Chapter 3
Liam
Control is a myth.
That’s what they don’t tell you in sports psychology. They talk about visualization, about breathing techniques, about quieting the noise. But you can’t control the puck once it leaves the stick. You can’t control the deflection off a defenseman’s skate. You can’t control the referee’s blind spot.
All you can do is position yourself in the chaos and pray your reflexes are faster than your bad luck.
I was thinking about chaos as I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom of the Ice Box, staring at the tie in my hands. It was a black strip of cheap polyester I’d bought at a department store clearance sale three years ago.
"You look like you're going to a funeral for a pet you didn't like," Jaxson said, leaning against the doorframe. He was shirtless, towel-drying his hair, looking annoyingly at ease with the night ahead.
"I feel like I'm going to an execution," I muttered, giving up on the Windsor knot and settling for a simple four-in-hand. It looked crooked. I didn't care.
"It's just the Founder's Gala, man," Jaxson said, stepping into the room and grabbing his own tie—some silk designer thing that probably cost more than my textbooks.
"Free shrimp. Open bar. Rich alumni looking to relive their glory days. It’s a cakewalk.
Just smile, shake hands, and try not to punch anyone who asks about the playoffs. "
"I hate these things," I said, smoothing down the lapels of my suit. It was tight in the shoulders. I’d put on ten pounds of muscle since I bought it, and now I looked like the Hulk trying to bust out of a tuxedo. "It's a parade of people with too much money pretending they care about the program."
"They pay for the program," Jaxson reminded me. "They pay for the ice time. They pay for the gear. They pay for us."
He wasn't wrong. That was the bitter pill I swallowed every morning. My scholarship, my housing, the food in my stomach—it was all funded by the checks signed in rooms like the one we were walking into tonight.
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," I grunted.
I grabbed my wallet and phone. No texts from my sister. That was good. Silence meant the utility company hadn't shut the power off yet. Silence meant Mom was asleep or high enough not to notice the cold.
"Let's go," I said. "Get it over with."
The Great Hall of Blackwood University was designed to make you feel small. It was a cathedral of gothic stone, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass that depicted the 'virtues of academia'—which mostly looked like old white men holding scrolls and looking constipated.
Tonight, it was transformed. Round tables draped in black velvet filled the floor. Crystal centerpieces towered like frozen fountains. A string quartet was playing a sanitized version of a pop song I couldn't place.
The air smelled of money. It’s a specific scent—a blend of expensive scotch, heavy florals, and the ozone crispness of dry-cleaned wool. It smelled like exclusion.
"Vanner! Miller!" Coach Miller waved us over from near the bar. He was wearing a tux that actually fit, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. "Look alive, boys. Mr. Henderson over here was just asking about our defensive strategy for the Dartmouth game."
I plastered on the mask. The "Good Soldier" mask. The one that said I was grateful, humble, and not counting the seconds until I could leave.
I shook hands. I nodded. I gave the canned answers.
Yes, sir. We're focusing on puck possession. Yes, the knee feels great. No, I haven't thought about the draft yet, just focused on the season.
Lies. All of it.
I needed a drink. Not alcohol—I didn't touch the stuff during the season—but water. Ideally, ice water. Ideally, a bucket of it to dump over my head.
I excused myself and navigated through the crowd. The room was packed. Donors, faculty, the entire hockey team looking uncomfortable in their dress blues.
I reached the bar and asked for a club soda with lime. I turned around, leaning my back against the wood, scanning the room. It was a habit. locate the exits. Identify the threats. Watch the angles.
Then I saw her.
The breath jammed in my throat, a hard, painful lump.
Sofia Thorne was standing near the entrance, greeting a group of elderly donors.
I had spent the last three days trying to ignore her. She had been in the equipment room every afternoon, struggling with the inventory software, counting jockstraps with a grim determination that was almost impressive. I had been cruel to her. I had been cold. I had hoped she would quit.
She hadn't.
And tonight... tonight she wasn't the student manager in the oversized hoodie.
She was the Heiress.
She was wearing a dress that looked like it had been poured onto her body. It was a deep, shimmering liquid silver, clinging to every curve, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It had a slit that went up to her thigh—a dangerous, taunting slash of skin that appeared and disappeared as she moved.
