Chapter 8
Sofia
The Owner’s Box at the Blackwood Arena was designed to make you feel like a god looking down on an ant farm.
I hated it.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, my forehead resting against the cool pane, looking down at the ice below.
The arena was vibrating. Even through the soundproof glass, I could feel the thrum of five thousand screaming students.
The student section—The Bleacher Creatures—was a sea of black and gold, chanting something that was definitely not appropriate for broadcast television.
Usually, I sat on the plush leather couch, drank champagne, and scrolled through Instagram until the buzzer sounded.
Tonight, I was standing so close to the glass my breath was fogging it up. My hands were gripping the railing so hard my knuckles were white.
"Sofia, sit down. You're blocking the view of the blue line."
My father didn't look up from his tablet. He was reviewing quarterly earnings for the stadium concessions. The game—the actual blood, sweat, and physics happening fifty feet below us—was just background noise to the real sport: revenue generation.
"I'm fine standing," I said, my voice tight.
I looked down at my outfit. For years, game day meant vintage Chanel or archival Versace. Armor.
Today, I was wearing a black oversized hockey jersey. It was swallowed by my corset belt to give it some shape, paired with leather leggings and combat boots.
But it wasn't just any jersey. On the back, in bold white letters, it said VANNER. And below it, the number 30.
It was a statement. A flag planted in the ground.
My father had raised an eyebrow when he saw it but hadn't commented. He probably assumed it was a marketing ploy—the Heiress supporting the Star Player to boost merchandise sales.
He didn't know that under the heavy polyester fabric, my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Please don't fall. Please don't get hit. Please let the ibuprofen be working.
Down on the ice, the teams were warming up. The Blackwood Kodiaks in their menacing black home kits circled the defensive zone. And on the other side, the Harvard Crimson.
Harvard. The enemy.
They were big, fast, and notorious for playing a "physical" game—which was code for "they will cross-check you in the throat if the ref isn't looking."
I found him instantly.
Liam was in the crease, stretching. Even from this distance, he was unmistakable. He moved differently than the others. While the skaters were frantic, buzzing around taking shots, Liam was a monolith. He was slow, deliberate.
He dropped into the butterfly, sliding post to post.
I winced.
I saw the micro-hitch. The tiny, almost imperceptible delay as he pushed off his left leg. To anyone else, it looked like a standard warm-up. To me, it looked like agony.
I knew what was under those pads. I knew the angry, swollen purple bruise that wrapped around his knee. I knew he had iced it for three hours last night while I read him flashcards for his Ethics exam.
"Vanner looks sluggish," my father commented, finally looking at the ice. "He's not covering the top corner. If he plays like this during the playoffs, his draft stock is going to tank."
"He's pacing himself," I defended instantly, turning to glare at him. "It's warm-ups, Daddy. He's conserving energy."
"He's an asset, Sofia," my father said coldly, taking a sip of his scotch. "Assets don't get to 'pace' themselves. They perform or they depreciate."
I felt a surge of nausea. Asset. That’s all Liam was to him. A number on a spreadsheet. A horse to be run until its legs gave out, then sent to the glue factory.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, hiding the screen from my father.
Liam (Goalie): Stop staring. I can feel you from down here.
My breath hitched. He knew.
I looked down. Liam was standing in the crease, leaning on his stick. He wasn't looking at the pucks flying at him. He was looking up. Straight up at the glass box in the sky.
He couldn't see me—the tint on the glass made it a one-way mirror—but he was looking right at me.
Me: I’m not staring. I’m supervising. How is the knee?
Liam (Goalie): Numb. Lidocaine is a hell of a drug. You wearing the jersey?
Me: Yes.
Liam (Goalie): Good. Keep it on. I’ll see you after.
He tapped his stick against the ice—two sharp raps—and turned back to the game.
The buzzer sounded. The lights in the arena dropped, leaving only the spotlight on the center ice. The crowd roared, a primal, deafening sound that shook the floorboards.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer boomed, his voice echoing like thunder. "Welcome to the Ice Box!"
The music started—heavy bass, aggressive drums.
I didn't sit down. I couldn't.
I felt like I was watching a gladiator walk into a lion pit with a broken shield.
"Don't die," I whispered to the glass. "Please, Liam. Just don't die."
The first period was a blur of violence.
Hockey on TV is fast. Hockey in person, from fifty feet above the ice, is terrifying. The speed at which they moved—two hundred pounds of man on razor-sharp blades—was defying physics.
