Chapter 12
Liam
Coach Miller’s office smelled like stale coffee and disappointment.
It was a small room, cluttered with trophies from decades past—silver cups that gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, mocking me.
They were monuments to teams that had finished the job.
Teams that hadn't crumbled under pressure.
Coach Miller wasn't looking at me. He was looking at a tablet, scrolling with a slow, agonizing rhythm.
"You know why you're here, Vanner," he said without looking up.
"The Blackhawks scout," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Salinger. He called me."
"I know he called you," Miller said. He finally looked up. His eyes were hard, unreadable. "He called me too. He wanted to know about your focus. He wanted to know why my star goalie, the 'Wall of Vermont', posted a .890 save percentage in practice yesterday."
I flinched. .890 was garbage. It was beer league stats.
"It was a bad practice," I said. "My head wasn't in it."
"Your head hasn't been in it for two weeks," Miller countered. He leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning. "You're late to video sessions. You're leaving the weight room early. And you look tired, Liam. You look like you haven't slept in a month."
I hadn't. Between the shifts at the shop, the secret rendezvous with Sofia, the agonizing rehab sessions on my own floor, and the crushing weight of the upcoming draft, sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford.
"I'm handling it, Coach," I lied. "Just finals stress. It'll pass."
"Will it?" Miller asked. He tapped a finger on the desk. "Because rumor has it you've been spending a lot of time with the Student Manager."
My heart stopped. It slammed against my ribs, a trapped bird.
"Sofia helps me with my coursework," I said. It was the rehearsed line. The safe line.
"Uh-huh," Miller said. He didn't sound convinced.
"Listen to me, son. I like you. You're a good kid.
You've had a tough hand dealt to you, and you've played it well.
But you are this close," he held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, "to the show.
The NHL doesn't care about your coursework.
They care about shutouts. They care about focus. "
He leaned forward, his voice dropping.
"Marcus Thorne is coming to the Dartmouth game on Saturday. With Salinger. If you play like you practiced yesterday? You're done. No draft. No contract. And I can't protect you from Thorne if he decides you're a liability."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Liability. That word again.
"I'll be ready," I said. My voice sounded hollow.
"You'd better be," Miller said. "Because if you blow this, Vanner? There's no Plan B for a kid like you. You know that."
I stood up. My knee gave a sharp twinge of protest, but I ignored it.
"I know, Coach."
I walked out of the office. The hallway felt like it was tilting.
No Plan B.
I knew exactly what no Plan B looked like. It looked like my mother’s trailer. It looked like a stack of unpaid bills on a laminate counter. It looked like a lifetime of changing oil in other people’s cars while watching them drive away to lives that mattered.
I couldn't go back there. I wouldn't.
I pulled out my phone.
Sofia: Lunch? I’m at the Union.
I stared at the message. I wanted to go. I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to bury my face in her neck and forget that my entire future hinged on sixty minutes of hockey.
But Coach was right. I was distracted. Every minute I spent with her was a minute I wasn't watching tape, wasn't stretching, wasn't focusing.
I typed a reply.
Me: Can’t. Coach needs me for extra video. I’ll text you later.
I hit send before I could change my mind.
Then I turned off my phone and walked toward the video room.
The video room was dark, cool, and silent. It was my cell for the next six hours.
I watched the Dartmouth game tape from earlier in the season. I watched their forwards. I watched their power play setup.
Number 88 likes to shoot high glove side.
Number 12 fakes the pass before shooting low.
Their defense pinches aggressively.
I memorized patterns. I dissected angles. I forced my brain to become a computer, processing data until my eyes burned and my head throbbed.
But every time the screen went black between clips, I saw her face.
I saw Sofia laughing in the archive. I saw her sleeping on my mattress. I saw the way her eyes darkened when I touched her.
Get out of my head, I growled internally. Not now. Not this week.
I rewound the clip. Again. Again.
At 8:00 PM, the door opened.
"You still in here, man?"
It was Jaxson. He was holding a bag of takeout.
"Yeah," I said, rubbing my eyes. "Just finishing up."
"You missed dinner," Jaxson said, tossing the bag onto the table next to me. "I brought you a burrito. It's probably cold."
"Thanks," I muttered. I wasn't hungry. My stomach was a knot of acid.
"Sofia was looking for you," Jaxson said casually, leaning against the doorframe.
I stiffened. "I told her I was busy."
"She looked worried," Jaxson said. "She asked if you were okay. She said you weren't answering your texts."
