Chapter 19
Liam
Waking up next to Sofia in my cramped apartment in West Valley City felt better than waking up in the Ritz.
The sun was streaming through the cheap blinds, striping the beige carpet with bars of light. She was curled into my side, her head resting on my chest, her hand splayed over my heart. She was wearing my gray hoodie—the one she had reclaimed last night—and absolutely nothing else.
I lay there for a long time, just breathing her in. She smelled like the hotel soap I used, mixed with that persistent, expensive vanilla scent that seemed to be part of her DNA.
We were broke. We were effectively exiled. And I had practice in two hours.
I had never felt more secure.
She stirred, blinking against the light. She looked up at me, her eyes unfocused and sleepy.
"Morning," she mumbled.
"Morning," I kissed her forehead. "How did you sleep?"
"Like a log," she stretched, her legs tangling with mine. "Your lumpy couch is surprisingly comfortable."
"We're on the bed," I corrected gently.
"Oh. Right. Even better." She smiled, propping her chin on my chest. "So. What's the plan, Captain? Do we flee to Mexico? Start a alpaca farm?"
"Tempting," I said, running my hand down her back under the hoodie. "But I have practice. And you... you have a empire to build."
"Right," she sighed. "Empire. Step one: Find coffee. Step two: Find a job. Step three: Find a lawyer to sue my father for my trust fund."
"Let's stick to step one and two for now," I suggested. "Lawyers are expensive."
"I can be my own lawyer," she declared. "I watched Legally Blonde ten times."
I laughed. "I believe you."
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I picked it up.
Coach Miller.
My stomach gave a phantom twinge of the old panic, but it faded quickly. Coach Miller was in Vermont. He couldn't hurt me here.
But the text wasn't a threat.
Coach Miller: Saw the game. Nice save. Also saw the TMZ photos of your 'reunion' in the parking lot. You two are a PR nightmare.
Coach Miller: Call me.
I showed the phone to Sofia.
She squinted at the screen. "TMZ?"
"Apparently we made the tabloids," I said. "Heiress flees Paris for Minor League Goalie. It's a headline."
"Do I look good in the photos?" she asked, grabbing the phone to check.
"You look insane," I said honestly. "Barefoot. Ruined dress. Mascara running."
She found the article. She stared at the photo.
"I look... happy," she whispered.
She was right. In the grainy, zoomed-in photo of us embracing in the parking lot, amidst the chaos and the bad lighting, we looked incandescent.
"So," she handed the phone back. "Miller wants to talk. Are you going to call him?"
"I have to," I said. "He's still my contact for the transfer paperwork. If he wants to be difficult, he can hold up my eligibility."
"Call him," she said, sitting up and pulling the hoodie down. "Put him on speaker. I want to hear."
I dialed.
Miller picked up on the first ring.
"Vanner."
"Coach," I said. "How's the weather in Burlington?"
"Cold," Miller grunted. "Listen, I'm going to make this quick. Thorne is on a warpath. He's threatening to pull funding for the new locker room if I don't release a statement condemning your 'unauthorized departure'."
"I authorized my departure," I said. "I signed the papers."
"I know," Miller said. "But Thorne wants blood. He wants us to say you were kicked out for drugs. Or cheating. Something that sticks."
"He can't do that," Sofia spoke up, leaning toward the phone. "That's libel."
"Ms. Thorne," Miller said. He didn't sound surprised. "I assumed you were within earshot. Look, Sofia... your father is spiraling. He lost his leverage. He's dangerous."
"So what do you want us to do?" I asked. "Hide?"
"No," Miller said. "I want you to win."
Silence on the line.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Win," Miller repeated. "Play the game of your life, Vanner.
Get called up. Make it impossible for the league to ignore you.
Because if you succeed? If you make the show?
Thorne looks like an idiot for letting you go.
The narrative changes. You become the underdog hero, and he becomes the bitter billionaire. "
"I'm trying, Coach," I said. "I had a shutout last night."
"I saw," Miller said. His voice softened. "That save in overtime? That was NHL caliber. Keep doing that. And Sofia?"
"Yes?"
"Keep him focused. He plays better when he's trying to impress you. It's annoying, but it works."
Sofia grinned at me. "I'll do my best."
"One more thing," Miller said. "Salinger called me again."
My heart skipped a beat.
"The Blackhawks scout?"
"He saw the game too," Miller said. "He asked for your agent's number. I told him you didn't have one. I gave him yours."
I sat up straight. "Salinger wants to talk to me?"
"He's in Denver," Miller said. "The Grizzlies play the Colorado Eagles next week. He'll be there. Don't blow it."
"I won't," I promised.
"Good luck, kids," Miller said. "Don't let the bastards grind you down."
He hung up.
I stared at the phone. Salinger. The Blackhawks.
