start over!" she cried, her voice echoing in the cavernous station. "My dad hates you. Your coach thinks I'm poison. You have no scholarship. I have no apartment. We are... we are a disaster."
"Disasters can be rebuilt," I said. "You're an architect, remember? You fix structures."
"I draw pretty pictures!" she yelled. "I don't fix people's lives!"
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase again.
"I'm taking an Uber to Boston," she said, wiping her face aggressively. "I'm going to stay with my aunt. I need space, Max. I need... I need to not look at you right now."
"Imogen, please."
"No," she cut me off. "Go back to the arena. Maybe the GM is still there. Maybe you can salvage your career. Don't throw it all away for a girl you 'don't love.'"
She turned and started walking toward the exit. The wheels of her suitcase clattered loudly on the tile. Click-clack. Click-clack. The sound of her leaving.
Panic, cold and visceral, clawed at my throat.
I couldn't let her walk out those doors. If she left now, with the anger still fresh, the distance would harden into resentment. I would lose her. Not just for tonight, but forever.
I needed to do something. Something she couldn't ignore. Something reckless.
I looked around the station. Empty benches. A ticket booth. A PA system microphone sitting on the unmanned counter.
The PA system.
I ran to the counter. I vaulted over it.
"Max!" Imogen spun around, hearing the commotion. "What are you doing?"
I grabbed the microphone. I flipped the switch.
A high-pitched squeal of feedback pierced the air. Imogen covered her ears. The one security guard, who had been sleeping in the corner, jerked awake.
"Attention," I said into the mic. My voice boomed through the speakers, distorted and loud. "Attention, passengers. Or... passenger."
Imogen stared at me. She looked horrified. She looked fascinated.
"Max, get down from there!" she hissed. "You're going to get arrested!"
"I don't care," I said, my voice echoing around us. "I'm already in trouble. Might as well make it count."
I took a deep breath. I looked at her, standing there in her black coat, looking small and fierce and broken.
"Imogen Sterling," I said into the mic. "I lied."
She crossed her arms, shifting her weight. She didn't leave.
"I lied in your kitchen," I continued. "I lied to your father. I lied to myself. I told you I needed order. I told you I needed silence. I told you that you were chaos."
I gripped the mic tighter.
"But the truth is... my life was just empty. It wasn't orderly; it was vacant. I built walls to keep the bad stuff out, but I ended up locking myself in. And it was cold in there, Imogen. It was so damn cold."
The security guard was walking toward me now, hand on his belt. "Sir, step away from the equipment."
I ignored him. I kept my eyes on Imogen.
"You came in with your glitter and your noise and your charcoal dust," I said. "And you wrecked the place. You knocked down the walls. You spilled pasta sauce on the counter. You made a mess."
Imogen sniffled. She wiped her nose with her sleeve.
"And for the first time in twenty-two years," I said, my voice cracking, "I wasn't lonely. I wasn't just surviving. I was living."
The guard reached the counter. "Sir, I'm calling the police."
"Give me two minutes!" I snapped at him, covering the mic. I turned back to Imogen.
"I was scared," I admitted to the whole station. "I was terrified that if I loved you, I would lose my edge. I thought love was a weakness. I thought it was a distraction."
I looked down at the crumpled drawing in my other hand.
"But tonight... when I won that game... when I stood there with the shut-out and the crowd screaming my name... I looked for you. And when you weren't there, the victory felt like ash. It meant nothing."
I took a shaky breath.
"I don't want the NHL if I can't look up and see you in the stands. I don't want the big house if you aren't there to mess it up. I don't want the silence anymore, Imogen. I want the chaos. I want your chaos."
Imogen was crying openly now. She had let go of the suitcase.
"I love you," I said. "I love you more than hockey. I love you more than control. I love you enough to stand here, looking like a lunatic, and beg you to give me another chance."
I dropped the mic. It hit the counter with a thud.
I jumped back over the counter.
The security guard grabbed my arm. "That's it, buddy. You're done."
"Wait," Imogen's voice rang out.
She ran toward us.
"Let him go," she told the guard. "He's... he's with me. He's just... practicing. For a play. A really bad play."
The guard looked at her. He looked at me in my ruined suit. He looked at the tears on her face.
He sighed. He let go of my arm.
"Get out of here," he grumbled. "Both of you. Before I change my mind."
"Thank you," Imogen whispered.
She turned to me.
We were standing inches apart. I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. I could smell her perfume.
"That was terrible," she said, a watery smile touching her lips. "The acoustics in here are awful."
"I know," I said. "Did you hear the part about the chaos?"
"I heard it," she nodded.
She reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were cold.
"You really ripped up the letter?" she asked.
"Into confetti," I promised. "It's on the floor."
"And the GM?"
"Probably wondering why his goalie ran out like his hair was on fire."
She let out a laugh that sounded half like a sob.
"My dad is going to kill you," she said. "He's going to salt the earth, Max. He's going to make sure you never play again."
"Let him try," I said. I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her waist. "I have you. We'll figure it out. We're a team, right? Us against the world?"
