Chapter 17
Amara
New York City is supposed to be loud. It’s supposed to be a cacophony of sirens, shouting cab drivers, and the relentless, pounding rhythm of eight million people trying to be someone.
But from the window of my tiny studio apartment in the East Village, it sounded muted. Like the volume on the world had been turned down to a dull hum.
It had been three weeks since I left Blackwood.
Three weeks since I packed my life into two suitcases and a garment bag. Three weeks since I looked at my brother and told him I never wanted to speak to him again. Three weeks since Ezra Sterling looked me in the eye and told me I was a liability.
“I never loved you. I loved the distraction.”
The words were etched into my brain. I heard them when I woke up. I heard them when I tried to sketch. I heard them when I walked past a bakery that smelled like vanilla and reminded me of the pancakes I made him that morning—the morning I thought we were a team.
I turned away from the window.
My apartment was a shoebox. It was barely big enough for my bed and my drafting table. The walls were thin, the radiator clanked like a dying engine, and the view was a brick wall.
It was a far cry from the SoHo loft with the big windows and the imaginary dog.
“Stop it,” I whispered. I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the headache that had been my constant companion for twenty-one days. “Just stop thinking about him. He’s gone. He’s a robot. He’s a jerk.”
I sat down at my drafting table.
I had been accepted to Parsons as a transfer student. My portfolio—including the photos of The Fortress dress—had impressed the admissions board. I started classes in the fall. Until then, I had an internship at a boutique design house in Chelsea.
It was everything I wanted. It was the dream.
So why did I feel like I was bleeding out?
I picked up my pencil. I tried to draw.
Nothing happened.
My hand hovered over the paper. I tried to visualize a silhouette. A neckline. A drape.
All I saw was grey. Grey hoodies. Grey eyes. The grey sky over Lake Champlain.
I threw the pencil across the room. It hit the wall with a pathetic clack.
My phone buzzed on the bed.
I stared at it.
It was probably Jules. She texted me every day. Are you eating? Did you see the sun today? I miss you.
I rarely answered. What was there to say? Yes, I ate a bagel. No, the sun is a myth. I miss my life.
I picked up the phone.
It wasn't Jules.
It was a news alert. ESPN SportsCenter.
brEAKING: Blackwood Kodiaks Advance to Frozen Four. Captain Ezra Sterling leads team with Hat Trick in Semi-Final. Draft Stock soaring.
There was a photo.
Ezra on the ice. He was celebrating a goal. His arms were raised, his head thrown back, screaming at the rafters. He looked massive. Powerful.
And terrifyingly empty.
I zoomed in on his face. The eyes behind the visor were cold. Dark. There was no joy in them. Just rage.
He was the Iceman again.
I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I wiped it away angrily.
“You won,” I whispered to the screen. “You got what you wanted, Ezra. You saved the team. You balanced the ledger.”
But looking at him—seeing the hollow victory in his posture—I realized something.
He hadn't balanced the ledger. He had just erased the only credit that mattered.
Ezra
Winning feels different when you don't care about the outcome.
It becomes clinical. A transaction. Input effort, output victory.
We beat Minnesota 4-1. I scored three goals. I dominated the face-off circle. I checked their star forward so hard he didn't come back for the third period.
The crowd went insane. The scouts were salivating. My agent texted me saying the Rangers were locked in for the number two pick.
I sat in the locker room after the game, staring at my skates.
The room was a riot of celebration. Music blaring. Champagne popping (non-alcoholic, because compliance was watching us like hawks). Guys were dancing, hugging, screaming.
“Sterling! Cap! You were a machine out there!” Miller yelled, slapping my shoulder. He was grinning, sweat dripping down his face. “Frozen Four, baby! We’re going to the ship!”
“Yeah,” I said. “The ship.”
I forced a smile. It felt like cracking plaster.
“You good, man?” Miller’s smile faded slightly. He leaned in. “You look… you look like you just attended a funeral.”
“Just tired,” I said. “Adrenaline crash.”
“Right. Well, get some rest. We fly to Boston on Wednesday. Big dance.”
He walked away, rejoining the party.
I started unlacing my skates. My hands were shaking. Not from fatigue. From the silence inside my head.
It was deafening.
Usually, after a game, my brain was loud. Replaying plays. Analyzing mistakes. But now… there was nothing. Just a static hum.
And the Ghost.
She was everywhere.
I looked at the spot on the bench where she used to sit during practice, sketching in her notebook. Empty.
I looked at my phone. No texts. No “Good game, robot.” No “I’m proud of you.”