"My phone died," I lied.
Jaxson looked at me. He wasn't smiling. The usual joker mask was gone.
"What are you doing, Liam?" he asked quietly.
"I'm preparing," I snapped. "For the biggest game of my life. Is that a crime?"
"No," Jaxson said. "But ghosting the girl who has been practically living in your pocket for two weeks is a dick move."
"She's not my girlfriend, Jax," I said harshly. "She's... a distraction."
The words tasted like ash in my mouth.
Jaxson raised an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it now? Because last week, you looked ready to murder anyone who looked at her sideways."
"Things change," I said. "The draft is Saturday. I need to focus."
"Fine," Jaxson said, pushing off the doorframe. "Focus. But just so you know... treating people like disposable assets? That's Marcus Thorne's move. Don't become him, Liam. You're better than that."
He walked out.
I stared at the closed door.
Don't become him.
I opened the burrito. I took one bite and threw it in the trash.
I turned the video back on.
By Thursday, I was a zombie.
I was operating on caffeine and fear. I avoided the archive. I avoided the student union. I took different routes to class.
I was the Ghost.
But ghosts can be haunted too.
I was in the weight room late Thursday night. It was empty. The only sound was the clanking of iron plates and my own ragged breathing.
I was doing squats. Heavy squats. It was stupid with my knee, but I needed to feel strong. I needed to prove to myself that my body wasn't failing me.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Pain shot through my knee on the fourth rep, but I pushed through it. Pain is information.
"You're going to hurt yourself."
The voice came from the entrance.
I froze. I racked the bar with a loud clang and turned around.
Sofia was standing there.
She wasn't wearing her usual "Manager" disguise. She was wearing a trench coat over pajamas, and boots that were unlaced. Her hair was down, wild and tangled. Her face was pale, devoid of makeup.
She looked furious.
"Go away, Sofia," I said, grabbing my towel to wipe the sweat from my face. "I'm working."
"You're hiding," she corrected, walking into the room. Her footsteps echoed on the rubber mats. "You haven't answered a text in three days. You weren't at lunch. You weren't in the library."
"I told you," I said, turning my back to her to load more weight onto the bar. "Coach is riding me. I have to focus."
"So you just cut me off?" she demanded. Her voice rose, echoing in the large room. "We have a deal, Liam. We're partners."
"The deal was about grades," I snapped, spinning around. "And my grades are fine. The deal is done."
She recoiled as if I had slapped her.
"Done?" she whispered. "Just like that? After... after everything?"
"Sofia, look at where we are," I said, gesturing to the empty gym. "Look at my life. I have a scout coming on Saturday who holds the keys to my entire existence. If I don't perform, I am nothing. I am a mechanic in a dead-end town with a blown-out knee."
"You are not nothing!" she shouted. She stepped closer, invading my space. "You are Liam Vanner! You are the strongest person I know! Why are you letting them do this to you?"
"Because they own me!" I roared back. "Your father owns me! The team owns me! And I can't afford to have you... to have this..." I gestured vaguely between us, "...messing with my head."
"I'm messing with your head?" she asked, her voice trembling. tears welled in her eyes. "I thought I was helping you. I thought I was the one person who didn't want something from you."
"Everyone wants something," I said bitterly. "You want a rebellion. You want to piss off your dad by sleeping with the help. Well, congratulations, Princess. You did it. rebellion achieved."
It was a lie. A cruel, vicious lie designed to hurt her enough that she would leave. Because if she stayed, if she touched me, I would crumble. And I couldn't crumble. Not now.
The tears spilled over her cheeks. She stared at me, horror dawning on her face.
"Is that what you think?" she whispered. "That I'm using you?"
"Aren't you?" I challenged. "It's what Thornes do. You use assets."
She stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, she wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her expression hardened. The softness vanished, replaced by the icy armor of the Heiress.
"Fine," she said coldly. "If that's what you think. Then you're right. The deal is done."
She turned on her heel and walked out.
I watched her go. I watched the door swing shut behind her.
I waited for the relief. I waited to feel focused, unburdened.
Instead, I felt like I had just ripped my own heart out of my chest and stomped on it.
I turned back to the squat rack. I grabbed the bar. I screamed, a raw sound of rage and grief, and lifted the weight.
I did reps until my legs gave out. Until I collapsed on the floor, gasping for air, alone in the silence.
Friday was a blur.
Coach Miller seemed pleased with my "new attitude."