She looked up at me. The hesitation was gone. The hurt was still there, but it was healing.
"Us against the world," she agreed.
She kissed me.
It tasted like salt and relief. It was frantic and messy and perfect. I held her like she was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
When we broke apart, we were both breathless.
"Okay," she said, taking charge. The Brat was back. "Here's the plan. We get my bags. We get your truck. We go to the apartment."
"I thought you were going to Boston."
"Boston is too far," she said. "And besides, I left my good charcoal in your bathroom."
I laughed. I kissed her forehead.
"Let's go home," I said.
We drove back to the apartment in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. My hand was on her thigh. Her hand was over mine.
We pulled into the garage. We took the elevator up.
When the doors opened to the penthouse, I stopped.
The door to the apartment was ajar.
"Did you leave it open?" I asked, tension instantly spiking.
"No," Imogen said. "I locked it. I left the key."
I pushed her behind me. "Stay here."
I walked toward the door. I pushed it open.
The lights were on.
Sitting on my leather sofa, looking like he owned the place, was Dean Sterling.
He was drinking my scotch.
Next to him stood Coach Sullivan. He looked miserable.
And standing by the window, looking out at the city lights, was a man in a very expensive suit.
The GM of the Montreal Canadiens.
"Mr. Vane," the Dean said, swirling his glass. "So nice of you to join us. We were just discussing your... dramatic exit."
I froze. Imogen gasped behind me.
This was it. The firing squad.
"Dad," Imogen stepped out from behind me. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm cleaning up your mess, Imogen," the Dean said coldly. "As usual."
He looked at me.
"Coach tells me you ran out on the biggest interview of your life. He tells me you went to chase down my daughter. Is that correct?"
"Yes," I said, stepping into the room. I stood tall. I didn't cower this time. "I went to get her. because I love her. And I don't care about your deal, Dean Sterling. You can keep the scholarship. You can keep the letter. I'm not leaving her."
The Dean raised an eyebrow. He looked at the GM.
"You see?" the Dean said to the GM. "Stubborn. Loyal to a fault. Irrational."
The GM turned around. He was an older man with white hair and sharp eyes.
He looked me up and down. He looked at the dirt on my knees. He looked at Imogen standing next to me, her hand gripping my arm.
"Loyalty is a rare currency in this business, son," the GM said. His voice was gravelly. "Most kids would have sold their own mother for a shot at the show."
He walked over to me.
"Coach showed me the tape," the GM said. "Not the game tape. The tape from the locker room security camera."
My blood ran cold. "What tape?"
"The one where you told your friend Jinx that you ripped up the Dean's letter," Coach Sullivan interjected. "The one where you said you'd rather live in a cardboard box than lose her."
Coach smiled—a small, proud smile.
"I showed it to Mr. Larsson here," Coach gestured to the GM. "I told him that's the kind of character you can't teach. You can teach a glove save. You can't teach that kind of... commitment."
The GM nodded.
"I like a player who knows what he fights for," the GM said. "If you fight that hard for a girl, Vane... imagine how hard you'll fight for a Cup."
He reached into his jacket pocket.
He pulled out a contract.
"We don't need the Dean's letter," the GM said. "We've seen enough. We're drafting you. Third round. But with a signing bonus."
I stared at him. I couldn't breathe.
"You're... drafting me?"
"If you sign," the GM said. "And if you promise to stop running out of arenas."
I looked at Imogen. Her hands were over her mouth. She was crying again.
I looked at the Dean.
He didn't look happy. But he looked... resigned.
"Well," the Dean stood up, setting down the glass. "It seems I have been outmaneuvered. The Canadiens have deep pockets. They don't need my funding."
He walked over to Imogen.
"You win, Imogen," he said quietly. "You found someone who can't be bought. I suppose... that is an achievement."
"He's not an achievement, Dad," Imogen said fiercely. "He's a person."
The Dean shrugged. He looked at me.
"Don't disappoint her, Vane. Or I will find a way to make your life difficult, NHL or not."
"I won't," I promised.
The Dean walked out. Coach Sullivan clapped me on the shoulder.
"See you at practice, Warden," Coach grinned. "Don't be late."
He and the GM left.
The door clicked shut.
We were alone.
Imogen looked at me. I looked at her.
Then, we both started laughing.
It was hysterical, exhausted laughter. We collapsed onto the sofa, holding onto each other.
"You got drafted," she giggled. "You got drafted because you ran away."
"I got drafted because I'm stubborn," I corrected, kissing her nose.
"And loyal," she added softly. "To a fault."
"Only to you," I said.
I pulled her into my lap.
"So," I said. "About that house with the skylight..."
"Yeah?"
"I think we can afford it now."
She smiled. It was the brightest thing I had ever seen.
"I'll start the blueprints tomorrow," she said.
"Good," I kissed her. "But tonight... we celebrate."
"Pizza?" she suggested.
"Pizza," I agreed. "And maybe... a little chaos."
She grinned, unbuttoning my ruined jacket.
"I can do chaos."
And for the first time in my life, I knew everything was going to be exactly, perfectly okay.