Chapter 6 #2
We were in a private study room on the fourth floor. It was a glass box, soundproof and secluded. Outside, the snow was falling again, swirling in the darkness. Inside, the only light came from the desk lamp and the glow of Liam’s laptop.
He was typing. I was sitting across from him, sketching in my notebook, pretending to work.
In reality, I was watching him.
I was watching the way his brow furrowed when he searched for a word. The way he chewed on his bottom lip. The way he periodically rubbed his left knee under the table.
We hadn't talked about last night. We hadn't acknowledged the "Good Girl" incident. We had retreated to the safety of the deal. Work. Grades. Transaction.
But the silence wasn't empty. It was heavy with things unsaid.
My phone buzzed on the table.
I glanced at it. A text from my father.
Daddy: Coach says inventory is up to date. You’re doing the bare minimum. Don’t expect a medal.
I stared at the screen. The words were small, sharp daggers. The bare minimum.
I had spent four hours yesterday counting pucks. I had organized the travel logistics for the next three away games. I had color-coded the entire equipment room.
It didn't matter. To him, I was just an expense he was trying to minimize.
I felt the familiar crushing weight settle in my chest. The feeling of being small. Of being a prop in someone else's life.
I put the phone face down, but the damage was done. My hand went to my neck, twisting the gold chain I always wore.
"Everything okay?"
I looked up. Liam had stopped typing. He was watching me, his eyes narrowed in assessment.
"Fine," I said automatically. "Just... family stuff."
"Your dad?"
"He's a charmer," I forced a smile. "Just checking in to remind me that I'm essentially a tax write-off."
Liam closed his laptop. The sudden movement made me jump.
"You've been staring at that sketchbook for an hour and you haven't drawn a single line," he observed. "And you're twisting that necklace like you're trying to strangle yourself."
"I'm fine, Liam. Keep writing."
"I'm done," he said. "Or close enough. Thanks to your outline."
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The fabric of his hoodie pulled tight across his biceps.
"You helped me," he said. "Let me return the favor. What's wrong?"
"Nothing you can fix," I said, looking out the window at the dark campus. "Unless you have a time machine to go back and make my father want a daughter instead of a business merger."
It was too honest. I clamped my mouth shut.
Liam didn't laugh. He didn't offer a platitude. He just watched me.
"He doesn't see you," Liam said. It wasn't a question.
"No," I whispered. "He sees an investment. And lately, a bad one."
I picked up my pen, twirling it agitatedly. "I sold the Fendi bag," I blurted out. "The one you used the cash from to pay your electric bill."
"I know," Liam said. "You told me."
"I didn't tell you which bag," I said. My voice was trembling. Why was I telling him this? "It was the bag my mother bought me for my sixteenth birthday. Before she moved to Zurich with her new husband. It was the last thing she gave me."
Liam went still. The silence in the room deepened, becoming suffocating.
"Sofia," he said, his voice rough. "Why did you sell that one?"
"Because it was the most valuable," I said, shrugging as if it didn't matter. "It got the most cash. You needed three hundred. That bag got six."
"You sold your mom's gift to pay my electric bill?" He sounded horrified. "I thought you were selling old stuff you didn't want. I didn't know it meant something."
"It's just a bag," I said, my voice cracking. "It's just leather and hardware. It doesn't love me back. Neither did she, really. She just... bought me things. That was her language. 'Here's a purse, sorry I'm moving to another continent.' 'Here's a car, sorry I missed graduation.'"
I looked at him, tears stinging my eyes. "That's my life, Liam. Things. Expensive, beautiful things that are supposed to fill the holes where people should be. And I'm terrified that's all I am too. Just another expensive thing. A trophy. A prop."
I wiped a tear furiously from my cheek. "That's why I let you... yesterday. Because for a minute, you weren't looking at the price tag. You were looking at me."
I stopped, horrified. I had said too much. I had peeled back the armor and shown him the soft, bleeding underbelly.
I waited for him to look uncomfortable. I waited for him to make a joke or excuse himself.
He stood up.
He walked around the table.
I froze, bracing myself.
He pulled the chair out next to me and sat down. He didn't touch me. He just sat close, his knee bumping mine. He turned his chair so he was facing me.
"Look at me," he commanded. Softly.
I turned my head.
His face was open. The anger was gone. The judgment was gone. There was only a profound, aching sadness mixed with something fierce.
"You are not a thing," he said. His voice was low, intense. "You are the smartest person in this room. You are annoying as hell. You are funny. And you are tougher than half the guys on my team."
He reached out. His hand hovered for a second, asking permission. I didn't pull away.
He brushed his knuckles against my cheek, wiping away the tear track. His skin was rough, calloused, warm.
"You sold the bag for me," he said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe it. "No one... no one has ever done something like that for me. Not without asking for interest."
"We're partners," I whispered. "That's the deal."
"Screw the deal," he growled gently.
He leaned in. He rested his forehead against mine. I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent—soap, winter, and him.
"I see you, Sofia," he murmured against my skin. "I see you. And you're not empty. You're full of fire. And if your dad can't see that, he's blind."
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. His thumb traced my lower lip.
"I'm not going to touch you tonight," he said. "Not like yesterday. Because you're upset, and I'm not going to be another person who takes something from you when you're vulnerable."
My heart squeezed. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me.
"But," he added, his eyes darkening, "don't think I don't want to. I've been thinking about your mouth since I woke up. I've been thinking about the sound you made."
I shivered. "Liam."
"We're going to finish this paper," he said, pulling away and turning back to the table, though his hand lingered on my knee for a second longer.
"And then I'm going to drive you home. And you're going to sleep.
And tomorrow, I'm going to buy you a coffee.
A cheap, terrible coffee. But I'm buying it. With my own money."
I laughed. It was a watery, shaky sound, but it was real.
"Okay," I said. "Deal."
I looked at him—his profile illuminated by the laptop screen, his jaw set in concentration—and I knew.
I was falling.
I wasn't just attracted to the bad boy goalie. I wasn't just rebelling against my father.
I was falling in love with Liam Vanner.
And that was infinitely more terrifying than being poor. Because money you can get back. But giving your heart to a man who is leaving for the draft in three months?
That was a guaranteed bankruptcy.
"Okay," I whispered to myself, picking up my pen. "Just write the paper."
But as I sketched in the margins, I wasn't drawing dresses. I was drawing a mountain range, jagged and strong, just like the tattoo on his arm.