Just silence.
I finished dressing. I put on my suit. I walked out of the arena.
My father was waiting for me in the hallway.
He was smiling. A genuine, terrifying smile.
“Ezra,” he said, extending a hand. “Magnificent. Truly magnificent.”
I shook his hand. It felt cold.
“Thanks.”
“Three goals,” he said, shaking his head. “The scouts are calling you a generational talent. The compliance issue is buried. The distraction is gone. You are focused, Ezra. You are executing.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you.”
I looked at him.
I had waited twenty-two years to hear those words. I had bled for them. I had starved for them. I had driven myself into the ground for them.
And now that I had them… I felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
“Thanks,” I repeated. My voice was monotone.
“We’re having a dinner,” he said. “At the club. To celebrate. The board members want to congratulate you.”
“I can’t,” I said.
His smile faltered. “Excuse me?”
“I’m tired,” I said. “I need to rest. For the final.”
“Ezra, this is important. Networking is part of the job.”
“The job is to win,” I said sharply. “You told me that. Focus on the asset. The asset needs sleep.”
I walked past him.
I didn't look back. I heard him calling my name, but I kept walking.
I walked out into the night. It was raining in Blackwood. A cold, miserable rain that matched the hollow ache in my chest.
I got into my car.
I didn't go home. I couldn't go home. The penthouse was haunted. Her smell was still on the pillows, even though the cleaners had scrubbed the place twice. Her toothbrush was gone, but the empty space in the holder screamed at me every morning.
I drove.
I drove aimlessly for hours. Through the winding mountain roads. Past the lake where I told her about my mother.
I pulled over at the spot.
The same spot where she had straddled me in the driver’s seat and told me I wasn't broken.
I turned off the engine.
I sat in the dark, listening to the rain drum on the roof.
“You’re just a ledger with a heartbeat.”
She was right.
I had chosen the ledger. I had chosen the safety of numbers and contracts and approval.
And now I was rich. I was successful. I was the Captain.
And I would have given every single cent, every goal, every accolade, just to hold her hand for five seconds.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
“I miss you,” I whispered to the empty car. “God, Amara, I miss you so much.”
Two Days Later - Boston
The Frozen Four. The National Championship.
It was the pinnacle of college hockey. TD Garden was packed. The lights were blinding. The noise was a physical force.
We were playing Boston University. Our rivals.
It was a war.
But I wasn't fighting a war. I was performing surgery.
I was cold. Efficient. Deadly.
I scored the first goal. A wrist shot from the slot that the goalie never saw.
I assisted the second. A no-look pass to Miller that left the defense spinning.
We were up 2-0 in the third period.
The crowd was chanting my name. STER-LING! STER-LING!
I stood at the face-off circle. I looked up at the Jumbotron. My face was plastered on the screen. The stat line underneath: Goals: 1, Assists: 1, Emotion: 0.
I looked into the stands.
I saw my father in a luxury box, holding a glass of champagne.
I scanned the lower bowl.
I looked for platinum hair. I looked for a white coat. I looked for a smile that could light up a blizzard.
She wasn't there.
Of course she wasn't there. She was in New York. She was gone.
The puck dropped.
I won the face-off.
The game ended.
HORN.
Confetti exploded from the rafters. Black and gold streamers rained down. The team swarmed the ice. Gloves flew into the air. Sticks clattered.
We had won. National Champions.
Miller tackled me. “We did it! We did it, Cap!”
I was buried in a pile of bodies. People were screaming, crying, laughing.
I felt… heavy.
I extricated myself from the pile. I skated to the center of the ice.
The commissioner walked out onto the red carpet. He was holding the trophy. The big one.
He handed it to me.
“Ezra Sterling, Captain of the Blackwood Kodiaks. National Champions!”
I took the trophy. It was heavy. Cold.
I lifted it over my head.
The crowd roared. Flashbulbs popped like lightning.
I smiled. I knew the camera was on me. I smiled the smile my father paid for.
But inside… I was screaming.
I looked at the trophy in my hands. It was just metal. Just silver and wood. It didn't hug back. It didn't tell me I was magic. It didn't smell like vanilla.
It was worthless.
I skated over to Miller and shoved the trophy into his hands.
“Take it,” I said.
“What? Cap, you gotta skate the lap!”
“I’m done,” I said.
I skated off the ice.
I walked down the tunnel. I ignored the reporters shouting my name. I ignored the cameras.
I walked into the locker room. It was empty. Quiet.
I sat down in my stall. I didn't take off my gear. I just sat there, staring at the floor.
