Chapter 18
Sofia
I walked off the corporate jet—my last ride on the Thorne dime—wearing an emerald green gown and carrying a pair of Louboutins in my hand.
My feet were bare and black with grime. My hair was a windblown disaster.
My mascara had left tracks down my cheeks that no amount of scrubbing in the plane bathroom could fix.
I looked like a runaway bride who had been dragged through a swamp.
I didn't care.
I walked through the terminal, ignoring the stares of the cleaning crew and the few sleepy travelers. I found the rental car desk. It was closed.
Of course.
I walked outside to the taxi stand. A single cab sat idling, exhaust puffing into the cool desert air.
I opened the back door and slid in. The vinyl seat was cracked. The car smelled of old cigarettes.
"Where to?" the driver asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. He probably thought I was a prostitute or a socialite on a bender. He wasn't entirely wrong about the second one.
"The Maverick Center," I said. "West Valley City."
"At this hour?" he grunted. "Place is closed, lady. Game ended hours ago."
"Just drive," I said, pulling a wad of Euros out of my clutch. "I'll pay you double if you get me there in twenty minutes."
He saw the cash. He put the car in gear.
We sped onto the highway. The city lights blurred past.
My heart was beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Thump-thump-thump.
I had sent the text. I'm coming.
But I hadn't heard back.
What if he left? What if he saw the text and panicked? What if he really didn't love me, and the rose on the mask was just a coincidence? Just a design he picked from a book?
No, I told myself. It wasn't a coincidence. He looked at the camera. He mouthed 'For You'.
I clung to that memory. It was the only thing keeping me from curling into a ball on the floor of the taxi.
We pulled up to the arena. It was dark, a massive concrete block sitting in a sea of empty parking lot.
"Told you," the driver said. "Closed."
"Wait here," I said, shoving the Euros through the partition.
I opened the door and stepped out onto the asphalt. The wind whipped my dress around my legs. I shivered, hugging my bare arms.
I walked toward the main entrance. Locked.
I walked around the side to the loading dock. The place where the buses parked. The place where the players came out.
There was a security guard sitting in a booth. He was watching a movie on his phone.
I walked up to the window and tapped on the glass.
He jumped, dropping his phone. He looked at me—the crazy girl in the ballgown—and opened the window.
"Can I help you, miss?"
"I need to see Liam Vanner," I said. My voice was steady, surprising even me. "He's the goalie."
"Vanner left," the guard said, shaking his head. "Whole team cleared out an hour ago. Headed to The Westerner. It's a bar down the road."
"The Westerner," I repeated. "Is he there?"
"Probably," the guard shrugged. "Celebrating the win."
"Thank you."
I ran back to the taxi.
"The Westerner," I commanded. "Go."
The Westerner was exactly what it sounded like. A massive, honky-tonk bar with neon signs, pickup trucks in the lot, and music loud enough to wake the dead.
I paid the driver and got out. I put my shoes on. My feet were swollen, but I jammed them into the heels. I needed the height. I needed the armor.
I pushed open the heavy wooden doors.
The noise hit me like a physical blow. Country music. Laughter. The clink of glass. The smell of sawdust and beer.
The place was packed. Cowboys, puck bunnies, locals.
I scanned the room. I felt ridiculous in my green velvet gown amidst the flannel and denim. People were staring. Pointing.
I ignored them. I was on a mission.
I saw them. A group of massive guys in Grizzlies tracksuits dominating a corner booth. They were loud, rowdy, celebrating.
I pushed through the crowd.
"Excuse me. Move."
I reached the booth.
I saw the Captain, Davis. I recognized him from the broadcast.
"Where is he?" I demanded, slamming my hand on the table.
The table went silent. Six pairs of eyes looked up at me.
"Who?" Davis asked, blinking. "And who are you? Cinderella?"
"Liam Vanner," I said. "Where is he?"
Davis looked at the guys. They exchanged glances.
"He's not here, sweetheart," Davis said. "Vanner doesn't do bars. He said he had to go handle something. Said he was waiting for an angel."
