Chapter 17
Nick
The city of Chicago is an architectural marvel of steel, glass, and wind. It is precise, imposing, and relentlessly cold. It suited me perfectly.
I sat in a conference room on the forty-second floor of a skyscraper overlooking the lake, staring at a whiteboard filled with offensive zone entry strategies.
Across the table, the General Manager of the Blackhawks, a man named Stan Kovich—the same man who had looked at me with disdain in Maine—was now looking at me like I was the messiah.
"Thank you, sir," I said. My voice was level. Monotone.
"And the hip?" Kovich asked, glancing at my left leg.
"A non-issue," I lied. It was throbbing right now, a dull, rhythmic ache that synced with my heartbeat. "I've been working with the team trainers. Mobility is at 95 percent."
"Good. Good." Kovich leaned back, clasping his hands. "And the... distractions? The noise from back home?"
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I had practiced this expression in the mirror every morning for the last ten days. It was the face of a man who had excised his soul with a scalpel.
"There are no distractions," I said. "I am here to play hockey. Everything else is irrelevant."
Kovich smiled. It was a shark’s smile. "That’s what I like to hear. You're a machine, Vance. That’s what we need. A machine."
I nodded.
Inside my chest, a scream was building. It started in my diaphragm and clawed its way up my throat, a silent, desperate sound that echoed in the empty cavern where my heart used to be.
A machine.
That was the goal. That was the victory condition.
I stood up, buttoning my suit jacket. "Is that all, gentlemen?"
"For today, yes. The Draft is tomorrow night. Get some rest. You're going to have a busy day."
"Understood."
I walked out of the conference room. I walked past the receptionist who smiled at me with too much teeth. I walked into the elevator and watched the doors slide shut, sealing me in a box of mirrors.
I looked at my reflection.
The suit was Armani. The hair was cut short, precise. The eyes were dead.
I looked like my father.
The nausea hit me then, sudden and violent. I leaned my forehead against the cool metal of the door, breathing through my nose, fighting the urge to vomit.
Ten days.
It had been ten days since I found the empty penthouse. Ten days since I found the note. Ten days since I realized that Jessica Monroe—the girl who smelled like vanilla and chaos, the girl who had promised to be my ally—had taken the buyout and run.
It was fun.
The words were branded on the inside of my eyelids. Every time I blinked, I saw her handwriting. Cruel. Dismissive.
I hated her.
I repeated it like a mantra. I hate her. She used me. She was a gold digger. She was a distraction.
But my body didn't believe me.
My body missed her with a physical intensity that felt like withdrawal. I couldn't sleep. The silence in the hotel room was deafening without her breathing next to me. I couldn't eat. Food tasted like ash. I had lost five pounds in a week, stripping the muscle I needed for the combine.
I stepped out of the elevator and walked through the lobby.
"Nicklas!"
My father was sitting in a wingback chair near the fireplace, reading The Wall Street Journal. He folded it precisely as I approached.
"How did the interview go?" he asked.
"They offered me the keys to the city," I said flatly. "I'm the lock for Number One."
"Excellent." My father stood up. He actually patted my shoulder. A rare, stiff gesture of affection. Or ownership. "I told you, son. Remove the cancer, and the body heals. You are focused. You are sharp."
"I am tired," I said, stepping away from his touch.
"Victory is tiring. But it is worth it. Tomorrow night, the Vance legacy is cemented. You will have everything you ever wanted."
Everything I ever wanted.
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had broken my car window with a golf club. The man who had threatened a twenty-one-year-old dancer to protect his investment.
"I'm going to my room," I said.
"We have dinner reservations at Gibson's. Steak. Celebrating."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will eat," he commanded, his voice dropping that octave into threat territory. "You look gaunt. The cameras will be high-definition tomorrow. Do not look weak."
I stared at him. For a second, the rage flared hot and bright. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to shatter his perfect nose and watch him bleed.
But I didn't have the energy. The machine didn't feel rage. It just executed commands.
"Fine," I said. "Steak."
Dinner was a performance art piece.
We sat at a prime table in the bustling steakhouse. Waiters hovered. Fans stared. My father held court, ordering bottles of wine that cost more than Jess’s tuition, telling stories about his own playing days to anyone who would listen.
I sat there and cut my filet mignon into perfect, bite-sized squares.
I chewed. I swallowed. I felt nothing.
Every time the door to the restaurant opened, letting in a gust of wind, my head snapped up. My eyes scanned the crowd.
I was looking for red hair. I was looking for a messy bun and a thrift-store coat.