My phone buzzed in my bag.
I pulled it out.
A text from Leo.
We hadn't spoken in three weeks.
From: Leo
To: Ezra
Time: 10:42 PM
Congrats on the win. You got what you wanted.
She’s miserable, by the way. Jules visited her in New York. Said she looks like a ghost. She’s not drawing. She’s not eating. She just sits in her apartment and stares at the wall.
You broke her, Sterling. I hope the trophy was worth it.
I stared at the screen.
She looks like a ghost.
A crack formed in the ice around my heart.
It started small. A hairline fracture.
Then another.
Then the dam broke.
I stood up. I ripped off my helmet and threw it across the room. It smashed into a mirror, shattering the glass.
“Worth it?” I yelled at the empty room. “No! It wasn't worth it! None of it was worth it!”
I started stripping off my gear. Frantic. Desperate.
Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Shin guards. I threw them into a pile.
I was naked, shivering in the cold air of the locker room.
I grabbed my suit. I put on the pants. The shirt. I didn't button it properly. I didn't tie the tie.
I grabbed my bag.
I walked out of the locker room.
Coach Ramsey was coming down the hall, holding a bottle of champagne.
“Ezra! Where are you going? The press conference starts in five minutes. The scouts want to talk to you.”
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“Leaving? Ezra, you just won the National Championship! You’re the MVP! You can’t leave!”
I stopped. I looked at Ramsey.
“I quit,” I said.
Ramsey blinked. “What?”
“I quit. I’m done with the team. I’m done with the NCAA. I’m done with all of it.”
“Ezra, you’re hysterical. It’s the adrenaline. Just come back inside, have a drink, calm down.”
“I’ve never been calmer,” I said. And it was true. The static in my head was gone. The decision was made.
“My father is going to be furious,” I said. “Tell him… tell him I found a better investment.”
I walked past Ramsey.
I walked out of the arena.
I walked into the Boston night.
I pulled out my phone. I dialed a number I hadn't let myself dial in three weeks.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
“Hi, this is Amara. Leave a message. Or don’t. I probably won’t check it.”
Her voice. It sounded tired. Sad.
“Amara,” I whispered to the voicemail. “I’m coming. I don’t know if you’ll see me. I don’t know if you’ll open the door. But I’m coming to New York.”
I hung up.
I hailed a cab.
“Logan Airport,” I said.
“You catching a flight?” the driver asked, eyeing my disheveled suit and the bag.
“Yeah,” I said. “First one to New York.”
I looked out the window at the city of Boston. The victory parade would be tomorrow. My father would be waiting for me to take the trophy to the boardroom.
Let them wait.
I had a different destination.
I was going to find the girl. And I was going to beg her to take the broken pieces of the robot and turn them back into a man.
Amara
I was sitting on my fire escape, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights.
It was midnight.
My phone buzzed.
Voicemail from: Ezra Sterling.
My heart stopped.
I stared at the notification.
Don’t listen to it. He’s calling to brag. He won. I saw the news. He won the championship. He’s calling to tell me that he was right—that without me, he’s a champion.
I thumbed the delete button.
But I couldn't press it.
I pressed play.
“Amara… I’m coming. I don’t know if you’ll see me. I don’t know if you’ll open the door. But I’m coming to New York.”
His voice was raw. Broken. It wasn't the voice of a champion. It was the voice of a man drowning.
I replayed it.
“I’m coming.”
I stood up. The blanket fell from my shoulders.
He was coming here. To New York.
Why?
To apologize? To explain?
Or… to stay?
A tiny spark of hope flared in my chest. I tried to stomp it out. Don’t be stupid, Amara. He broke you. He threw you away.
But the spark wouldn't die.
I looked at the skyline. Somewhere out there, he was on a plane. Or a train. Or driving that stupid fast car.
He was coming.
I turned and went back inside.
I looked around my tiny, sad apartment. The sketches on the floor. The empty takeout boxes.
If he was coming… I couldn't let him see me like this. I couldn't let him see the ghost.
I went to the bathroom. I washed my face. I brushed my hair.
I put on the jersey.
Number 19.
It was the only thing I had left of him.
I sat on the bed and waited.
I didn't know what I was going to say. I didn't know if I was going to scream at him or kiss him.
But for the first time in three weeks, the grey fog lifted.
The pain was still there. But it was sharp now. Alive.
Ezra was coming.
And this time, I wasn't going to let him control the narrative. This time, we were going to rewrite the ledger together. Or we were going to burn it down for good.