Chapter 8
Ivy
Hockey arenas have a distinct ecosystem.
Before I moved into the Ice Box, I thought I knew what cold smelled like.
But the Bruin’s Den—Blackstone University’s massive, cavernous hockey arena—smelled different.
It smelled of Zamboni fumes, stale popcorn, damp wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of shaved ice.
It was a sensory assault that somehow, inexplicably, had become my favorite scent in the world.
Tonight was the season opener against Yale. The "Battle of the Ivies," even though Blackstone wasn't technically an Ivy League school (a point of contention that Yale students loved to scream across the ice).
The stadium was vibrating. Literally. Fifty thousand decibels of student rage and brass band music thundered through the concrete floor beneath my boots.
I stood in the "WAGs" section—the designated seating area for Wives And Girlfriends—feeling like an imposter in a sea of perfectly curled hair and team jerseys.
I was wearing Ben’s jersey. The black one. Number 4. STERLING across the back.
It was too big. The sleeves swallowed my hands, and the hem hit my mid-thigh over my leggings. I had tried to tuck it in, to make it look cute, but Ben had forbidden it before he left for the rink.
“Wear it loose,” he’d growled, pinning me against the kitchen counter with a look that melted my knees. “I want you covered in my name.”
So here I was. A walking billboard for Benjamin Sterling.
"Nervous?"
I jumped, turning to see a girl next to me. She was tiny, brunette, and wearing a goalie jersey that said VANE on the back. This must be Silas Rook’s... person.
"Terrified," I admitted, clutching the railing. "Is it always this loud?"
"Only against Yale," she smiled. "I'm Mia. Rook's... complication."
"Ivy. Ben's... tenant."
Mia laughed. "Tenant? Honey, you're wearing his away jersey. That thing hasn't been washed since 2019. That's love."
"It's laundry negligence," I corrected, but I smiled.
My gaze drifted down to the ice. The Bruins were warming up. They were terrifying. Encased in black armor, gliding across the white surface like sharks in dark water. The sound of their skates cutting the ice was a rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh that cut through the noise of the crowd.
I scanned the numbers. 18... 22... 88...
There.
Number 4.
He was standing at the center line, stretching. Even from here, fifty rows up, he looked massive. His shoulders were broad enough to block out the sun. He was staring at the Yale side of the ice with a stillness that was unnatural.
Ben didn't fidget. He didn't skate in circles like the others. He stood like a monolith.
The Butcher.
I shivered, pulling the oversized jersey tighter around me. It smelled like him. Cedar and clean sweat. It was the only thing grounding me in this chaos.
As if he felt my eyes on him, Ben slowly tilted his head back. He scanned the crowd. It should have been impossible to find me in the sea of black and gold.
But he found me instantly.
He locked onto me. Even through the cage of his helmet, I felt the weight of his stare. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just nodded—once, sharp—and tapped his stick against his shin pads.
I see you.
You're mine.
My breath hitched. The noise of the stadium faded. For a second, it was just us.
Then, the buzzer sounded. The lights dimmed. The spotlight hit the center ice.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE DEN!"
The roar of the crowd was physical. It punched me in the chest.
Ben turned away, skating toward the goal to tap Rook on the pads. The connection broke, but the electricity remained, humming under my skin.
The game was starting. And for the first time, I wasn't just watching a sport. I was watching the man who had held me while I cried in his kitchen. And I was terrified.
The first period was a blur of violence.
I had never realized how fast hockey was. on TV, you miss the speed. In person, it was terrifying. Bodies collided with the force of car crashes. The sound of sticks slapping against pucks sounded like gunfire.
Ben was a monster.
I watched him play with my heart in my throat. He didn't play like the others. He didn't chase the puck. He controlled the space. He herded the Yale forwards into corners like sheep, and then he crushed them against the boards.
Boom.
Glass rattled. A Yale player crumpled. The crowd roared.
"THAT'S THE BUTCHER!" someone screamed behind me.
I flinched. The Butcher.
I hated that nickname. It made him sound mindless. Cruel.
But watching him, I realized it wasn't cruelty. It was precision. He hit cleanly. Shoulder to shoulder. He never raised his stick. He never took a cheap shot. He simply used his physics—mass times acceleration—to stop the threat.
He was protecting his goalie. Protecting his house.
Just like he protected me.
"He's playing angry tonight," Mia noted, leaning over. "Look at his stride. He's digging deep."
I looked. She was right. Ben was skating with a ferocity that bordered on desperate. He was everywhere. Blocking shots with his body. Clearing the crease with violent shoves.
“I have to be good enough. I have to prove I belong.”
