Chapter 15
Nick
At thirty-five thousand feet, the world is abstract.
It is a quilt of grey clouds and distant topography, detached from the chaos of the ground.
Usually, I hate flying. I hate the lack of control.
I hate that I am strapped into a metal tube hurtling through the atmosphere at five hundred miles per hour, dependent on a pilot I haven’t vetted and mechanics I haven’t interviewed.
But today, looking out the oval window of the Gulfstream my father had chartered, I didn't feel the usual tightening in my chest. I didn't feel the need to grip the armrest until my knuckles turned white.
I felt... quiet.
My left leg was stretched out in the aisle, the joint humming with a low, manageable ache rather than a scream. My mind, usually a chaotic storm of statistics and draft projections, was singularly focused.
I reached into the inner pocket of my suit jacket.
My fingers brushed the textured paper Jess had given me in the car yesterday. Open it on the plane, she had said. It’s motivation.
I pulled it out. It was a simple piece of notebook paper, folded into a tight square. It smelled like her. Vanilla, cheap ink, and that unnamable spark that she carried with her like static electricity.
I unfolded it slowly, smoothing it out on the tray table next to my glass of sparkling water.
Her handwriting was messy. Looping, hurried script that slanted to the right, as if the letters themselves were trying to run off the page.
Nick,
You think you’re a machine. You think you’re built of gears and scar tissue and obligation. But machines don’t hold people the way you held me on the cliff. Machines don’t bleed. Machines don’t sacrifice themselves to save their mothers.
You are flesh and blood. You are the man who stopped the world because I was cold. You are the man who let me see the cracks.
Go to Chicago. Be the Captain. Scare the hell out of those scouts. But remember—you aren’t skating for your father anymore. You’re skating for the dog. (I want a Golden Retriever, by the way. Something shedding and disobedient).
You are my empire, Nick. Come back to me.
- J
I stared at the words until they blurred.
You are my empire.
A lump formed in my throat, hard and aching. I traced the signature with my thumb. J.
I had spent twenty-two years building walls. I had constructed a fortress of solitude so high and so thick that I thought nothing could ever breach it. I thought safety meant isolation. I thought power meant silence.
And then a chaotic, red-headed girl with a tray of wine had tripped into my life and dismantled the whole thing with a sledgehammer made of stubbornness and grilled cheese sandwiches.
I leaned my head back against the leather seat, closing my eyes.
I love her.
The realization didn't hit me with fear this time. It hit me with the force of a revelation. It was the missing variable in the equation. It was the logic that finally made the math work.
Why was I going to Chicago? To get the money.
Why did I need the money? To get the freedom.
Why did I need the freedom? To be with her.
It was so simple.
I smiled. I actually smiled, alone in the cabin at altitude.
I started to plan. The chess player in me woke up, but instead of plotting defensive schemes, I was plotting a life.
Two weeks in Chicago. I would ace the interviews. I would show them the hip was fine. I would lock in the top-three projection. Then, the signing bonus.
I would buy the penthouse from my father. Or better yet, I would buy a brownstone in Chicago. Something near the lake. Something with a dance studio for her.
I imagined it vividly. Jess in a kitchen that wasn't sterile chrome, but warm wood. Jess waking up on Sunday mornings without a contract hanging over her head. A dog—god help me, a Golden Retriever—sleeping on a rug that didn't cost five thousand dollars.
I would ask her to move in. Officially. No "assistant" title. No "fake dating."
Partner.
I looked at the note again. Come back to me.
"I will," I whispered to the empty cabin. "I'm coming back for everything."
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Mr. Vance, we're beginning our descent into O'Hare. Weather is overcast, temperature is thirty-four degrees. We'll be on the ground in twenty minutes."
I folded the note carefully, treating it like a holy relic, and placed it back in my pocket, right over my heart.
I was ready.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't playing not to lose. I was playing to win.
The wheels touched down with a jolt that shook the frame of the plane. The engines roared in reverse thrust, slowing us down on the wet tarmac.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. I retrieved my phone from my bag.
It had been off for three hours.
I held the power button. The screen flared to life. The Apple logo glowed white.