"Denver," Sofia whispered. "Next week."
"We have to be ready," I said.
"We?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"We," I confirmed. "I can't do it without my manager."
She smiled. A slow, dangerous smile.
"Then get dressed, Vanner. We have work to do."
The Grizzlies practice facility was a utilitarian box of ice and concrete.
When I walked in, holding Sofia’s hand, the locker room went quiet.
The guys knew. They had seen the photos. They knew who she was now. Not just the crazy girl in the green dress, but Sofia Thorne. The Heiress.
"Morning, boys," I said, walking to my stall.
Sofia didn't shrink. She didn't hide behind me. She walked right into the center of the room, wearing my spare Grizzlies t-shirt (tied in a knot at the waist) and jeans she had bought at Target an hour ago.
"Hi," she said to the room. "I'm Sofia. I'm Liam's... manager. And girlfriend. And apparently, a fugitive from high society."
Davis, the captain, grinned.
"Welcome to the show, Princess," he said. "Coffee machine is in the corner. Don't touch the rookie's gear, it smells like death."
"Noted," she said.
Just then, the door to the coaches' office opened.
Coach Henderson—a squat, bald man who looked like a bulldog—stepped out. He looked at me, then at Sofia.
"Vanner," he barked. "Who is this civilian in my locker room?"
"This is Sofia," I said, not stopping unbuckling my bag. "She's with me."
"No girlfriends in the room," Henderson said. "Club policy."
"She's not just a girlfriend," I said, standing up. "She's my performance coach. She handles my nutrition, my schedule, and my mental game. If she leaves, I leave."
The room went silent again. It was a bluff. A massive, arrogant bluff. I was a backup goalie on a tryout contract. I had zero leverage.
But I held Henderson's gaze. I didn't blink.
I wasn't the scared kid in Dean Harrison's office anymore. I was the guy who made the desperation save. I was the guy who got the girl.
Henderson looked at me. He looked at Sofia, who was standing with her arms crossed, looking entirely unbothered.
"Performance coach," Henderson grunted. "Does she know anything about hockey?"
"She knows you're running a 1-3-1 trap that leaves the weak side exposed," Sofia said coolly. "And that your power play percentage is down 12% since February because you're not cycling the puck deep enough."
The guys gasped. Davis choked on his water.
Henderson stared at her. His mouth opened, then closed.
"She watches a lot of tape," I added helpfully.
"Fine," Henderson muttered. "She can stay. But if she distracts you, she's out."
"She focuses me," I said.
"Get on the ice," Henderson ordered.
As I skated out, I looked back. Sofia was sitting on the bench, chatting with the equipment manager about stick flex.
She winked at me.
I turned to the ice. I felt invincible.
The week flew by.
We lived in a bubble of hockey, pizza, and Target runs. We bought cheap sheets. We bought a coffee maker. We started turning the beige apartment into a home.
But the specter of Denver loomed.
Marcus Thorne hadn't called back. He had gone silent. That was worse than the screaming. It meant he was planning something.
We flew to Denver on the commercial flight with the team. Sofia paid for her own ticket with the last of her cash.
"I'm an investment," she told me when I tried to pay. "The ROI will be huge."
The game against the Eagles was a bloodbath. High altitude. Fast ice.
I was in net.
Salinger was in the stands. I saw him during warmups. He was sitting alone, notebook in hand.
And three rows behind him... sat Marcus Thorne.
I froze when I saw him. He was wearing a dark coat, staring down at the ice like a vulture waiting for roadkill.
He had come. He had flown to Denver to watch me fail. Or to ensure I did.
I skated to the bench during the TV timeout.
"He's here," I told Sofia, who was standing by the tunnel (she had charmed the arena security into giving her a pass).
"Who?"
"Your dad."
She looked up. She saw him.
Her face paled, but then it hardened.
"Let him watch," she said fiercely. "Show him what he threw away."
"He's going to try to talk to Salinger," I said. "He's going to poison the well."
"Not if I get there first," she said.
"Sofia, no. Stay here."
"I'm not staying here," she said. "I'm going to the stands."
"He'll cut you into pieces," I warned.
"I'm not glass, Liam," she said. "I'm a diamond. Pressure just makes me harder."
She turned and ran up the tunnel.
I watched her go. My heart hammered against my ribs.
I had to play. I had to stop the puck.
But my head was in the stands.
Sofia
I walked up the stairs of the Budweiser Events Center. My heart was racing, but my steps were steady.
I found the section. Section 105.
My father was sitting there, looking out of place among the beer-drinking fans in his cashmere coat.
I walked down the row. I stopped right in front of him.
"Hello, Marcus," I said.
He looked up. His eyes were cold, devoid of the warmth I used to see when I was a child.
"Sofia," he said. "You look... different. Cheaper."