His words from the kitchen echoed in my head. He wasn't playing Yale. He was playing against his father. He was playing against the ghost of a bought legacy.
The first period ended 0-0. A defensive grind.
I exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes. My hands were cramping from gripping the rail.
"Breathe, Ivy," I whispered to myself. "He's fine. He's huge. He's fine."
The second period started. Yale scored a lucky goal off a deflection. 1-0.
The tension in the arena ratcheted up. The Blackstone crowd got nasty. The chants started.
Then, it happened.
Ten minutes into the second period. Ben had the puck behind his own net. He was looking up ice, waiting for a breakout pass.
A Yale forward—Number 12, a guy who looked like he chewed gravel for breakfast—came in hot. Too hot.
He didn't go for the puck. He went for Ben’s knees.
It happened in slow motion. I saw the drop of the shoulder. I saw the stick come up. I saw Ben try to pivot.
CRACK.
The sound was sickening. Plastic on bone.
Ben went down.
He didn't just fall. He crashed. He hit the ice hard, sliding into the boards with a thud that I felt in my teeth.
He didn't get up.
The whistle blew. The crowd gasped, then went silent.
"Ben!" I screamed. I didn't mean to. It tore out of my throat, raw and panicked.
He lay on the ice, curled on his side, clutching his left knee.
My vision tunneled. The world grayed out at the edges.
Not the knee. Please, God, not the knee. That’s his career. That’s his freedom.
Jax and Tank were there instantly. Jax grabbed Number 12 by the collar and started throwing punches. A brawl erupted. Gloves were dropped. Helmets flew.
I didn't watch the fight. I watched Ben.
He rolled onto his back. He ripped his helmet off, his face contorted in agony.
"Get up," I whispered, pressing my hands against the glass barrier of the VIP box (where Mia had dragged me). "Get up, get up, get up."
The trainer ran out onto the ice.
Ben pushed him away.
He rolled onto his hands and knees. He shook his head, sweat flying. He grabbed the boards and hauled himself up.
He couldn't put weight on his left leg.
He stood on one skate, swaying. He looked up at the crowd. He looked wild.
He refused the stretcher. He refused help.
With a snarl that I could almost hear from here, he put his left skate down. He winced, his face going pale, but he stood.
He skated to the bench on one leg.
The crowd erupted. A standing ovation.
"HE'S A MACHINE!"
I sank into my seat, my legs giving out. I was shaking. Nauseous.
"He's an idiot," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "He's a stubborn, prideful idiot."
But as he sat on the bench, the trainer hovering over him, Ben looked up. He looked straight at the section where I was sitting.
He gave a thumbs up.
It was tiny. Barely visible.
But it was for me.
I'm okay. Stay put.
I let out a sob of relief, burying my face in my hands.
"He's okay," Mia said, patting my back. "Sterling is made of granite. It'll take more than a cheap shot to keep him down."
Maybe. But granite can crack. And watching him limp down the tunnel toward the locker room, I knew the crack was there.
I didn't watch the third period. I couldn't.
I left my seat. I had to see him.
I navigated the labyrinth of the arena bowels, flashing the "All Access" pass Ben had slipped into my pocket yesterday ("Just in case," he’d said).
I found the waiting area outside the locker room. It was a concrete corridor painted black and gold, smelling of liniment and unwashed men.
I paced. Back and forth. My boots clicking on the concrete.
The game ended. I heard the buzzer muffled through the walls. I heard the groan of the crowd. Blackstone lost. 2-1.
I didn't care about the score.
The door to the locker room opened.
Players started filing out. They looked exhausted. Defeated. Some were bleeding. Jax walked out, a bag of ice on his knuckles.
He saw me.
"Ivy," he sighed, looking grim. "He's... not in a good mood."
"Is he hurt?"
"Knee is swollen. Trainer says it's a sprain, maybe MCL. He needs an MRI. But he's refusing to go to the hospital."
"Why?"
"Because the scout from Montreal is in the building. Ben thinks if he leaves on crutches, the offer disappears."
My heart sank. His dad. It always came back to his dad.
"Where is he?"
"Trainer's room. Back left."
I didn't wait. I pushed past Jax and marched into the locker room.
It was sacred ground. No girls allowed. But nobody stopped me. The players were too tired, and the look on my face probably said I would bite anyone who tried.
I found the trainer's room.
The door was open.
Ben was sitting on a metal table, shirtless. His left leg was extended, wrapped in a massive ice pack held on with saran wrap. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He looked devastated.
The room was silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.
"Ben," I whispered.
He flinched. His head snapped up.