The guys laughed.
"Where did he go?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Back to the complex," a younger player said. "He lives there. In the team apartments behind the rink."
"The apartments," I whispered. Of course. He lived at the rink. Just like before.
"Thanks," I said.
I turned to leave.
"Hey!" Davis called out. "You the angel?"
I looked back over my shoulder.
"I'm the storm," I said.
I walked out. No taxi this time. It was a half-mile walk.
I kicked off the heels again. I ran.
I ran down the side of the road, my dress trailing in the dirt. My lungs burned. My feet bled.
I didn't stop.
The apartment complex was a row of beige, two-story buildings behind the arena. Cheap. Functional. Soul-crushing.
I didn't know which one was his.
I stood in the parking lot, panting.
"Liam!" I screamed.
Silence. Just the wind whistling through the chain-link fence.
"LIAM VANNER!" I yelled louder. "GET OUT HERE!"
A light flickered on in a second-floor unit.
A door opened.
He stepped out onto the balcony.
He was wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He was holding a bag of ice to his knee.
He looked down.
He saw me. Standing in the parking lot, barefoot, in a ruined ballgown.
He dropped the ice bag. It hit the concrete balcony floor with a thud.
"Sofia?"
His voice was faint, carried by the wind.
"I'm here!" I shouted, tears finally spilling over. "I'm here, you idiot! Open the gate!"
He didn't open the gate.
He vaulted over the railing.
He dropped ten feet to the ground. He landed in a crouch, rolling to absorb the impact.
"Liam!" I shrieked. "Your knee!"
He stood up. He ignored the knee. He sprinted toward me.
I ran to meet him.
We collided in the middle of the parking lot.
He hit me like a linebacker. His arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me off the ground. My legs wrapped around his torso.
I buried my face in his neck. He smelled like soap and sweat and home.
"You're here," he gasped against my hair. "You're actually here."
"I saw the mask," I sobbed. "I saw the rose."
"I painted it the day I got here," he said, holding me tighter, crushing the air out of my lungs. "I painted it so I wouldn't forget why I was doing this."
"Why did you lie?" I pulled back, grabbing his face, forcing him to look at me. "Why did you tell me you didn't love me?"
"Because your dad threatened to ruin you," he said. His eyes were wild, desperate. "He said he would cut you off. No MBA. No Paris. No money. He said I would drag you down to the gutter. I couldn't let that happen, Sofia. I had to let you go."
"You didn't have the right!" I shouted, hitting his chest. "You didn't have the right to make that choice for me! I don't care about the money! I don't care about Paris! I care about you!"
"I know," he said, catching my hand. "I know. I was stupid. I was scared. I thought I was saving you."
"You broke me," I whispered. "You broke my heart, Liam."
"I broke mine too," he said. "Every day. Every single day. I missed you so much I couldn't breathe."
He kissed me.
It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was frantic. It was messy. It was an apology and a promise and a desperate plea for forgiveness all at once.
We kissed until we were dizzy. Until my lungs burned for air.
He set me down, but kept his arms around me, anchoring me to him.
"I quit," I said breathlessly.
"What?"
"I quit," I repeated. "I quit the job in Paris. I quit my dad. I'm done. I'm unemployed. I'm homeless. And I have exactly twelve hundred Euros in my purse and a pair of ruined shoes."
He stared at me. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face.
"You quit being an heiress?"
"I resigned," I corrected. "Effective immediately."
"So you're broke?" he asked.
"Destitute," I nodded. "Just like you."
He laughed. A loud, joyous sound that echoed off the cheap siding of the apartment buildings.
"Well," he said, brushing the hair out of my face. "The good news is, rent here is cheap. And I just got a bonus for winning the game."
"Is it enough for a pizza?" I asked.
"It's enough for two pizzas," he said. "And maybe a dog."
"A dog," I sniffled. "We said we'd get a dog."
"We will," he promised. "We'll get the dog. We'll get the apartment. We'll figure it out."