Harvard came out swinging. They were aggressive, finishing every check, slamming our players into the boards with bone-rattling force.
Every time the puck came near the Blackwood zone, my stomach dropped.
Liam was a wall.
He stopped a slap shot from the point. Thud.
He gloved a deflection. Snap.
He kicked out a rebound. Thwack.
He was perfect. But I saw the cost.
Every time he had to drop to his knees, I saw the wince behind the mask. Every time he had to scramble back to his feet, I saw him putting 90% of his weight on his right leg.
"He's favoring the left," my father murmured, narrowing his eyes. "Look at that. He's slow to the post."
"He made the save," I snapped.
"He's compensating," my father countered, picking up his phone. Probably to text the GM. "If he's hurt, he shouldn't be playing. We can't risk a long-term liability."
"If you pull him, you kill his draft chances," I argued, my voice rising. "The scouts are here. If he gets benched for an injury now, they'll label him fragile. He needs this game."
My father looked at me, surprised by my knowledge. "Since when do you care about draft politics?"
"Since I became the Manager," I lied. "It's my job to know the roster."
The period ended 0-0. A defensive stalemate.
I didn't move during the intermission. I stood guard, watching the Zamboni circle the ice, smoothing away the scars of the battle.
The second period was worse. Harvard scored on a power play—a screen shot Liam couldn't see. 1-0.
Then Jaxson scored on a breakaway, tying it up. 1-1.
The tension in the arena was suffocating. The air felt thin.
Then came the third period.
Five minutes left. Tie game.
Harvard dumped the puck in. Their center—a massive guy named Kowalski who looked like he ate rocks for breakfast—chased it into the corner.
Our defenseman tried to pin him, but Kowalski spun off, throwing the puck toward the front of the net.
It was a chaotic play. The puck bounced off a skate, changed direction, and fluttered toward the goal.
Liam reacted. He slid across, pushing off his bad leg with everything he had.
He made the save. The puck hit his chest protector and dropped into the crease.
But he was out of position. He was exposed.
And Kowalski was charging the net.
I saw it happening in slow motion. The Harvard player didn't stop. He didn't try to avoid the goalie. He lowered his shoulder and drove straight through the crease.
"No!" I screamed, my hand slapping against the glass.
CRASH.
The sound was sickening. The sound of plastic, metal, and bodies colliding at full speed.
The net came off its moorings. Liam was thrown backward, crumpling into the back of the goal. Kowalski landed on top of him, driving him into the metal post.
The whistle blew frantically.
Jaxson and Carter immediately jumped Kowalski, fists flying. A brawl erupted behind the net. Gloves were dropped. Helmets were ripped off. The crowd was screaming for blood.
I didn't watch the fight.
I watched the heap of black pads in the net.
Liam wasn't moving.
The arena went silent. The fight broke up as the refs intervened, but the crowd's roar died down to a hushed, terrified murmur.
"Get up," I whispered. Tears blurred my vision. "Liam, get up."
My father stood up next to me. "Damn it. That’s an ACL. There goes the season."
I spun on him. "Shut up! Just shut up about the season!"
He stared at me, shocked into silence. I had never raised my voice to him in my life. Not like that. Not with teeth.
I turned back to the ice.
The trainer was running out. He knelt beside Liam.
Liam rolled over. He pushed the trainer away.
He got to one knee.
He stayed there for a second, head bowed. I could see his chest heaving. I could imagine the pain—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his leg.
Then, he planted his stick. He pushed up.
He stood.
He swayed for a second, then locked his knees. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs.
He looked up at the glass box.
He didn't nod. He didn't wave. He just stared for a split second, a dark, masked figure of pure defiance.
I'm still here.
The crowd erupted. A standing ovation. They were chanting his name. "VAN-NER! VAN-NER!"
I let out a sob, pressing my hand over my mouth.
He stayed in the game.
He stopped three more shots. He threw his body in front of the puck like he had a death wish.
When the final buzzer sounded, the score was 1-1. Overtime.
I couldn't watch. I physically couldn't do it.
I grabbed my bag.
"Where are you going?" my father demanded.
"To do my job," I said. "I'm going to the locker room."
I ran out of the box, ignoring the elevator, and sprinted down the stairs. My boots thudded heavily on the concrete.
I reached the tunnel level just as the overtime started. I stood in the shadows near the Zamboni entrance, where the air smelled of diesel and ice shavings.
I listened to the roar of the crowd above me. It surged and fell like a tide.
Then—a massive, explosive roar. The goal horn blasted.
Game over.
I didn't know who won.