Her hair was piled high on her head, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. She was laughing at something a donor said, her head thrown back, her hand resting lightly on the man's arm.
It was a performance. I could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers flexed slightly against the fabric of the man’s suit. She was charming them, dazzling them, playing the role of the perfect daughter.
I hated it.
I hated how fake it was. And I hated, with a burning, irrational intensity, how good she looked doing it.
My hand tightened around the glass of soda. The ice cubes cracked.
"She cleans up nice, doesn't she?"
I stiffened. One of the defensemen, a sophomore named Carter who came from old money in Connecticut, slid up next to me. He was eyeing Sofia like she was a steak dinner.
"She's the owner's daughter, Carter," I said, my voice low. "Don't even think about it."
"Technically, she's staff now," Carter smirked, taking a sip of his beer. "Student manager implies she's one of us. Fair game."
"She's not one of us," I snapped. The anger flared hot and fast. "And she's not game."
Carter held up his hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, take it easy, Cap. Just looking. Besides, looks like someone else is making a move."
I followed his gaze.
A guy in a tailored navy suit had approached her. I recognized him instantly. Brad Pensington. President of the Theta Delta fraternity. Business major. The kind of guy who used the word "summer" as a verb.
He was leaning in close. Too close. He said something, and Sofia’s smile faltered. She took a half-step back, her back hitting a pillar. Pensington didn't retreat. He stepped into her space, placing a hand on the stone pillar above her head, effectively boxing her in.
The red haze descended.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It was instinct. It was the same reflex that made me throw my body in front of a slap shot. Threat detected. Neutralize.
I slammed my glass down on the bar—hard enough that the bartender jumped—and started walking.
I cut through the crowd like an icebreaker ship. People moved out of my way. I didn't say excuse me. I didn't care.
As I got closer, I could hear Pensington’s voice. It was oily, smooth.
"...heard Daddy cut the purse strings, Sof. That’s rough. If you need someone to take care of you, you know I’ve always had a thing for the high-maintenance type."
Sofia’s face was frozen. Her eyes were darting around, looking for an exit, but Pensington was blocking her.
"I'm fine, Brad," she said, her voice tight. "Please move."
"Come on, don't be like that," he laughed, reaching out to touch a loose tendril of hair near her ear. "You look too good tonight to be such a bitch."
I didn't slow down. I stepped right up behind Pensington, looming over him. I had four inches and fifty pounds of functional muscle on him.
"She said move," I said.
My voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was the voice I used to command the defense during a penalty kill. Absolute. Final.
Pensington jumped, spinning around. He looked up at me, his eyes widening as he registered who was standing there.
"Vanner," he stammered, his confident smirk slipping. "I was just... catching up with an old friend."
"She doesn't look like she wants to be caught up," I said. I looked at his hand, which was still hovering near the pillar. "And you're in my way."
Pensington looked from me to Sofia, then back to me. He did the math. He wasn't going to win this physically, and making a scene with the star goalie at a team fundraiser wasn't good for his social capital.
"Whatever," he scoffed, straightening his tie. "Chill out, man. It's a party."
He shot Sofia a glare and weaved back into the crowd.
I didn't watch him go. I turned to Sofia.
She was pressing herself against the pillar, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Up close, she was devastating. The silver dress shimmered under the chandelier lights, and her skin looked like it had been dusted with gold.
She smelled like that damn vanilla again, cutting through the heavy scent of the gala.
"I didn't need your help," she whispered. Her eyes were dark, flashing with humiliation.
"You looked trapped," I said.
"I was handling it."
"You were letting him talk to you like you’re a menu item," I countered. "Why didn't you knee him in the balls?"
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by a reluctant, tiny smile. "Because this is a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner, Liam. And kneeing the son of the biggest donor in the crotch is generally frowned upon."
"Bad policy," I muttered. "Some people need a reset."
She looked at me then, really looked at me. Her gaze traveled from my scuffed dress shoes, up the ill-fitting suit, to the crooked tie, and finally to my face. She didn't sneer. She didn't mock.
She reached out.
I froze.
Her hand, small and manicured, touched the knot of my tie. Her fingers were cool against my neck. The contact sent a shockwave straight down my spine, settling heavily in my groin.
"It's crooked," she murmured.