I watched the progress bar, feeling a buzz of anticipation. I wanted to text her. I wanted to tell her I had read the note. I wanted to tell her about the Golden Retriever. I wanted to type the words I love you and see the bubbles pop up as she typed it back.
The phone unlocked.
And then, it began to vibrate.
It wasn't a normal vibration. It was a seizure.
The phone buzzed continuously in my hand, a frantic, unbroken spasm of notifications. Text messages. Emails. News alerts. Missed calls.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I frowned. Usually, my phone was quiet. Only Jax or my father called me.
I looked at the screen.
47 Missed Calls.
82 New Messages.
My stomach dropped. The warm glow of the flight evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold prickle of dread.
The top notification was from Jax.
Jax: CAP. CALL ME. NOW. DO NOT CHECK SOCIAL MEDIA.
The second was from my father.
FATHER: You disappointing, reckless fool. Fix this.
The third was a Google Alert for my own name.
TMZ Sports: Top NHL Prospect Nick Vance Caught in "Scholarship Scandal" with Live-In Girlfriend. Photos Inside.
The world stopped. The sound of the engines faded into a high-pitched whine in my ears.
My fingers felt numb as I tapped the TMZ link. I didn't want to look. I had to look.
The page loaded.
And there we were.
The photos were grainy, but unmistakable.
The first was from the parking garage. The silhouette of us in the Range Rover. It was intimate. Suggestive. The caption read: Vance's "Assistant" working overtime in the backseat?
The second photo was worse.
It was from the prop room. Today.
It showed me walking into the closet. It showed Jess waiting for me. It showed the way I grabbed her waist. The way her head tipped back. The hunger in my posture.
It looked exactly like what it was: A secret tryst. A dirty little secret hidden in the basement of the Arts building.
The article below was scathing.
Sources say Jessica Monroe, a scholarship student on academic probation, has been living in Vance's luxury penthouse for weeks. Is this a charity case gone wrong, or is the Golden Boy paying for company? And what does Daddy Vance think about his son's distraction just days before the draft?
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Carter. It had to be. He was the only one who saw us today.
Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to fly back to Maine and dismantle him bone by bone.
But then the fear hit.
Jess.
They were dragging her name through the mud. They were calling her a prostitute. They were questioning her scholarship.
And my father...
Fix this.
I exited the browser and dialed Jess immediately.
It rang. One ring. Two rings. Three.
Click.
"You've reached the voicemail of Jessica Monroe. Leave a message."
"Jess," I said, my voice shaking as I gripped the phone.
"Jess, pick up. It's me. I saw the article.
Listen to me. Do not panic. Do not talk to anyone.
Stay in the penthouse. Lock the door. I am fixing this.
I don't care about the photos. I don't care about the scouts.
We will fight this. Just... pick up the phone. Please."
I hung up. I called again.
Voicemail.
I called a third time.
Voicemail.
"Damn it!" I shouted, slamming my hand against the leather armrest.
The flight attendant peeked out from the cockpit area, looking terrified. "Mr. Vance? Is everything okay?"
"No," I snapped. "Open the door."
The stairs lowered. A black SUV was waiting on the tarmac. Not a rental. My father's car.
I stormed down the stairs, ignoring the rain that soaked my suit. I threw my bag into the back seat and climbed in.
My father was sitting there.
He was wearing a camel-hair coat, reading a newspaper on his iPad. He didn't look up as I slammed the door.
"Drive," he said to the driver.
The car pulled away.
"You saw them," I said. It wasn't a question.
My father slid a finger across the screen, turning a page. "Everyone saw them, Nicklas. The General Manager of the Blackhawks saw them. The Dean of Blackwood University saw them. The entire hockey world saw my son groping a charity case in a broom closet."
"It wasn't a broom closet," I ground out. "And she isn't a charity case."
"She is a liability. And now, she is a public embarrassment."
He finally looked at me. His eyes were cold, dead things.
"I warned you," he said softly. "I told you to cut it off. I told you that distractions get removed."
A chill went down my spine.
"What did you do?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Father. What did you do?"
"I protected my investment."
"If you touched her..." I lunged across the seat, grabbing the lapel of his coat. "If you hurt her..."