"But my dad," I said, the fear creeping back in. "He said he would destroy you. If I came back... he'll come for you, Liam. He'll sue you. He'll blacklist you."
Liam’s expression hardened. The Wall came down, but this time, it was protecting us.
"Let him try," he said. "I'm not a student anymore. I'm a pro. I have a contract. And I have you. He can't touch us here."
"He's powerful," I warned.
"So are we," he said. "We survived the blizzard. We survived the scandal. We survived the breakup. We're unkillable, Sofia."
He kissed my forehead.
"Come inside," he said. "You're freezing. And that dress is... distracting."
"It's couture," I muttered.
"It's green," he said. "Like money. I prefer you in gray sweatpants."
"I left the hoodie," I realized sadly. "In the penthouse."
"I have another one," he said. "I have a whole drawer full of them waiting for you."
He scooped me up again, carrying me bridal style.
"Your knee," I protested.
"It's fine," he lied. "Adrenaline is a hell of a drug."
He carried me up the stairs, into his apartment.
It was small. Smaller than the garage apartment. It had a beige carpet and a lumpy couch.
It was perfect.
He set me down on the couch. He went to the closet and pulled out a gray hoodie.
"Here," he said. "Put this on."
I stripped off the ruined gown. I put on the hoodie. It swallowed me whole. It smelled like him.
I sat on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest.
He sat next to me. He took my cold feet into his lap and started rubbing them, trying to warm them up.
"So," he said, looking at me with those intense gray eyes. "You're really staying?"
"I'm really staying," I said. "Utah. Who knew?"
"It's not Chicago," he apologized. "And it's definitely not Paris."
"It's better," I said. "Because you're here."
He leaned forward and kissed me again. Gentle this time. Slow.
"I love you, Sofia," he whispered against my lips. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
"You'd better," I said. "Starting with that pizza."
"Pizza coming up," he said, pulling out his phone.
I watched him order. I watched his hands. I watched the way he smiled at me while he talked to the pizza guy.
I was broke. I was disowned. I was living in a dump in West Valley City.
I had never been richer.
One Hour Later
We were eating pizza on the floor. The TV was on, playing highlights of the game.
"Look at that save," I said, pointing at the screen with a crust. "Show off."
"It was tactical," he mumbled, mouth full.
My phone buzzed. Not the one I dropped—Liam had given me his spare charger and I had managed to revive it, cracks and all.
I looked at the screen.
Daddy.
Liam went still. He saw the name.
"Don't answer it," he said.
"I have to," I said. "I have to tell him. Officially."
I picked up the phone. I put it on speaker.
"Sofia," my father’s voice boomed. "Where the hell are you? Elodie said you took the jet. You resigned? Have you lost your mind?"
"Hello, Daddy," I said calmly. "I'm in Utah."
"Utah?" He sputtered. "With him? I told you, Sofia. If you go back to him, I cut you off. Everything. The trust. The accounts. The job. You will have nothing."
"I know," I said. "You can keep it. All of it."
"You're making a mistake," he growled. "You're throwing your life away for a mechanic."
"I'm building a life," I corrected. "With the man I love. And he's not just a mechanic. He's a goalie. And he's a partner. And he's worth more than your entire portfolio."
"You'll come crawling back," he threatened. "When the money runs out. When he gets hurt again. You'll come back."
"I won't," I said. "Because I'm not afraid of being poor, Daddy. I'm afraid of being you. Alone in a glass box."
Silence on the other end.
"Goodbye, Marcus," I said.
I hung up.
I looked at Liam. He was staring at me with awe.
"You called him Marcus," he said.
"He's not Daddy anymore," I said. "He's just Marcus."
Liam reached out and pulled me into his arms.
"I've got you," he whispered. "We'll figure it out. Vanner Customs. Thorne Designs. We'll build our own empire."
"Navy and cream?" I asked.
"Navy and cream," he agreed.
I rested my head on his chest.
The future was uncertain. The road was going to be hard.
But we were the Storm. And we were ready.