It was a reflex. A phantom limb sensation.
She's gone, you idiot, I told myself. She's in New York, or Paris, or wherever she went with the money.
"Nicklas," my father snapped. "Pay attention. Mr. Davidson was asking about your training regimen."
I blinked, refocusing on the man at the next table—a booster for the Blackhawks.
"Plyometrics," I said robotically. "Explosive power. Core stability."
"Incredible," Davidson beamed. "You see? The discipline. That's what separates the greats."
I took a sip of water. My hand was shaking. I put the glass down quickly before anyone noticed.
Discipline.
Discipline wasn't what separated the greats. Pain was. The ability to endure suffering without showing it.
I excused myself to the restroom.
I locked myself in a stall. I pulled out my phone.
I opened the photo gallery.
I had deleted them all. The selfies. The pictures of her sleeping. The videos of her dancing in the kitchen.
But I had kept one.
It was from the bowling alley. A candid shot Jax had taken and sent to the group chat. Jess was laughing, her head thrown back, her hand on my chest. I was looking down at her, and the expression on my face was... terrifying.
I looked unguarded. I looked adoring. I looked happy.
I stared at the photo until the screen dimmed.
Why? I asked the pixelated image of her face. Why did you leave?
If she had just asked... if she had just told me my father threatened her... we could have fought him. I would have burned the trust fund. I would have played in Europe. I would have done anything.
But she didn't trust me. That was the knife in the gut. She didn't trust me to save us. She took the easy way out.
Or... she sacrificed herself.
The thought had been nagging at me for days. A quiet, insidious whisper. She left to save you.
But the note. It was fun.
That wasn't the note of a martyr. That was the note of a tourist.
I put the phone away. I flushed the toilet just for the noise.
I washed my hands, splashing cold water on my face.
"Get it together," I hissed at my reflection. "Tomorrow is the Draft. Tomorrow, you win."
I walked back out to the table. I finished my steak. I played the part.
But as I walked out into the Chicago night, the wind cutting through my coat, I realized that I was freezing. And no amount of wool or money was ever going to make me warm again.
Draft Night. The Bridgestone Arena in Nashville.
It was a spectacle. Lights, cameras, music, screaming fans. It was the Super Bowl of potential.
I sat at Table 1. The VIP table.
I was wearing a navy suit, custom-made, with the lining embroidered with the Vance family crest. My father sat to my left. My agent, a slick man named Miller, sat to my right.
I was surrounded by people who had a financial interest in my success.
"Five minutes to air," a producer whispered, adjusting the microphone clipped to my lapel.
I looked around the arena. I saw the other prospects—kids I had played against in juniors, kids from Sweden and Russia. They looked nervous. They were bouncing their legs, checking their phones, hugging their moms.
I sat perfectly still. My hands were folded on the table. My phone was in my pocket, silent.
I had no one to text. No mom to hug.
"You look good," my father said, leaning in. "Stoic. Presidential."
"I feel like I'm at a funeral," I muttered.
"You're at a coronation. Enjoy it."
The lights dimmed. The show began.
The Commissioner walked out to a chorus of boos—tradition—and stood at the podium.
"Welcome to the NHL Draft."
The first fifteen minutes were a blur of highlight reels and commentary. They showed clips of me playing at Blackwood. I saw myself on the giant screen—skating, hitting, scoring.
I looked like a stranger. Who was that kid? He moved with so much fire. Where did the fire go?
"With the first overall pick," the Commissioner announced, "the Chicago Blackhawks select..."
The pause was theatrical. The room held its breath.
My father gripped my shoulder. His fingers dug in.
"...from Blackwood University, Nicklas Vance!"
The explosion of noise was physical. It hit me like a shockwave.
My father stood up instantly, pulling me up with him. He hugged me. It was a performance for the cameras. He clapped my back hard.
"We did it," he whispered in my ear. "You are a Vance."
I pulled away. I hugged my agent. I shook hands with the people at the table.
I walked toward the stage.
The walk felt miles long. The spotlight was blinding. I couldn't see the crowd. I was walking into a white void.
I climbed the stairs. I shook the Commissioner's hand. I put on the red jersey with the number 1 on the back. I put on the hat.
I turned to face the cameras.
"Smile," the photographer hissed.
I forced the corners of my mouth up. It felt like tearing skin.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
I looked out into the darkness of the arena. Thousands of faces. Cheering. Screaming my name.
I won. I did it. I am the number one pick. I am a millionaire.
I felt... nothing.
Absolutely nothing.