He didn't flinch. He just looked at my hand on his coat with distaste.
"Sit down, Nicklas. You are hysterical."
I didn't let go. "Tell me."
"I didn't have to do anything," he said, pushing my hand away. "I simply made a phone call to the University Housing Board and the Scholarship Committee. I informed them of the breach of conduct. Cohabitation. Potential solicitation."
"You... you reported her?"
"I corrected an error. And then I had my lawyer call Miss Monroe."
My heart stopped. "You called her?"
"Mr. Sterling called her. He explained the situation. He explained that if she remained in your life, the scandal would destroy your draft stock. He explained that if she cared about you—truly cared—she would leave."
He paused, a cruel smile touching his lips.
"And he offered her a severance package. Tuition paid at a different university. A fresh start. Provided she left immediately and signed an NDA."
I stared at him. I couldn't breathe. The air in the car felt sucked out.
"She wouldn't take it," I whispered. "She wouldn't take your money. She loves me."
My father laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound.
"Everyone has a price, Nicklas. especially girls from the gutter."
I scrambled for my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped it. I picked it up.
I dialed Jax.
"Pick up, pick up, pick up..."
"Cap?" Jax's voice was breathless. "Dude, it's a war zone here. Reporters are at the rink. Carter is walking around looking like the cat that ate the canary—"
"Jax," I cut him off. "Go to the penthouse. Now."
"I'm already there. You told me to look out for her."
"Is she there?" I asked. "Is Jess there?"
There was a pause. A long, heavy silence that stretched across a thousand miles.
"Jax," I choked out. "Tell me she's there."
"Cap..." Jax's voice broke. "She's gone."
The world tilted.
"What do you mean, gone?"
"The place is empty. Her clothes. Her books. Everything."
"Check the bedroom. Maybe she's hiding."
"I checked the bedroom, Nick. I'm in there right now."
I closed my eyes. "Is there a note?"
"Yeah. There's a note."
"Read it," I commanded, though I felt like I was swallowing glass.
"You don't want me to read this, man."
"Read it!"
I heard the rustle of paper.
"It's just three words," Jax said quietly. "It says... 'It was fun.'"
The phone slipped from my hand. It hit the floor of the car with a dull thud.
It was fun.
Not "I love you." Not "I'm sorry." Not "We'll fight this."
It was fun.
It was the note of a casual fling. It was the note of someone who had played the game, taken the money, and walked away when the heat got too high.
I looked at my father. He was watching me with a look of vindication.
"You see?" he said softly. "I told you she was a distraction. She took the buyout, Nicklas. She sold you out."
"No," I whispered. "She wouldn't."
But the evidence was piling up. The photos. The silence. The empty apartment. The note.
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the letter she had given me on the plane. The one that said You are my empire.
I looked at it.
Was it a lie? Was all of it a lie? The cliff. The sex. The promise of the dog.
Had I been played?
Pain, sharp and agonizing, ripped through my chest. It was worse than the broken leg. It was worse than the hip. It was the feeling of my soul being ripped out by the roots.
I crumpled the note in my fist. I squeezed it until my nails dug into my palm.
"Turn the car around," I said to the driver.
"We are going to the hotel," my father said. "You have interviews tomorrow."
"Turn the car around!" I roared, my voice cracking. "Take me to the airport!"
"Nicklas," my father warned. "If you go back there... if you chase her... you lose the draft. You lose the legacy. You lose me."
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had tormented me my entire life.
And then I looked at the crumpled ball of paper in my hand.
If she took the money... if she left that note... she wasn't the girl I thought she was. She wasn't my ally. She was just another person who realized that loving Nick Vance was too high a price to pay.
She had abandoned me. Just like my mother.
The fire in my chest turned to ice. A deep, glacial cold that spread through my veins, freezing the heartbreak, freezing the hope, freezing the man I had started to become.
I slowly unclenched my fist. I dropped the crumpled note onto the floor of the car, next to the mud on my shoes.
"No," I said, my voice dead. "Keep driving."
"Good choice," my father said, returning to his paper.
I stared out the window at the grey skyline of Chicago. It looked like a prison bars.
The machine was back.
And this time, I wasn't going to let anyone turn it off.